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robinlmaoo · 1 year

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Sky Cotl fanfiction - Season Of Abyss Quest 5

(warning: mentions of the deep sea, horrific underwater creatures, drowning and near death experiences, spoilers for Season Of Abyss Quest 5.)

(cove is the cannoneer’s name for this story, to avoid confusion!)

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the surface of the water was calm, as if it was glassed over, but they knew better than to trust murky, deep waters like those. their tiny boat glided over the surface, sending ripples over the mirror-like surface as they sailed. they peered over the side of their craft into the inky dark trench- the trench they were about to dive into, unbeknownst to what terrors they would encounter there- if the rumors were true, of course.

that rookie had outperformed them, bringing back the biggest batch of diamonds that the crew had ever seen- and their pride had not taken it lightly. how could some kid wearing a pretty cape surpass them of all people? if they couldn’t bring back more resources, that child would surely take their place sooner or later. “and i can’t let that happen!” they thought aloud, chewing on their lip, fist tightening around the oars.

‘where did they go…?’ they had thought, their competitive nature leaving the spirit more than a little upset. ‘how did they manage to scavenge that much?’ they’d thought about it, and figured they had gone deep- really deep, where barely any light plants grow, where you ran the risk of running out of air and succumbing to the dark, smothering waters of the abyss.

“if some kid can dive into the trench and make it out alive, so can i.” the spirit huffed, heaving the anchor over the edge and tossing it into the water. they picked their harpoon gun off the floor of the dinghy, it’s familiar weight in their hands weirdly comforting, giving the spirit a sense of safety- like nothing could hurt them while they wielded this weapon. still, they couldn’t go diving with this heavyweight around- it would drag them down and rob them of their precious energy, possibly dooming them to drown.

“be brave, cove. you can’t let the captain down.” they clapped their hands and muttered to themselves, hoisting themselves onto the edge of the boat.

they sucked in a ball of air, and leaped without hesitation, plunging into the treacherous waters of the abyss.

cool water closed over their body, and they moved through the water with ease- they had done this many times before. the mantas and fish circled around the spirit, ever ready to help- they were grateful for that, but this was a mission dangerous for even them, let alone the light creatures.

‘you might want to clear off.’ they thought grimly, following the anchor string into a seemingly bottomless, ominous abyss. ‘i can’t save you if a krill decides to pick on you for lunch.’

most of the marine creatures had dispersed by the time they had reached an enormous doorway- for scale, it was about two times the size of a krill. but a singular manta remained, gliding through the water behind them, it’s soothing calls calming the spirit’s anxious heart.

they silently thanked the creature, unable to talk lest they lose all their air. though treasure-finding wasn’t new to them, the deep seas were, and a diving buddy there to accompany them would definitely make things a lot less scary for the cannoneer.

they continued following the anchor line, spying a faint blue glow at the bottom of the abyss. hope shining like a lamplight in their heart, they willed themselves to swim faster, ignoring the increasing water pressure pushing against their ears.

there it was- one big, terrifically shiny blue gem, a tiny light in the middle of the murky darkness of the trench. their eyes lit up, and they pushed through the water toward the treasure, and yanked on it, but it stayed lodged firmly in the sand, stubborn as a krill who had just spotted a sky kid. a hard feeling like their head was about to explode pressed against their skull, telling them oxygen was running low. the absence of the soft blue light above them meant their manta friend had gone too. the eerie creaking and groaning that sounded above them could only mean one thing- a dark dragon.

refusing to abandon their mission, the spirit dug their fingers into the cracks between the diamond and the sand, and gave a heave of massive effort with what fading strength they had- and the resource finally gave way, coming out of the sand with a plunger-like sound. the cannoneer’s eyes lit up in delight- this was sure to please the commodore, no doubt. they looked up at the distant light that was the surface- a place they needed to get to, quick, because they were running out of air.

