#i wrote this literal years ago | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theunmappedstar · 1 year

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knight!sophie x reader headcanons

you are a runaway royal and sophie the knight has tracked you and orders you to come home, but you smirk and she sighs because she knows that you have authority over her as the king and queen are not around, so now she is going to have to accompany you on your little journey

in the end she doesn't really care too much where you go, just that you don't get hurt.

you encounter dangers together... you tend to her wounds after a fight....

after the first scuffle, she's resistant to you taking care of her. she’s able to avoid your care that round, but the second she gets into another situation, you order her to take her armor and shirt off... before realizing too late exactly what that entails

no worries, she knows what you mean. she doesn’t mention it and silently obeys

you see all her scars under her armor. she grimaces but tries to stay quiet as you dress the wounds. she can’t help but hiss in pain when you tie one a little too tight, and when you panic and loosen it she assures you she's fine.

after weeks of fighting and protecting you and staying up what seems like 24/7 to guard you, she lets down her guard and falls asleep against your shoulder that night.

but that’s just the beginning: one night, after an evening of mead and dancing in the nearby pub, you stumble out together, laughing and feeling warm inside. in a moment the laughter between you dies down and you just gaze at each other, listening to each other's breaths, before you lean in and close your eyes, butterflies exploding in your stomach as you feel sophie, too, lean towards you and your lips brush-

if reader isn’t amab and sophie is a woman... that would not be acceptable during that time period.

at some point, reader would eventually confess and sophie looks elated but then her smile falls because no, she has a duty and it's wrong and she can't court a royal of all people.

she takes her hand out of yours and looks away, shaking her head as she insists it cannot happen. she becomes distant because she doesn't want to taint the reader, not like that, but reader keeps pushing and insisting that it can work, they're already halfway across the kingdom and if they make it out of the border they can go somewhere else and forget this nightmare and live on their own-

ANYWAY, back to the pub night where we started: the evening doesn’t go any farther than that one kiss, but you fall asleep against her and it’s so warm and you feel so safe....

however, when morning comes, you wake up to find sophie missing. when you get up to look for her, it doesn’t take more than a few seconds to discover she’s sitting feet away by herself.

when she hears you approach, she stands up quickly and clears her throat. she asks you whether you're ready to get going, and you can tell she's acting very strange, so you wonder if she remembers the night before. eventually, you assume she must because she flinches away at your every touch and is distant the whole day

sophie trying to act like she's all business. sophie not using her nickname for you anymore, just calling you by your royal title. sophie insisting there be a certain amount of distance between the two of you so that she can better "survey the area" without you getting in the way, though you know she just wants space. sophie insisting you don't touch anymore. sophie insisting there be less time for chattering after meals so that you get moving and on your feet faster.

you can feel her pulling away and it breaks you because you spent so long tearing those walls down and now it feels like she's running away from you the same way you ran away from home

(but no worries! we all know i can't end a love story badly, so they'll reconcile and figure it out eventually ;) )

....the reader almost dies for plot reasons and these plot reasons are so that sophie can go feral trying to protect you and also so she can snap during your recovery and admit she loves you and can't live without you-

sophie's in the middle of handing you food and letting you eat when she's staring at you and tears start slipping down her cheeks. her nostrils flare and she sniffles and chokes a little and you ask what's wrong, which only make her break down more. and then when she wipes her eyes and looks back at you, fighting to compose herself, she breaks with a garbled laugh and reaches over to brush some crumbs from around your mouth. she lets her finger stay longer than needed. she meets your eyes and you see hers well up again as she bites her lip.

and then it all spills. she whispers about how she can't let you die, she can't see you hurt, she can't let you go. she wants you so bad, she doesn't care if everyone else says it's wrong because she knows that it's right and she was so stupid to ever push you away and she feels terrible that she ever hurt you like that. she just thought she was protecting you. she thought she was bad for you, like the world said. but now sophie sees she can be good for you. and you can be good for her. and she slips her hands around your face and sniffles to you about how she doesn't want to leave you. she wants to go somewhere and build a home and a life and a family. and she's so sorry she ever let you get hurt. sophie doesn't know how the attacker snuck up like that, but she swears it wont happen again. she swears she won't let anyone touch you.

you cup your hands over the ones she has on your cheeks and you can't help but weep with her. she's all you've ever wanted. you aren't sure of anything else in life except her. and she wants you.

...halfway through the sweet confession you realize how unclothed you are and how you hadn't noticed until now that you're bandaged in places that would require the removal of your clothes.

you look down at your torso. then you look up at her. her eyebrows scrunch and then you softly ask, "...did you..?"

her eyes shoot open and she blushes and insists it was just medical and she tried to cover you or not look but she was bandaging really fast and you were sort of bleeding out so swears she wasn't focused-

there's nothing but the crackle of the fire for a few moments after that. and she's still blushing as you look over at her. slowly, she meets your eyes again. you whisper and ask if she'd like to focus with you.

it takes her a moment to understand what you mean, and her eyes grow big and bright with that beautiful surprised face she has, and you can see the way her breathing picks up. she struggles to answer, not knowing what to say, and then you lean your face a bit closer. it's an invitation. a starting point. and you stay in the spot you nudged your chin to, waiting for her response.

it barely takes a second before her hands are cradling your face again and she's kissing you, twisting your mouth against hers, parting for air and returning so quickly you swear it's like she thinks you're some sort of miraculous medicine. she's ravishing your mouth deep and slow kisses, tilting your head for more access, and all you can think about is how you can't think. your brain is melting and your body feels like it's a puddle, but at the same time, you can feel the frantic thump of your heart and the heat pooling in your stomach at the way her mouth captures yours. her hands fisting in your hair. your hands settling on her waist and you pull her forward and let her crawl above you, thighs on either side of your body as she sits over your lap. her hands travelling down as she kisses along your neck. she feels up your sides, runs her thumbs down your arms, slides her hands along the small of your back. and eventually she pulls back and looks you in the eyes for a second.

she just.... looks. her panting and yours are the only things you hear besides the fire until she leans forward and brings your lips together again, kissing you slower, longer.

.....yeah i uh i want sophie foster to kiss me and then settle down to snuggle with me for the night beside the fire

totally off topic, but i can’t stop thinking about dressing her wounds - her arms and back are incredibly toned and she has scars all across her torso,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, hnghhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnngbfvrh

also! i'm just thinking about earlier on in the au before either of you have confessed and she insisted on you taking a bath in the river so that you could freshen up before you had to get on the road again, and that she'd take watch so no one would sneak up you while you did so, and once you get out and get dressed you tell her it's her turn.

sophie is so confused and says that, no, that's not the plan. you two have to get moving. but you shake your head and say that she must be hot under all that armor and if she can watch over you while you bathe, you can do the same for her. you'll alert her if you see or hear anything.

it takes a lot of convincing, but she huffs and strips out of the clanky armor and goes down by the water. and she strips on the shore and wades in and you know you aren't supposed to look in that direction and you don’t plan to, but your stupid weird little brain can’t stop making unwanted images!

oh, sophie teaching you how to wield her sword and finding the way it’s a little too heavy for you amusing

it takes you a while to convince her to so much as allow you to touch it because she seems to think you'll accidentally impale yourself, but once you do convince her she stands behind you and holds your hands in hers, and keeps the sword steady in your hands and murmurs instructions into your ears and you can barely focus because she smells like cinnamon and smoke and she’s so close to you

all you can think about while she's murmuring in your ear is her stooping just a tad lower to kiss on your neck, and you just wish she'd drop the sword already and put her hands on your waist and spin you around-

possible scene but maybe it's just me spitballing/yearning? um, i want sophie foster to back me against the wall of a bar and as i sit there and stutter because our chests are together and she's practically breathing me in as she whispers to stay still, she's covering me because someone just walked into the bar looking for me- and her hand is on her thigh where she's strapped a dagger and she's telling me to stay still and be quiet and they might not come over here if they don't see my face but hell, all i can think about is kissing her

......yeah i'm Yearning

OKAY so the reader almost dies, right? i've been thinking about it and maybe the royal family isn’t very popular, so when the reader gets recognized they’re kidnapped and held for ransom. but when the kidnappers realize they likely won’t reap any reward, they decide to get rid of the reader and escape - because even if a ransom won’t get paid, they still kidnapped a member of the royal family and that’s punishable by death.

so, they tie the reader up and leave them bleeding. sophie tracks the kidnappers down, thinking they have reader. but they lie. they tell her that they killed the reader to get rid of dead weight

and sophie? sophie goes ballistic. she kills all of them ruthlessly and without mercy and the last person screams out moments before death that they left reader tied up miles away

given the general location, sophie goes off to find the reader and discovers them unconscious and bound, bleeding out. its all a blur from there.

sophie tries her hardest to untie you quickly while not moving you two much, trying to keep from crying because dammit she has a job to do and no one else is there to help her tend to your broken body, and she frantically starts to throw every supply down that she has, hoping there's something that can help-

sophie tends to the wounds and makes camp and doesn't leave your side until you wake up

and once you finally do, she feeds you and keeps you hydrated... and then That scene happens, if you remember it, way back up there :)

#smooch, you feel?