‘just get to that plant,’ they told themselves, setting their sights on a small, but life giving glowing plant up ahead.

every kick was an effort now- they struggled like a bug through treacle, the energy in their limbs rapidly draining. ‘had i made a mistake? is this too much for me?’ they wondered as they desperately kicked through the water, movements growing slower and vision getting darker as they went.

before they could get far, though, a blue light projected onto them like some sort of spotlight, and quickly blared red, bringing with it a terrifying roar that shook the ancient sea structures around them. the cannoneer’s heart seemed to leap out of their chest, and they spun clumsily around in the water to see a single, beady red orb through the darkness, and many rippling, crustacean-like limbs. they realised what had happened with a high of dread- they had stumbled into the radar of a light-stealing dark dragon.

a dozen needles seemed to dance across their forehead, and they searched the place for things to hide behind- there were none within range.

the darkness creature didn’t allow the spirit any time to react- it reared like a mamba, and swooped, catching the spirit in the stomach. they felt all their light leave them like a soul forcefully ripped from its body, and their scream was reduced to nothing but a silent stream of bubbles in the water, unheard by those above on the surface.

asphyxiation and darkness dragged them under, and they sank hopelessly like a boulder to the bottom of the trench, joining all the many other forgotten items and souls lost to the sea. their world was now a swirling blur of grey and black, and they felt as if their limbs had been turned to cold stone. at that moment, the spirit felt nothing like the capable, confident seafarer they were a few minutes ago- more like a helpless, terrified child, pleading in their heart for rescue that would not come.

they couldn’t make out what happened next- maybe they had passed out? there was a period of silent darkness, the only sounds they heard the constant groaning of the krill above and the rushing of the water around them. then, something like a beacon of warmth descending on them, friendly as a manta, lending its light and energy to help.

a tiny hand clasped it’s fingers around theirs, and for a second, all was still.

a pulse of life-giving light burst forth from underneath the cannoneer, and they woke up with a start, inhaling and choking on the unbearably salty seawater. something pat them on the back and shook them by the shoulders, frantic yet gentle. dazed and dumbfounded, the spirit managed to open their eyes a crack to see the outline of a person- they were about the size of a child, and donned a sunshine-yellow cape that rippled like a manta in the water, and on their back was a prop that looked like a shepherd’s crook- ‘did they beat their enemies with it or something?’ the spirit wondered. their glow charged the spirit with just enough energy to move again, and they blinked at the kid in confusion, mind foggy and dark.

the child beckoned to them with a hand, jabbing their staff in the direction of the surface.

they started swimming upwards, pulling the seafarer along with them.

‘am i being rescued?’ the cannoneer wondered. ‘who the heck is this guy?’

as they rose, the spirit realized an earthquake-like force below them, growing in strength by the second. the child and the cannoneer looked down to see a sight that made the spirit’s skin crawl- so many eyes! they cried silently. they instinctively reached for their gun, but slacked in dismay when they realized it wasn’t there.

the child pointed their staff at the many-eyes creature, which came more clearly into focus now- it was like an enormous, giant fish, with as many fins as it had eyes, about the size of ten krill. it opened its gaping, house sized mouth, revealing a forest of hooked teeth like sharp icicles, ready to chew the two to pieces. realization dawned on them a tick too late, and the spirit could only yell in horror as the jaws of the creature closed around them, shrouding them in pitch black darkness.

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the child’s grip on the spirit’s hand tightened as the duo whirled through rip currents of dark, rushing water, bubbles swirling all around like some sort of smoothie. their glow provided just enough light for the kid to see that they were hurtling through a tunnel-like structure, horribly fleshy and soft.

despite their efforts to cling on, the force of the water ripped the spirit’s hand from theirs, and the child’s heart dropped in dismay. frantically pumping their tiny legs, they paddled through the water as if for dear life in a desperate attempt to reach the spirit. the currents started to grow weaker, and the kid could see a dim light at the end of the tunnel. the water level dipped all of a sudden, and now it was as if they were sliding down a very fast, very fleshy, and very alive water slide.

they spilled out, face flat onto a horribly wet and squishy floor. the child scrambled to their feet with a grimace, disgusted at the amount of gloopy water sliding off them.

they drew in a deep, calming breath, and collected themselves. “okay. okay… check number one, where am i?” they scanned their peripheral vision- they were in a chamber-like room, accompanied by nothing but a large dark plant and… the spirit.

“check number two,” they muttered, wringing their hands, already losing their composure. “where the heck is that guy?!…” could they have been spat into a different room or something? had the child lost them?

“this is bad, this is bad, this is bad.” the kid murmured, shaking their head, walking and looking from side to side.

they got to one knee, and unleashed a huge pulse of light energy, calling for the lost spirit. sensing life, faint but present, the child in yellow splashed over to their right. there they were, in a crumpled, messy heap on the floor, lying on their side.

“hey!” the child waded over to the spirit’s side. “wake up. are you awake?” they shook them gently by the shoulders, but their head lolled hopelessly from side to side. the kid patted their face, shook them harder, but their eyes stayed shut and their hands stayed cold.

the kid’s face paled behind their mask, and it was like a cold hand gripped their heart like a vice, fearing the worst. they flipped the spirit onto their back with a heave, took a look at their cape- and that invisible hand fell away, making way for a wave of relief, for that tiny star still remained, indicating they weren’t lost to the darkness just yet.

“ah. okay.” they sighed, anxiety dissipating. “check number three… how do we get out?”

they got to their feet, and stared at that suspicious, singular dark plant in the corner.

they pursed their lips, exhaled in exasperation, and pulled from within their cape a tiny red candle, flame dancing excitedly in the uncomfortably humid air.

“time for some plant arson.”

they headed over to the dark tree, and as their candle flame worked at it with a cheery popping and crackling, they could make out the faint outline of a manta tangled in its thorny branches, it’s body dark, indicating it’s light had been extinguished. the sky kid’s heart sank, and the trapping of the manta gave them all the more reason to destroy the corruption.

when the last leaf had been eaten away by the flame, the child put the fire to the manta’s head. a golden-white color started to creep over the destitute black as the manta slowly woke back to life.

there was a sudden burst of light, and the child was shoved back by a wall of warmth, knocked to their feet like a friendly, non-light-stealing krill attack. they yelped in surprise, shielding their eyes from the light that was blinding even for them. the creature of light pirouetted and swooped in the air, ecstatic to finally be free, its gentle calls pulsing soothingly throughout the chamber. it stopped to hover in front of its savior, as if thanking the kid for their help.

the child simply stared, and their eyes followed the manta as it made its way to the opening in the wall that the sky kid and the cannoneer had entered the chamber through, disappearing into the murky, rushing waters.

‘well. now what?’ the sky kid wondered. ‘i’m happy that the manta is free, but now i need to get me and the spirit out of this place.’

there came a deep, throaty groan that seemed to come within the chamber itself, and the room was shook by earthquake-like tremors, growing in strength. the sky kid staggered over to the spirit on feet that seemed to have turned to jelly, and held their hand tight, fearing something would happen that would incite a turn of the situation for the worse.

a wall of water slammed into the duo like a truck, and the sky kid couldn’t even scream before they once again hurtled through swirling, foamy waters, back out through the same tunnel. this time, they did not let the cannoneer go, gripping their hand so tight they thought it would break. they barely had time to notice a light at the end of the tunnel, before they broke through into calmer, less murky waters. the sky kid paused, and dared to open their tightly shut eyes.

‘woah.’

reflected twice in their wide eyes was the stupendous sight of the sheer amount of fish, scales sparkling in every color of the rainbow. they swam in all directions, as if prisoners let free from their cage. ‘had they been swallowed by the many-eyed beast too?’ they wondered, so immersed in the stunning scenery that they forgot all about being scarily deep underwater for a while.

some of the fish dove down to the duo, and bumped them playfully as if they were human children, effectively boosting them up in the water with their light. the sky kid couldn’t help but crack a crescent-like grin- it heartened them to see kindness shown like this.

they felt a hand poke them, and they looked down to see a confused, dazed-looking cannoneer, finally awake, revived by the light of the marine creatures. the child beckoned them with a pull on their hand, and started paddling upwards. the spirit followed suit, movements slow and clumsy, still weak from the events of the past few minutes.

they broke the surface of the water, and both took a deep gasp of air, having been underwater for more than what was healthy. the sky kid hooked an arm around the spirit, and hauled them with massive effort to the small dinghy bobbing on the water.

the spirit begun to cough and splutter uncontrollably, and the sky kid hurriedly clambered out of the water into the boat, kneeling down by the spirits side.

“you alright?” they asked, putting their hand on theirs, making them jolt in surprise.

“i inhaled- a lot- of seawater.” they rasped, resting their head on the wall of the boat.