#i wrote this literal years ago #and i never posted it #idk why but here! some people requested it so i figured it wouldn't hurt to let it out of the drafts :)#kotlc #sophie foster #rated T #keeper of the lost cities #sophie foster x reader #kotlc headcanons

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cerberussyndrome · 2 years

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on catalysts

summary: meta not!fic about Team Minato being the big turning points in each others’ character arcs.

cw: canon-typical violence + child soldier-ing, canon compliant character death

Rin is Obito's, Obito (and before him, Sakumo) is Kakashi's. (Obito might also be Rin's, who knows. Minato's kind of a blank canvas in his early years.)

The boys fixate. The boys mourn. The boys idealize. The boys, to an extent, polish their memories into something that reflects what they need more than what the other person was. This comes with problems.

For Obito, Rin is the first person who believes in him and his dreams.

He's the Uchiha black sheep, the perpetually-tardy laughing stock of his graduating class. For fuck's sake, the kid loses to Guy because he's eating candy.

Rin is his best friend, his constant support. When he opens up about his personal and often-mocked dream of becoming Hokage, Rin's response isn't to laugh, or to tease, but to encourage him. Yes, she says, let's end the war. Let's change everything. She says, don't pretend with me. And he's in love with her, of course. He's young, in the middle of a war, and in love with her, and the intensity of those emotions felt like they stretched to encompass the entire sky. She is his most precious person. (They are going to survive the war, he thinks, they are going to win.)

And then the rocks are falling, Kakashi is falling, and it's not even a choice.

(He gives Kakashi his eye — you're a great jounin — like proof, like rebellion. Here is a thing that says I lived. His last request he spends on Rin: keep her safe. His last thought is only a quiet wish for more time.)

Obito wakes up in the dark. Half his body isn't his fucking body anymore, and he's imprisoned in some weird-ass cave with his creepy ancestor(?) and some inhuman plant-thingies. He can't move. He's a ninja and he can't move and his team probably thinks he's dead, and there's a war on. There's a war on, holy shit what if they die and he's stuck here in this fucking cave and he never even sees the sun again?

So he trains.

When he's tired, and lonely, he thinks about them — Rin and Kakashi and Minato-sensei. He dreams of them, even.

He gets out of the cave and he's running, he's running, his team is in danger, Rin is in danger, where the hell is Minato-sensei?

He comes into the clearing and the first thing he sees is Kakashi's hand through Rin's chest.

(When Obito was younger, when faith was a solid thing beneath his fingertips, he thought that life was good, people were good. Sometimes he looked at Rin, laughing, joyful, and tucked the sight of it away in his chest. It was a warm ember that burned bright even when there was shame in his stomach or fear in his throat. He screamed as the rocks fell, as his team ran for their lives and he was left behind in the dark. When he woke up in that cold cave, he warmed his hands on that memory of love and smiled.)

His eye burns. Like broken promises, like blood between his fingers, like the full moon overhead.

Rin is dead.

Rin is dead, his team's betrayed him, the whole world must've felt like it was ending.

Madara offers an alternate solution. Obito turns away from his childhood dreams, his childhood faith in other people — what good was that, was good was he then? — and embraces a dream world in its place.

Afterward, Rin is less a girl than she is a memento, all that was good in the world and all that he lost, proof that his theory is indeed correct. It doesn't matter, later, that Rin's death was her own choice, a sacrifice, an act of heroism. Everything that was good about Konoha was personal, for Obito, because everything that was good about Konoha was in Rin. In the coming years, Obito believes the entirety of the world is worthless, the entirety of the world is hell. There is nothing worth saving here.

In death, Obito turns Rin from a soldier to a shrine, as if she were the only thing untouched by the sins of the mortal earth.

—

For Kakashi, Sakumo is everything: not only his father, his precious parent, but the sum of Kakashi's expectations of the world. He is a clan child and a prodigy and there is never doubt that he'll become a shinobi — and the White Fang of Konoha is the epitome of a shinobi.

Then his father comes back, turns distant, turns cold, turns strangely, terribly sad. Kakashi clings. When that doesn't work, doesn't retrace time back to before, Kakashi trains. His father is everything in the world — Kakashi will make him proud if it kills him.

Then he comes home one day and opens the study door and his father's blood pools around his feet.

Afterward, he looks for something infallible to hold his faith.

(Sentiment led to his father’s fall. Conversely, a shinobi with no emotion would be the perfect tool. If Sakumo hadn’t loved his team, perhaps he’d be alive.)

Obito is the antithesis of a soldier. He's loud, emotional. He's the opposite of a shinobi, Kakashi thinks, and all Kakashi wants these days is to be the consummate shinobi (not like his father). He was never all that nice in the first place, given to honesty over flattery, and Obito stands in opposition to everything Kakashi is and wants to be. It gets under his skin. They argue. They compete. Kakashi beats him; thinks, there. Thinks, is that enough proof for you? Thinks, get your act together before you get us killed.

They take Rin. And Kakashi knows, deep in his gut, that this is it, this is his crucible, this is what he has been waiting for; this is how he will prove he is better than his father.

Obito says, The White Fang was a hero.

Kakashi tries to run. He tries to leave them behind, this wreck of a team that's always been a burden, but his shoulder twinges. He thinks of Rin, Rin's careful hands and cool chakra, thinks of Obito, his ironclad loyalty, thinks of Minato-sensei saying, teamwork.

He goes back. He loses an eye, gains infinitely more precious things in its place: trust and faith and being part of a greater whole.

The rocks fall.

The dust clears.

It is Obito in the dirt, Obito crushed and bleeding. Kakashi knows in his bones that it should've been him.

Obito gives him his eye. Kakashi swears in turn, gains purpose in this frenzied war other than the drive to survive and climb the ranks and bring glory to his name. At Obito’s grave, Kakashi can admit that he was wrong. The things he thought mattered — rules and records and his name decoupled from his father's — never had. He has a second chance now, and he won't waste it.

Rin jumps in front of his Raikiri, and there is something blank in Kakashi's head, something disbelieving. Then there's only darkness. He wakes up to white hospital walls and the smell of antiseptic. Even though his hands are clean, he can't get rid of the feeling of Rin's blood between his fingers, like grief, like failure, like accusation.

(What would Obito say to him now?)

(His father had been many things, but he'd saved all his teammates.)

A couple years later, war come and gone, Kyuubi come and gone, everyone who Kakashi loves is dead. In the mornings, he spends hours in front of the memorial stone, looking for atonement at first, then just something to ease the loneliness. In the meantime, Obito's turned from dead-last burden to aching regret — a martyr to friendship and misplaced faith. Kakashi polishes his memory of him into something unreal and perfect. Sometimes in his darker moments, he warmed himself with the shining memory of him. He spends his life trying (and failing) to live up to his own impossible standards.

Obito becomes the sum of all his regrets and mistakes and failures, everything he might've had if he'd only gotten over himself, if he'd only been better.

tl;dr In the process of becoming a villain, or something like it, Obito memorializes Rin, disregards everything she died for. In the process of becoming a hero, or something like it, Kakashi idealizes Obito, tries to embody everything he died for.

#my writing #naruto #meta #not!fic #i wrote this literal years ago #anyway team minato makes me sad #uchiha obito #hatake kakashi #nohara rin

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cuubism · 7 months

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part two of 'two times hob ran into dream outside their regular meetings and one time dream called on him intentionally'

WWI era, discussions of war, and past loss of children

Hob is in a somber mood. Funerals will do that. Hob may never be taken by death himself, but that does not mean he is not touched by it—if anything, death sometimes seems to sting harder for knowing he is fortunate enough to avoid it.

Especially the death of a young person.

He steps out of the church, steps slower and quieter than normal. The heavy church air slips off him like a cloak dropped to the floor, the scent of incense gives way to motor oil, to horses, to nearby bakeries’ yeast and flour. The father of the young man killed—a work associate of Hob’s—hurries off with his wife to a waiting car, hat held low to avoid the show of tears. Hob doesn’t follow, but he’ll drop by later or some time tomorrow, see how they’re doing. Commiserate.

There wasn’t even a body to bury, the boy blown to pieces over in France. Hob can’t imagine it.

He’s making his quiet way down the bustling London street, hands in his pockets, trying to pay attention to everything around him to avoid remembering, when a man strides briskly out of a passing doorway and nearly collides with him.

Hob catches him by the arm to steady him. “Easy there, mate.”

The man whirls to look at him, and Hob finds himself staring into the face of his stranger. He startles back, dropping his arm.

He’s spent the last two-and-a-half decades wondering if he’d ever see the stranger again, after the way things had fallen apart at their last meeting. Hob doesn’t know if he’s still angry with him, still hurt, if he intended to show up at their next meeting or not—but Hob can’t be unhappy to see him now. He’s never unhappy to see him. And he’d gladly take another look, any look, over never seeing him again.

“Hob Gadling,” says his stranger, seeming taken aback. But he doesn’t immediately sneer down at Hob or storm off, so Hob will take that as a win.

“Stranger,” Hob greets. Normally, he can’t resist a smile upon seeing him, but it’s hard to muster one today. Whether because of their fight, or the somber circumstances of Hob’s presence here, is hard to say. “Fate seems to keep throwing us together.”

His stranger frowns, looking up and down at Hob’s all-black attire, his no doubt drawn expression. It is, admittedly, out of character for him—more the stranger’s style than Hob’s own. “You appear troubled.”

Hob grimaces. “Funeral,” he explains. “Young boy killed at the front.”

“Ah.” His stranger’s face tightens. “Yes, there have been many deaths of late.”

Hob finally takes note of where he’d been coming from—the entrance to a hospital. He gestures to the doorway. “You alright?”

“Merely accompanying my sister in her work,” explains his stranger. “She is skillful and resilient, but these times have been trying.”

“She a nurse?” Hob asks. It seems too mundane a profession; any sister of his stranger must share some of his supernatural powers, whatever those are. But perhaps her talents lie in healing? It would explain the hospital.

His stranger’s lips tip up in a wry smile. “Something of the sort.”

Silence stretches between them for a moment. Hob summons his courage, buoying himself on the fact that his stranger hasn’t run off. “If it’s not too presumptuous, could I ask you to join me for tea? I… think I might have some apologizing to do.”

It’s hardly the day for this, but like hell is Hob going to waste the chance.

His stranger deliberates, his light eyes catching the weak London sun as they search Hob’s for… something.

Then he says, “Very well.

The café is light and airy in jarring contrast to the serious mood hanging over London these past many months. Hob has hope, he knows the wartime will pass eventually—hopefully without the utter destruction of all combatants—but sometimes it feels that each war is only worse than the last. More horrific, more vicious—and the steady stream of news in the papers, reminding them all every day, hardly helps. Hob remembers a time when any news beyond the most local of happenings was sparse. He never thought he might think that was better.

They get tea while, hundreds of miles away, countless young boys die in trenches far from home.

Hob kind of wishes he had something stronger than tea.

“You are troubled,” says his stranger, again, the tiniest line creasing his brow. Is he worried about Hob? That would be funny considering how he behaved when Hob merely tried to say they were friends.

The thought sparks something hopeful inside him, though. Lord knows Hob spends enough time worrying about his stranger, ridiculous though it feels to do so. He worries about him being alone. He worries about him feeling the loneliness Hob himself is sometimes struck by, stuck in time as he is while others age and die. Only it must be magnified a hundredfold for his stranger—Hob, at least, is still human. His stranger is other. Who does he have to keep him company across the centuries?

It's sort of a nice thought, to get a bit of that worry in return.

Hob raises his hands in surrender. “Fear not, dear stranger. I haven’t been disabused of my love of life. It’s just a sad day, is all. We all have them. Reminds us to be grateful for the life we do have, eh?”

His stranger relaxes, slightly, into his chair. “Not all share your outlook.”

Hob sighs. “Eh, can’t blame ‘em really. It’s not exactly been the best year. People are losing kids, lovers… and for what, more pointless squabbling? Not everyone has several centuries of life experience to put things into perspective, either.”

“I recall you saying to me that you did not think you had changed,” says his stranger, consideration in his tone, and wow, he’s really going to bring that up, huh? Even remembering what Hob had said right after? “But I do believe you’ve become quite wise.”

Hob can’t help but preen internally at the compliment, but he grimaces and says, “Yeah, about that, I’m not so sure it was wisdom on display last time we spoke. I’m sorry for, well, how I approached that.”

“But not for your words?” questions his stranger, seeming more curious than angry.

Hob’s never been able to lie to him, nor would he want to—his stranger is the only person he knows he doesn’t have to lie to to stay safe. “I don’t believe I spoke falsely, no. But nor was it right of me to— to put you on the spot. To put words in your mouth. For that, I am sorry.”

His stranger studies him. He looks very handsome today, his suit simple and dark but perfectly cut as always, hair a bit longer than last they’d met and ruffled up by his hat. The appreciation is not quite at the forefront of Hob’s mind as it might usually be, given everything going on, but he never fails to notice. Not that noticing will lead to anything—well, not for another two thousand years, at a minimum, given how they’ve gotten along so far.

At last, his stranger says, “I forgive you.”

Hob lets out a long breath, carefully held for years. Now are you going to apologize for storming off instead of talking things out? he thinks drily, but of course he won’t. Hob has long accepted the fact that he cannot expect normal human behavior from his stranger—his friend, he will be so bold as to say in the safety of his own head—who is so very inhuman.

“This funeral,” his stranger continues, changing the topic before Hob can decide whether he wants to continue or close that conversation. His eyes narrow on Hob, considering and… sympathetic? “It has reminded you of your son.”

Hob leans back in his chair, breath catching raggedly in his chest. He’s been trying so hard not to think it, but of course the thoughts have been there, anyway.

“You see everything, don’t you?” he observes, and his stranger merely inclines his head. “Even if you don’t speak it. Yes. You’re right. I think of Robyn whenever I see a young man die. I think of him when I see a father standing over the casket of his son who was lost to senseless, stupid violence, yes.”

“It is not a loss… that one gets over,” says his stranger, haltingly. Hob thinks that for all his friend is oblivious about normal human life most of the time, sometimes, sometimes, he understands it better than anyone else. It’s like he draws from a deep well of feeling greater than his body.

Or.

Wait.

The weariness of his shoulders as he says that. The look in his eyes, that banked, ancient loss that ages a man fifty years in a day.

Hob recognizes that look from his own mirror.

“You—” he starts, then forcibly stops himself. Instead he tries to convey, the way his stranger does, through looks, through implication and feelings shared outside of words. Speaking from experience, my dear, sad stranger?

His subtlety is rewarded by the barest tilt of his stranger’s head, the brush of his lashes over his cheeks as he looks down. And, well.

God.

“It’s not,” Hob says. “No.”

His stranger taps the side of his teacup with a slim finger. Thinking. “You are resilient, Hob,” he says at last, “to continue on so boldly after such a thing.”

“I was brought low by it,” Hob admits, “but loss also puts things into perspective. At one point, I had lost everything—everything, but my own life. Why would I give that last thing up? That, and the opportunity for better, which is ever present.”

“I repeat that you are uniquely resilient,” says his stranger. “I am glad of it.”

Hob smiles, then, despite the cold loss of the day. “You always ask me if I would give up my immortality. There was only one time when I thought of it.”

His stranger looks at him sharply, tension creeping into his shoulders, but Hob continues, in the same, soft tone—

“Not because I had grown tired of my own life. No, it was when Robyn was born. I held him and I thought that I would give it to him if I could, to spare him the touch of death, to let him see the long beauty of life that I had seen. Then, again, after he died, I thought, if I had given it to him, I would have saved him. Would that it were possible.” He still thinks it, sometimes, on certain days. “It is what fathers do for their sons, is it not?”

“Some, perhaps,” murmurs his stranger, watching him fixedly. “You did not ask, upon our meeting in 1589.”

Hob rubs at the back of his neck. “Is it a request you would have granted if I had?”

“That is not my request to grant,” says his stranger. Not quite regretfully, but not happily, either. A neutrality born of conflicting feelings rather than indifference.

Whose, then? Hob wonders. So you truly are not the devil, then? You are not Death?

“I do not know if it will help you to know,” continues his stranger, “but I will say that I do not believe it would have been granted. Not for lack of sympathy, however. Not at all.”

Hob offers him a pained smile. “Who am I to understand matters of life and death?” he says. “I wouldn’t claim to. Thank you, though. It is a kindness, I think, to know that it was not in my power to save, or to fail him in that way.”

His stranger nods.

“I suppose when I think about it,” Hob continues, “immortality that could be so easily passed around may invite more danger than protection.”

“Indeed. Humans do love to pursue it, for all that it is a foolhardy pursuit.” He tilts his head and looks at Hob slyly. “For most, anyway.”

“You just have to be stupid enough to do it,” Hob says, and his stranger hums with amusement. “And have a chance meeting in a tavern, hm?”

“Chance, yes,” says his stranger. “Speaking of. I’m afraid I must depart. I have elsewhere I must be today.”

“I won’t keep you,” Hob says, though with disappointment. He reminds himself that he was never meant to have this time with his stranger anyway, it’s a gift— a chance.

His stranger’s lips twist, just slightly, as if he himself is not so happy to leave either— and that itself is a gift, too.

“But I would see you in ’89, if you still meant to come,” Hob adds.

“I believe I did,” says his stranger, meeting Hob’s gaze. And what a better parting than their last. “I will meet you then.”

As Hob lets him go at the door to the café, his stranger hesitates on the threshold. “I am… glad that I ran into you today, Hob,” he says, the words foreign in how personable they are. The closest, perhaps, that Hob’s stranger has come to speaking to him like a friend. “It is good not to let another seven decades elapse on such terms as we last left them.”

Hob tucks his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels, the warmth he feels at such a small, but meaningful thing breaking out on his face despite his best attempts at moderation. “I feel the same, stranger.”

His stranger hesitates again, deliberating on something. Then he says, “Dream.”

Dream of… what? Hob thinks, perplexed, and his stranger keeps looking at him with that bottomless expression of his.

Then the order of the conversation hits. “Wait— is that your name?”

His friend—Dream—nods once. “Friends should know how to call each other.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Or so I have heard.”

“Well met, then,” Hob says, holding out his hand to shake, a proper grin on his face now, no moderation about it, “Dream.”

Dream takes his hand, squeezes it with that same tiny, almost shy smile on his face; they have never properly touched before, and oh, Hob is grateful for this moment.

“Until we meet next,” Dream says. And between one blink and the next, he’s gone.

#dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #my writing #dream so proud of himself accepting friendship in 1915 and then getting kidnapped a year later lmao rip #literally i wrote this chapter a year ago. u know when you have THOSE wips 😂

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incorrect-riordanverse · 1 year

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um sorry but true love is when the most hotblooded scariest hostile warrior in camp falls in love with some hispanic boy who’s been completely discarded by whoever his godly parent may have been, thereby fuelling a resentment leading to him betraying the camp of which the warrior is extremely loyal too, yet instead of going after him when finding him at his weakest (abandoned and literally insane from the pain he’s in) she fights FOR him and does everything in her power to rehabilitate him because, through and through, she loves him still

#they are so underrated it’s completely DESPICABLE #i need to post about them more fr #chrisse #clarisse la rue #chris rodriguez #riordanverse #incorrect riordanverse #rick riordan #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #little thoughts #hoo #heroes of olympus #i wrote a real short oneshot abt them a fee years back and only posted it a few weeks ago but whilst editing i was thinking:#‘these two are literally the cutest??? why isnt there more of them???’

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revsforgottenwar · 6 months

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What do I know of the world? You could not fathom.

Seeing in parallel

#forgottenwar au #loz #loz oot #zelda #sheik #FWAUart #the royal court be like why you look so mad all the tiiime #i have literally assassinated ALL of you #and i know exactly which of you turned on my family instantly #so no im not going to smile at you #wrote the script for this a year ago glad i finally got around to making it haha

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jewishgir · 3 months

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how do they not die of embarrassment and shame every time they attempt to interact with anyone ever like if I talked like this I would want to die every second but prismatic-bell says stuff like this on the daily and unfortunatley they're still kicking.

#in case youre wondering the message was literally just #saying 'palestine will be free from the occupation and the dead will be remembered'#thats it #two years ago i wrote a google docs post about the shitty things prismatic-bell did to me when i was a teenager #that i decided not to post #and im just thinking back on it now #like it was still bad but it pales in comparison to supporting genocide obviously #shiv.txt

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laundrybiscuits · 1 year

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(wait for the season to come back to me tag)

It gets less strange, as time goes by. Eddie doesn’t make any kind of noise about him moving out at some point, and neither do Steve and Robin. Turns out they don't need to store any bodily fluids in the fridge, and in fact if Steve didn't know better, he wouldn't be able to tell that Eddie's drinking blood at all. Steve assumes he's getting animal blood from somewhere on a regular basis, but as far as either Steve or Robin can tell, he never takes it inside the apartment.

Anyway, it turns out Eddie can still technically eat human food, but about half of it tends to come back up afterwards. They’re still figuring out what works and what doesn’t. Robin made a little chart with smiley-face and frowny-face stickers, which Eddie has been gleefully filling out. He’s drawn little fangs onto the stickers with a Sharpie.

That’s another thing: to Steve’s mild surprise, Eddie and Robin have been getting along like a house on fire.

“I really wish I’d known him in high school,” says Robin, slicing bell peppers for dinner. “I think it would’ve made Hawkins a lot more bearable.”

Steve doesn’t really remember Eddie at all from school, which is probably a really good thing.

He can’t imagine the guy he was back then being this obsessed with Eddie. Well, no, that’s not true. He can imagine it, but he’d have been such a jackass about it. Probably would’ve fucked a few girls about it. Maybe would’ve even bullied Eddie about it.

“Did you come out to him yet?” Steve asks Robin.

Robin leans all the way out the kitchen door, practically horizontal. Steve grabs the back of her belt so she doesn’t overbalance. “Hey! Hey, Eddie!” she yells.

“What, Buckley!” he yells back.

“I’m gay!”

“Cool, me too!”

She lets Steve’s grip swing her back in, grinning. “Your turn, dingus.”

Steve’s going to. He is. The longer he waits, the more awkward it gets. He’s got nothing to lose. He—

Robin takes him by the shoulders, spins him around, and pushes him out into the living room.

“Uh,” he says. “I’m—bisexual.”

Eddie actually does, like, a full-body twitch; his eyebrows climb practically to his hairline for a second, and he sets down his book.

“I’m…very proud of you? Thank you for telling me?”

“Why are you being weirder about me than Robin,” says Steve, annoyed.

“Because you’re being weirder about it than Robin was! I don’t know, I don’t have a lot of practice with, uh, this. Also, Robin was a band geek who dressed like Annie Hall, and you were—popular.” He draws out popular like it’s got three key changes in it, waving his hands in the air.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve huffs. “Sorry I wasn’t, like, alternative enough to be a real queer.”

“No, c’mon, Steve, I didn’t mean it like that. I accept you! Buckley, get in here and accept Steve with me.”

“Ste-eve Harrington,” Robin sings out, wandering out of the kitchen to wrap her arms around Steve’s waist. “We accept you and your beautiful bisexual soul.”

“Thanks,” says Steve dryly.

Eddie points at him. “Feel accepted.”

“I feel accepted,” Steve says; daring, he holds out an arm, and Eddie hops up to let Steve pull him into the hug too.

“Good,” says Eddie into Steve’s shoulder. “You should be.”

#steddie #fic: wait for the season to come back to me #I'd been slogging through angst and complaining about it #and today I was like. but what if I didn't tho.#what if I just wrote about the vaguely weird coming-out you do when you spend most of your time in queernormative spaces #and you already kind of know about the other person even if nothing's been officially confirmed #I've literally said 'samesies' to a coming-out bc I'm the woooorst #the other day a straight friend asked me 'when did you come out'#and I was like...this morning. yesterday. last year. twenty years ago.#also I feel I have been focusing too much on the pathos of this story and not enough on vampire shenanigans #I'm making the executive decision not to care about tonal shifts

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anabetel35 · 9 months

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Honestly the best part about season 16 is not the fact that the ultimate technique for defeating the overlord are literally the lyrics to the theme song of the whole show, but the fact that the weekend whip canonically exists in Ninjago, bacuse in The Royal Blacksmiths, the ninja dance to it in the competition. Which means that all of the ninja knew the song through the vast majority of the series. And also that some random band managed to not only guess the correct combination of moves the ninja had to do in the correct order, but they also managed to make the song popular enough to the point where four (possibly) teenagers living in secluded places, namely a monastery out in the middle of nowhere, still knew about it and liked it enough to make it their song in a dancing/singing contest/talent show that meant a lot to one of their teammates.

#i mean imagine being one of the folks who wrote it after Crystalized #like they figured out the only way to save the world that only some old smart and also possibly a bit crazy dude did before them #or imagine being one of the ninja and just vibing one day and suddenly you hear this song you loved years ago playing on the radio #and you realize that you literally heard the same instructions when you were just starting out #and you have to just go about your day because there's not much you can even do about it #ninjago #lego ninjago #the weekend whip #also has anyone figured out what the song's actually about because i havent and id like to know #ninjago cole #kai smith #nya smith #jay walker #lloyd garmadon #ninjago lloyd #zane julien #ninjago pixal #wu garmadon #lord garmadon

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sentientsky · 8 months

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“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Nina asked. “The poor guy probably just wants his space.”

The other woman turned to look at her from up on the staircase. Maggie pushed a lock of blonde hair back behind her ear. “I mean,” she began, one foot positioned on the next step up. “We already have this.” She raised a travel cup of espresso in the air. “And after all, I think he could use some cheering up. It’s been like two months, right?”

Maggie sighed resignedly and followed her up the stairs. “Okay, if you say so…”

They walked for a couple moments before coming to a stop in front of an apartment. All the other doors on the floor were painted a pleasant blue, she noted. This one, however, was a deep, rich black. Of course.

From underneath the door, the women could hear music, something familiar and with a steady beat. Maggie raised her hand and knocked.

Still, the music played on. And still no one answered the door.

“He’s obviously busy, Mags,” Nina muttered. It didn’t escape her notice that the other woman flushed pale pink at the sound of the nickname. Nina’s heart spasmed a bit in response, and she had to force herself to focus.

“I just—let me try once more, and then—” Maggie knocked again.

A beat.

Nina was ready to ask if they could leave when the lock on the door clicked open of its own accord. Well, alrighty then. They exchanged a look, and then Nina pushed open the door.

Immediately, the onslaught of angsty pop music poured through the threshold. Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone,” Nina noted. She herself had played the same song more than once as a young adult, often in the throes of a breakup.

The apartment itself was in complete disarray; papers and knickknacks strewn everywhere. Plants drooped sadly on the edges of the room. In the corner, a pile of CDs had been toppled over. Eccles cakes and half-chewed scones littered the floor.

There, in the middle of the living room (which certainly looked lived in, Nina noted), Crowley was sat on the floor, legs all akimbo and arms thrown across the seat of a rather uncomfortable looking sofa.

Maggie stiffened at the sight of him, holding the coffee cup between both hands now. The poor demon was dressed in boxer shorts and an ancient Queen t-shirt. His hair was bedraggled, brushing against his shoulders in loose scarlet waves. Juxtaposed to the devilishly cool “burnt out middle-aged rockstar” persona he embodied most of the time, this new appearance came across as particularly disheveled.

Nina hesitated, then took a step forward. The music still thrummed in her ears. “Crowley?” she asked, injecting as much kindness as she could into one little word.

Head lolling, the demon looked up at the two women before him. For once, he wasn’t wearing his characteristic glasses. Maggie made a little sound of surprise at the sight of the demon’s golden snake eyes. They were a rich yellow—the same colour as Mr. Fell’s walls, Nina silently noted. It seemed Crowley hadn’t slept in a century, (did demons even need to sleep?) his undereyes tinged a pale purple.

“Crowley?” Nina called out again. Maggie moved to stand beside her, leaning down closer to the demon’s level.

Without warning, Crowley’s eyes began to flood with tears and he crumpled into himself. Oh. Oh no. They’d made it worse, they’d certainly made it worse. Nina had said that coming here was a bad idea.

“That’s what Aziraphale used to call me!” he keened. His boxer shorts had ‘XO Gossip Girl’ emblazoned down the side.

“I mean, that’s your na—” Nina began, but then reconsidered and dropped into a crouch to pat the demon’s shoulder, voice hushed and soothing. “There, there. I know. It’s going to be alright.”

Maggie crouched beside her, and tried to offer Crowley the drink in her hand. He looked up for a moment, and there was a moment of recognition, his eyes scanning the takeaway cup. And then he burst into fresh tears once again.

“That’s what I ordered the last—” he made a little hiccuping sound. “Ordered the last time he and I went to your café,” he wailed. The poor thing was inconsolable; Nina’s heart ached for him. In between ragged sobs, Crowley extended his arm under the couch. There, it seemed, he had found a slightly droopy crepe that was…just shoved under the sofa. No plate, no nothing. Just crepe to floor. What the fuck. Don’t eat it, please don’t eat it, Nina chanted in her head.

He ate it, of course, still crying.

Kelly Clarkson finished singing, and the track switched. Now, a more upbeat tune rose through the apartment.

It’s Britney, bitch.

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you eat anything—” Maggie began, reaching down to pick up a crumpled twinkie wrapper from the floor. And then, without warning, Crowley brought a napkin to his mouth and spat out a congealed mass of saliva and half-chewed dough. He sniffed pathetically and bundled it into a tight ball in his hand before tossing it somewhere across the room.

“Oh…” Maggie murmured, placing the wrapper back where she had found it. “Oh no.”

Crowley looked up at the two of them with ragged eyes, glinting pale gold in the dim light of his flat. “Don’t even like the taste. But he likes ‘em, so…Who else is gonna eat’em, anyway? While he’s gone, you know? ‘S up to me” He sniffed again, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“Are you—” Maggie began, and her worried eyes flickered to Nina. “Are you drunk, Crow—Anthony? Have you been drinking?”

“And wha makes you think that?” he muttered. Nina cast her eyes around the room. Wine bottles littered the floor. The counters. One sat on the pedestal of a statue of an angel and a demon…were they supposed to be fighting, or…??

When she turned back to face him, he was drinking out of a curly straw. His cup read ‘MAMA NEEDS SOME WINE’. She sighed, and reached to ease it out of his hand. He pulled it out of her reach immediately, a disgruntled look clear across his face.

“Nooo, Az—Azira—a stupid angel gave this to me,” he all but hissed. “‘S vintage. 2004.”

The track changed again. Something slower, with a steady piano backing.

My lover’s got humour.

She’s the giggle at a funeral…

At this, tears began to form afresh in the corners of the demon’s eyes. Nina stood up, looking for the source of the music. She’d had her fair share of sad music wallowing, but this was becoming unhealthy, surely. Over in the corner, a fairly recent sound system stood sentinel. She pressed ‘pause’ and ejected the disk. “What’s with this music?” she called across the room.

In sloping handwriting, the CD read ‘bad bitches cry perpendicular to the floor’. Oookay then.

“‘S a playlist I made. But everything I play in that godforsaken thing,” he motioned to the stereo system, “eventually turns into music by this one Irish fellow.”

Nina wrinkled her brow in confusion.

“Jus’ like the Bentley. But more straightforward, I suppose.” He took another sip from his drink, and the two women watched on as dark red liquid carried up through the loops of the straw.

“This isn’t healthy,” Maggie began. “I know it’s hard, and it’s okay to be sad. But we can try baby steps, right? D’you fancy coming down to the café with us? Maybe sit and talk for a bit? Get some natural light?”

Crowley scrunched his nose and spat a piece of red hair out of his mouth. “M’ fine, really. Never been better. More independent, less—” he waved his free hand around vaguely, “mmgh…yeah, I got nothin’” He toasted them with his ridiculous white suburban mom cup.

“You’re crying right now. And how long have you been wearing that shirt?” Nina asked. The thing looked lived in. By a family of possums.

He looked down, squinting at wine stains that speckled the collar. “This is my best shirt.” He looked back up at them. “And ‘m fiiiine.” He reached one gangly arm across the length of the sofa and pulled out a pair of circular sunglasses. Putting them on, he peered up at Nina and Maggie. “See? Can’t even see the tears.” He smiled, but it looked more like a grimace.

“Oh, hon. That’s not…” Maggie began.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” Nina murmured. “Do you…” she looked around the room. Was that one of Mr. Fell’s sweaters hung over a chair? What had happened in that fucking bookshop? “Do you want to talk about it?” she finished.

Three hours later, Nina realized her assistant’s shift was nearly finished. From what she understood, Mr. Fell had left (his husband? Boyfriend? Wife? Immortal life partner?) Crowley for a business promotion somewhere far away. Crowley, for his part, was perched on the edge of the couch, wrapped up in the angel’s sweater. He sniffled, and pressed on:

“...And then it was 1967 and I was in my Beatles phase of course, because who wasn’t, honestly. And the bastard shows up in my car out of nowhere with a thermos. So I’m freaking out a little bit—in a very cool, suave kind of way, of course—cause this is one of the first times we’ve seen each other since the magic show,” he turned, looking between Maggie and Nina. “I told you about the magic show, yes?”

“Yes, you did,” Maggie muttered.

“Several times. The one where he told you to shoot him in the face,” Nina interjected.

“Well,” he waved his hand around. “I didn’t actually shoot him. Scared the fuck outta me, but—oh, I still have the photograph, you wanna see?” He moved to stand up then.

Maggie motioned for him to sit back down. “That’s alright. We’ll see it later—”

And he was off again, “So anyway it was 1967 and he’s in my car and he’s got a thermos and I’m all like ‘Are we gonna drink soup together? Is that tea? Cocoa?’ but noooo, he gives it to me and it’s fucking holy water. And he tells me he doesn’t want me risking myself. And—” his voice grew louder, more emphatic, “And he says ‘don’t go unscrewing the cap’. And by this point my stomach’s all in wobbly-wibbly fluttery knots and ‘m asking myself ‘what the bloody hell are we’ and I hate it ‘cause I’m a demon, right? And angels aren’t supposed to make you feel all—” he made a ‘pbttt’ sound and mimed a butterfly with his hands. Nina and Maggie exchanged a look. “Yeah. And then he says we should go on a picnic someday. Or to the Ritz or something. I’m losing my mind at this point, because is he asking me on a date? ‘M I out of my gourd? So, like any normal, reasonable person, I say I’ll drive him wherever he wants because then that means more time together which means more time to figure out this fluttery feeling or whatever. And guess what he says.” He looked at the two women seated on chairs in front of him. “Go on, guess.”

Maggie shrugged. “Sorry, no idea.” Nina shook her head.

“He says,” he leant forward on the couch. “He says ‘You go too fast for me, Crowley.” The poor demon let out an anguished groan and his head fell into his hands. Maggie reached forward to pat him on the shoulder.

[It went on like this for some time. They eventually got him to go to the park where he inadvertently began a duck cult; that is, a cult whose members consisted solely of ducks. Not a cult of humans dedicated to worshipping ducks. That would be stupid.]

this silly little crack fic is brought to you by me and my good omens brainrot (neil im in your walls). if u want to read my more serious stuff, you can find me furiously scribbling away in this corner of the internet: x

(side note: this particular story was inspired by a hilarious post from @miss-americanbi)

#i wrote this pretty quickly so its not gonna be great but whatver #i finally remembered to take my adhd meds + instead of doing my work im doing this. i love having hyperfixations sm (<<< lies lies lies)#im love nina shes so pretty and cool #full disclosure this is not to glamourize or make light of depression #this is literally just me transcribing the aftermath of my own messy queer breakup #i also dyed my hair w/ horrible box dye :) that was like 2 yrs ago and it STILL hasnt faded. demipermanent my ass #i was a fucking mess for like a year :)#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens 2 #aziracrow #ineffable lovers #aziraphale #crowley #go2 #ineffable wives #azicrow #maggie good omens #nina good omens #crack fic #ao3 good omens #ao3 author #good omens crack #good omens fanfic #neil gaiman #david tennant #michael sheen #gay #queer #gomens

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cookie-nom-nom · 9 months

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[“But I’m not even human.”

Miles shrugged. “Human is as human does.” He forced himself to reach out and touch her damp cheek. “Animals don’t weep, Nine.”

She jerked, as if from electric shock. “Animals don’t lie. Humans do. All the time.”

“Not all the time.”

“Prove it.” She tilted her head as she sat cross-legged, her pale gold eyes were suddenly burning. Speculative.

“Uh, sure. How?”

“Take off your clothes.”

“Wot.”

“Take off your clothes and lay with me as humans do, men and women.” Her hand reached out to touch his throat. The pressing claws made little wells in his flesh.

“Urp?” choked Miles. His eyes felt wide as saucers. A little more pressure and those wells would spring out red fountains. I’m about to die.

She stared into his face with a strange, frightening, bottomless hunger. Then, abruptly, she released him. He sprang up and cracked his head on the low ceiling and dropped back down, the stars in his eyes unrelated to love at first sight. Her lips wrinkled back on a fanged groan of despair. “Ugly,” she wailed, her clawed nails raked across her cheeks, leaving furrows. “Too ugly. Animal. You don’t think I’m human.” She seemed to swell with some destructive resolve.

“No no no!” Gibbered Miles, lurching to his knees and grabbing her hands and pulling them down. “It’s not that, it’s just— how old are you, anyway?”

“Sixteen.”]

——

Miles instantly recoiled, cracking his head on the ceiling again because those who didn’t learn history were doomed to repeat it, as Commodore Tung was fond of reminding him. Immediately her eyes narrowed, a snarl creeping over her sharp teeth. “You don’t think I’m human enough,” she accused, voice still husky from disuse. “I knew it.” Her claws slipped back up to the scratches on her damp face, and he jolted forward, batting them down again in a reckless manner.

“No, it’s not that,” Miles insisted, eyeing the way her claws were curling into fists about the same size as his entire face. “You’re a child! I can’t do that.”

“My life expectancy was barely a few years. The rest of the projects have been long dead.”

“Well, it’s still wrong in human years, which is the point. There’s plenty of other tests for humanity, anyways.” Sex was by no means the epitome of human existence. “What about Socrates? Human choice motivated by the desire for happiness? Or, oh, what was that test for AI centuries ago? The Tuning Test? That would work too.” He didn’t remember what it actually entailed. “There’s many tests. You yourself said only humans lie. By your own logic, lie, ergo, human. Human is as human does.” That’s what he’d meant it to be applied to, anyway.

Her eyes narrowed. “None of those prove your belief to me. I still like my test.” Well, naturally. [Sixteen. God. He remembered sixteen. Sex obsessed and dying every minute.]

[“Aren’t you a little young for this?” he tried hopefully.] She started a protest, but he continued. “It’s illegal. There. I applied human laws to you.” Probably a first for Jackson’s Hole. “I also just offered you a job, and regulations ban interrank romantic interactions.” No matter how much he might want to with one particular Eli Quinn...

The power dynamic was entirely wrong, between his age and rank and the fact he was beginning to suspect he was about to rescue this girl. Or, hell, look at it the other way, at the underlying threat that he must prove he believed her human or die. It was a messed up power imbalance from nearly every angle.

A crumpled look crossed her wolfish features. Miles tried to console her. One for it being the Vorish, gentlemanly thing to do, and two because while he thought it unlikely she’d kill him at this point, he still didn’t want to increase his chances. “I’m probably the first nice face you’ve seen in a while. Don’t settle for me simply since I got here first. There are plenty of suitable partners once you get out of this basement. Which, reminder, we’re in a hostile environment surrounded by enemies. We still need to escape.”

Moroseness slumped her features. “It’s impossible. I stopped trying years ago. And…” a shudder ran down her strong back, ears flattening. “...they don’t like it when you try,” she said lowly. “They wouldn’t do this to me if I was human.”

“Eh, actually they would. I mean, I’m human, and I’m down here, aren’t I? I’ve been deemed subhuman before. It hurts when they think it’d be a mercy to ‘put you out of your misery’.” He was going to strangle that scientist.

She gave him an odd look, scrutinizing him more thoroughly. “You don’t look like Jacksonian work. And you said you’re human. Why isn’t that enough for them?”

Miles spread his hands wide, a wry expression crossing his features. “Ah, but I’m a mutant. A weakling. A curse from God upon my father’s house for every sin they can think to lay at his feet. They will find anything and everything they can to hold against you, Nine, no matter what it is that makes you different. Eight feet tall or four foot nine, unmatched strength or bones of glass; they will despise you either way. Well damn their notion of being born wrong because I intend to be ten times the man they ever could be.”

“Then it’s hopeless.”

“If you want it to be handed to you, yes. You can’t rely on someone else to give you your humanity, because that implies they can revoke it at any time. It’s a value you have to find within yourself.” It sounded like some pithy Betan advice he would’ve picked up from his mother. “With your test, you wanted your body to feel human. But what about your soul, Nine?” He paused. “No, we need a name for you. I can’t be calling you a number like some type of lab rat.” Something strong and pretty, like her. He fell into that well of old earth philosophy he had initially fallen back on. Socrates, the Greeks, the like. When he finally found the name, it seemed perfect for the girl called a monster and trapped deep in the heart of a labyrinth of labs. Wasn’t Miles intended to be some blood sacrifice to her as well? And hadn’t the minotaur been a child when he was imprisoned for life? Punished for the crime of being born, just like them. “Taura,” he breathed. “I think I shall call you Taura.”

She went still, enraptured. “A name.” Tears welled in her golden eyes. “No one has ever given me a name.”

“I’m not giving it to you. I’m letting you take it, to seize it, to make it your own. As much as I’d like to, I can’t give you your humanity either. That’s all up to you. Break free of every cruel moniker hurled at you. Monster, mutant– who cares what any of them think!? Prove them all wrong and never look back. That’s what I did. So here: I may reject your test, but I offer my own. I believe you’re ‘human enough’ because I believe you’re worthy of freedom, of a future, of a name. I certainly can’t give any of that to you, but I sure can help you try.” Something sparked in her gilded gaze, the tantalizing offer she’d likely never been given before. It was a hope doused quickly, but it had been there at all. Miles had a chance of relighting it, of fanning the flames.

“You really think so?” Uncertain, her fangs twisted into a guarded frown.

Miles batted aside a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t just because she was his only shot of escape, and it certainly wasn’t for a particular scientist whose neck he wanted to wring. This was because Taura didn’t deserve to be trapped in a basement eating rats for the rest of her tenuous life. He might have needed her, but she needed him, too, if only for a little while.

“I don’t make offers I don’t intend to provide. So, care to escape with me?” He held out an arm, almost ridiculously formal, and she took it, choosing to trust him if only hesitantly, if only for that little spark of hope still in here somewhere.

#someone gave me a comment that made me go huh #i guess i can actually post vorkosigan fics #when I wrote this i literally didn't even know there was a vorkosigan fandom #i just woke up angry years ago and decided to rewrite this scene #cause like. Lois???#what do you MEAN sex is the defining feature of proving someone's humanity????#like i know im ace but #dude #plus the four different power imbalances at play #and noone can stop me from writing an anti-sex scene #they're such good foils! I wanted to EXPLORE #but no. sleep with a child. good job miles.#he literally calls her a girl when defending her value as a human from the doctor!#dehumanisation tw #sex ment tw #vorkosigan saga #vorkosigan fic #miles vorkosigan #Sargent taura #taura vorkosigan saga #I hoped I captured that passionate way Miles does his arguments #I tried to emulate the emotional philosophy I come to the vorkosigan sage for and DESERVED in this scene

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queenlua · 3 months

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i don't really write poetry often, but whenever i do, i find myself having the most bizarre fixations

stuff like, "okay, the word 'reached' would be PERFECT here if it had a slightly different but insane connotation that i made up in my head. and the word 'stretched' ALMOST works as a replacement, but i just *really* need that r-sound instead of a str-sound, even though this is free verse and i don't really have a strict phoneme thing going on here, it's just. the vibes of 'str' are rancid, right there, specifically, okay. also, crucially, 'stretched' does NOT have the insane connotation i made up in my head. and for some reason the part of me that makes up connotations simply CANNOT do it for this slightly different word. anyway whatever we're using 'reached' #shipit"

this absolutely cannot be the right way to write poetry, right. the people who do this For Real have gotta have a system or something. or are they just following their bizarre fixations to a higher plane of existence than the one i'm on. and if so can i hitchhike with them sometime

#this post brought to you by:#i just found a scrap of poetry i wrote a year ago #and i'm like Yes Holy Shit This Is Perfect #But In A Way That Is Literally Only Comprehensible To Me #i'm glad i wrote it tho. present-me is a huge fan of past-me's work

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rearranging-deck-chairs · 4 months

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was about to ask if yazs doctormirrorness is reason enough to forgive me if i accidentally make her autistic as if yazs literal in-universe doctor mirroring itself doesnt make a pretty good case for her autism

#pretty sure i made a whole post abt it a few years ago #after halloween apocalypse maybe?#when she rescued dan and was like. literally roleplaying the doctor #anyway it doesnt matter i dont think theres a real difference between a not autistic vs an autistic character anyway #but i wrote in yazs pov 'which is probably rude' and then i was wondering if that thought might be less common wiht the general public than #in a specifically autistic demographic #but i really dont think so tbh #anyway with the disclaimer that i dont believe in autism #undiagnosed autistic yaz truther ✌️

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pockykierra · 6 months

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Crowley hated this.

No, not watching Aziraphale prance ahead of him, absolutely beaming with his plans for the meeting that night. It wasn’t that he hated. In Crowley's eyes - snake-like as they were - any moment spent admiring his angel was a moment well spent. He could never detest seeing Aziraphale so happy, exuding pure excitement and energy. Never.

What he hated was the distance. Aziraphale was barely an arm's length away, Crowley swaggered only a few steps behind - and yet, despite everything, despite the years of them being an "us, " it still felt like a chasm between them. Something keeping them out of reach from one another, this time entirely out of the influence of Heaven and Hell.

Though, in all honesty, it wasn't the physical nature of the distance that bothered him. For them - for Crowley - it would never be that simple. If only he could pick up his pace so he was walking side-by-side with Aziraphale, and everything would feel right in the world. If only their proximity was the issue.

No, it wasn't the gap between their bodies that he despised. It was what it represented. He hated the distance between them because it symbolized where Aziraphale would always be for Crowley.

Just out of reach.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens 2 #good omens fanfiction #good omens season 2 #I've just been having SO MANY FEELINGS about them today but I don't have time to write a full fic #so here's this #I have a notes folder full of quotes I periodically think of (usually while I'm trying to sleep lmao)#and I saw this one that I wrote down literally like five years ago and I thought it fit them PERFECTLY #I should start looking into that folder more often and not just writing things down and forgetting about them #pkfanfics #crowley #aziraphale

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barbieb0y · 5 months

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why am i tempted to write like a post-canon fic of the second ending ayo that ending broke my heart but goddamn it has so much potential

#i havent written angst in a while tho #literally i only wrote pure angst like. one time a few years ago LMFAO #a date with death #the internet angel speaks ♡

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valtoswife · 4 months

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Julius knew he wasn’t fooling any of the prisoners when he told them he was put in charge of them. Perhaps he should have thought through that part of his plan more, but he was too worried about the first part to really focus on the second. He hadn’t actually expected Jack to agree to let him take over, but then again maybe he should have figured Jack would always take the opportunity to go on any sort of mission that involved fighting unbelievably strong beings, even if it meant neglecting the other parts of his job. But either way, it would’ve been pointless if the prisoners saw through him and he was forced to find someone else to supervise them anyways.

Valtos folded his arms, the chains on his wrists making a soft clinking noise as he did so. “You can’t possibly be a magic knight. You’re too young to even have a grimoire.”

“So I look a bit young for my age.” Julius shrugged. “I assure you, I do have one.”

“Really? Where is it?” Sally tilted her head curiously at him.

Julius froze, thinking of how to respond. He very well couldn’t show these people anything that might give away his identity, but he also had to say or do something, anything that might convince them that he was supposed to be there. “Ah...well, I would show you, but I’m a bit embarrassed to. You see, it’s kinda only one page.”

The third prisoner, Rades, who was at first barely even paying attention to what was going on, suddenly shot up his eyebrow. He turned around to face Julius, trying desperately to suppress the grin on his face and hide the relief of knowing there was someone out there with a grimoire just like his. “Wow, I guess that would be really embarrassing. So you can’t really blame him for not showing his grimoire to us, right?” Julius mentally cheered. He wasn’t even lying when he told them that excuse, and it worked!

Valtos rolled his eyes at Rades before turning back to Julius. “Fine. I don’t know why someone like you would be sent to supervise us, but it’s not my place to question it.”

“Yeah, it’s totally fine as long as you guys do your work and don’t cause trouble!” Julius did his best to give a convincing innocent smile, which was thankfully something he became considerably better at since he got his new form, at least to strangers and acquaintances. However, he couldn’t quite tell if that was the case with the group in front of him right then.

They did not need prompting to clean up the rubble, not even Rades, though he still endlessly grumbled while he did so. Julius watched with great interest as he saw how the three of them worked together, with Sally gathering the harder to reach broken pieces with her Gel Magic, and Rades carrying the endless parts with his Wraith Magic, putting all of them into Valtos’ pitch black portals, who then had even the biggest remains disappear in the blink of an eye.

They managed to work for a good while before Julius ended up interrupting them. He promised himself that all he was going to do was observe, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to take a closer look, to have the countless questions in his mind answered. Gel Magic had so many interesting properties, Spatial Magic was so practical yet so rare, and Wraith Magic was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

“So how do all of your magics work?” Julius stepped between the three of them, his lavender eyes sparkling with curiosity. Sally immediately turned around to respond, and Rades, looking for any chance to stop working, followed suit. Valtos gave a low grunt of annoyance but turned around as well.

“My Gel Magic can carry lots of different things inside of it!” Sally explained. “It’s perfect for collecting samples! Or taking people around too!”

Being with these people and seeing how...casual they all acted made him nearly forget why there were stuck cleaning the capital in the first place, until the memory of Asta, the strong, brave magic knight, trapped by the girl in front of him entered his mind. “Ah, I see,” was all Julius could say. He knew that even if they still wanted to, they wouldn’t be able to create that sort of turmoil to the people of the kingdom again, but their past crimes were still always going to be in the back of his mind when he was with them.

He cleared his throat. Still, that wasn’t going to stop him from wanting to learn more about their powers. “How about you?” he asked Valtos. He was interested to find out just how similar or different his magic might be to his advisor Cob’s.

Valtos shrugged. “My magic’s simple. I open portals and teleport people and objects. I also have a couple of attack spells and a transformation spell. That’s all there is to it, really.”

“Can I see it more closely?”

Valtos opened a black portal beneath a pile of bricks and Julius leaned up to it to look closer as they disappeared.

“I’ve never seen portals like yours, where they open horizontally and whatever’s on it sinks to the other location,” Julius commented. But it made sense, he realized, given how exactly this man had utilized his magic against the magic knights before. Ignoring the tension in his chest again, he added, “There’s another spatial mage I know, whose spells could never work the way yours does, because of the form his portals take. Unless...he could make a trapdoor portal! Ooh...I’m gonna ask him about that.”

“Rades, your turn!�� Sally said. “Show him your magic!”

“No!” Rades folded his arms.

“What?” Julius asked.

“I said no! Don’t even tell him what affinity mine is!” Julius knew better than to tell him he was already aware of what it was.

“Oh, come on, Rades!” Sally said. “You’re no fun!”

“What’s the problem?” Valtos asked. “Even I went and showed my magic.”

“Yeah!” Julius nodded. “Don’t worry. It’s just a fun thing to do as a little break from all the work. You won’t get in trouble; I’m the one distracting you guys.”

“How many times do I have to say it?!” Rades pointed at Julius, glaring with his uncovered eye. “I’m sick of countless people like you hearing about my magic and sighing about how it was always inevitable that I ended up here! You know, maybe, just maybe, my magic had absolutely nothing to do with it!”

Julius repeated, “What?”

“Yeah! Maybe it had to do with you guys seeing the nonexistent worst in me before I ever even did anything, and banishing me, ostracizing me, leaving me alone with no one, absolutely no one, except for one person, one person, who used me for his own crimes and goals and threw me away, so now I’m stuck here! You guys are the ones that made it inevitable for me! You just blamed my magic while you did it!”

Julius glanced at Sally and Valtos, but from the looks on their faces, they seemed just as surprised as he was by the outburst. “You don’t have to talk about or show me it. It’s fine.”

“Good,” was all Rades grumbled.

Julius watched as Rades continued to work, recalling what little he knew about Rades’ past. He used to be a Purple Orca before he got exiled from the squad and kingdom. The same squad as Zara. He wondered how much Rades’ status as a commoner might’ve had to do with his banishment, in addition to his magic affinity. As violent and bitter Rades had become, that did not change the fact that he was yet another person the Clover Kingdom forsook for no good reason at first. Another person Julius wasn’t able to help, at first.

The three prisoners kept working for the rest of the day, and before Julius knew it, the area was completely cleared. “Great job, guys! You’ve earned another break!”

“Finally!” Rades did not waste a moment. He immediately made his away over to one corner of the street, sitting on the sidewalk and humming to himself. Valtos went the opposite direction, staring at the sun as it sank behind a cluster of buildings.

“Hey!” Julius didn’t fail to notice Sally right behind him but did not keep her from approaching him. “I figured out why you were so acting so secretive earlier when you told us you were watching us today!”

“Did you now?” Julius looked around, but unfortunately they did too good of a job cleaning the place for him to find anything he could use. There’s that spell I just started working on, but it’s not anywhere near ready for me to cast yet...

“Yeah! Your hair color, your eyes! You’re his spitting image!” Sally grinned, triumphant over her discovery. “It makes sense that anyone related to the wizard king would want to hide their identity from us, after what almost happened to him a couple months ago.”

“Huh?” Julius asked.

“You know, I’ve met him before! He’s cool!” As if just noticing the look on his face, Sally only then said, “Don’t worry! I won’t tell anyone!”

“Glad to hear it.” Julius smiled back. “Because if you do...”

“Ah, there’s no need for threats. I promise I won’t even tell Rades or Valtos,” she assured him.

Julius sighed. “All right.”

“Can I ask you a question though?”

“...What is it?”

“Why did you agree to watch us? I know Valtos said that Patri, our old leader, had nearly killed the wizard king. I mean, I don’t think I would mind too much if I had to spend time with someone who hurt me before, but that’s just me. Do you really not mind we’re from the group that attacked your relative?”

Julius blinked at her. “I...Well, it’s not that I don’t mind. I will admit, it’s hard to be around you guys knowing what you’ve done. But now, everyone needs to work together to help the kingdom recover. As for the reason I’m here in the first place, well, I was just curious. How was this kind of sentence working out for you? I’ve decided it’s fitting; the least you three can do is clean up the mess you’ve helped make.”

“Hm,” Sally thought about his response for a moment. “Well, Rades doesn’t seem to like it, but I think Valtos does, for the same reason you gave. I don’t have a strong opinion about it. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for me to research though.”

“Well, it’s not about how you feel about it,” Julius pointed out.

Sally shrugged. “I was asking about why you’re here because,” she looked down at the ground, “I’ve never really considered that type of thing before. There’s someone who made me a promise, but he hasn’t lived up to that promise yet, even though it’s been months. I’m starting to wonder...did he go back on it because he doesn’t want to be around me?”

“Who made you the promise?” Julius asked.

“A Black Bull. Asta’s his name.” Sally fiddled her hands around glumly. “He promised he’d let me experiment on him, as long as I didn’t hurt him and I helped other people. But that’s what I’ve been doing this whole time here, right? Helping! And if he wants to he could totally use whatever I make out of my research too! So why hasn’t he visited and lived up to his promise yet? Is it because he can’t stand to be around me, after what I’ve done?”

Julius looked at the young prisoner. She had a desperation in her eyes that Julius knew all too well: the desperation to learn. And he had a feeling that Asta was not one to break promises, unless he had a really good reason to. “Well, the Black Bulls have been dealing with a lot lately. He might’ve just not had the chance to fulfill his promise yet. I’ll tell you what. How about I try and see for myself what Asta wants, and if he is still up for it, I’ll set up a date for you two.”

“Really?” Sally’s eyes shimmered, and she shook her hands around, causing her handcuffs to rattle as she was barely able to contain her relief and excitement. “Thank you!”

“No, of course.” Julius nodded at her. “This will be really useful for the kingdom as well.”

He couldn’t help but get his hopes up that such a thing would get to happen. He knew all about the research Sally conducted while in the Eye of the Midnight Sun, everything from her magic items to the bodies she grew for the leaders. It was all morbid and fascinating.

Perhaps with a few...ethical limitations, she can be of great use to the Clover Kingdom. An asset beyond what Julius could possibly imagine at the moment.

He glanced back at Valtos and Rades in the distance. And not just her. Those other two have skills as well that would do numbers for the kingdom. I should try and see if I can set them up with anything else too. But if not now, if anything ever comes up later, I’m sure they can help out a bit too then at least.

Soon, the three prisoners had to go, and so Julius said his goodbyes. Valtos cleared his throat before saying, “I apologize for my initial doubts towards you. I was just worried about what kind of trouble a false guard could bring if anything were to happen. But you’ve more than proven that you are a good, legitimate magic knight and guard, if a little...distractible. So, whatever it’s worth, you have my respect.”

Ignoring the tiniest hint of guilt over all his white lies after what Valtos just said, Julius simply nodded at him. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, I guess it was fun. Better than dealing with Jack, at least,” Rades conceded. Julius nodded at him as well.

“So you’ll really go and see if Asta will still keep his promise for me?” Sally asked.

“Yes,” Julius confirmed.

“Thank you!” she said again, and then shook his hand profusely with both her own.

He took a step back once she was done. “Yeah. No problem. This’ll be really good, if Asta does keep his promise.” He looked up at her. “You’re going to do great things for the Clover Kingdom now, I’m sure.”

#black clover #julius novachrono #valtos #sally black clover #rades spirito #black clover fanfiction #black clover oneshot #I need to mention I’ve started this literal years ago and FINALLY bothered to finish it #ignore the ending that was the one thing keeping me from finishing it so I just wrote something

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