“okay,” the child replied. “okay. you’re alright, aren’t you?”

“well enough to… row a boat, i hope.” they muttered, putting two fingers to their forehead. “kid, how’d you know where to find me?”

“oh, the commodore spotted your boat off in the distance and figured you’d wandered off. they asked me to go seek you out there while the others searched everywhere else. i dived down and saw this string thing and followed it… down to you!” they explained.

“how’d you even get past that krill?” the spirit stared at the moth-like child incredulously.

“i… snuck past it? avoided its radar?” the child raised an eyebrow, they thought the answer should be obvious.

the spirit merely continued to stare for a while, then shook their head, spraying water droplets everywhere.

“no matter. you’re a brave one, aren’t ya? facing that monster head-on, with how small you are.” they scoffed, smirk visible through the massive crack in their mask.

“you’re brave, too, you know. you went all the way down there, and you saw the krill too.” the child pointed out, tilting their head.

“yeah. sure, maybe i’m brave. on the smarts side? i don’t think so.” the spirit replied with a quiet chuckle, starting to row the boat- it seemed to take them a considerable amount of effort to do so.

“don’t put yourself down.” the sky kid chided, folding their arms.

the spirit stayed silent, struggling with the oars, panting from the effort moving the boat through the water.

“…you need help?” the child offered.

“no.” the cannoneer declined almost immediately.

“i can just… fly us over, you know. you don’t have to force yourself.” the child reasoned, stretching out a hand.

the spirit paused, their grip on the oars loosening. they looked over their shoulder at the kid’s hand, their gaze stormy and annoyed, like they couldn’t believe they were getting help from a random child like them.

they sighed, and grudgingly took the child’s hand in theirs.

“lead the way.”

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“captain, it’s them!”

“the sky kid and cove’re back!”

the spirit and the sky kid touched down on the bow of the ship, nearly knocking over a square pot. the harried-looking angler was the first to greet them, hat and mask askew and cape half off their shoulders- they looked like a mess, and the eyes on their mask told the duo they felt like a mess too. the equally-anxious boatswain and guide were the second to rush up, with the commodore bringing up the back, looking unnaturally calm as if they hadn’t been worried at all- in fact, they looked more stern than concerned.

the cannoneer hesitated, head down, staring at their feet.

the sky kid nudged the spirit forward, encouraging them to go reunite with their crew.

they glanced nervously at the child, and the latter nodded in approval. the spirit approached their crew as slowly as possible, averting eye contact, like now they were afraid of facing their friends whom they had braved the rugged seas with for so long.

“uh, hey.” they began timidly. “i’m back.”

the angler made a move as if to hug the cannoneer, but the commodore held up a hand to stop them, stepping forward themselves.

the cannoneer jolted in surprise, straightening to attention.

“captain.” they addressed the commodore, voice hoarse. “i…”

“where did you go, may i ask?” the commodore interrupted, a serious, authoritative air around them.

“to… the bottom of the reef, captain.” the cannoneer answered quietly as a mouse. their eyes lit up all of a sudden, and they started fumbling around within their cape.

“captain! wait. i didn’t go down there for nothing.” they exclaimed, and pulled out the large resource they had found at the bottom of the abyss, it’s sea-green sparkle splendid as a gem.

“i found this for you, captain.” they spoke, voice searching for approval. “this was at the bottom of the reef. it’s… only one, i know.” they bowed their head in embarrassment, face coloring lightly behind their mask. “but… i hope it’s enough.”

“cove, calm down.” the captain soothed, doing their signature ‘calm down gesture. “i’m not happy that you found this, you know.”

the angler, the boatswain, guide, and sky kid were all equally confused. behind the cracks in their mask, you could see the cannoneer’s face fall, and their heart sank. ‘they’re not happy?’ the spirit silently worried. ‘was what i had done not enough?’

without warning, the commodore stepped forward, and the cannoneer flinched back, still shaken and alert from the incident before. the ship captain swept their crew member into their arms off the floor, hugging them as if never to let go. the cannoneer yelped, taken aback by the sudden ‘attack’, flailing weakly in their captain’s hold.

“i’m just happy that you’re safe and sound,”the commodore continued, their voice seeming calm, but between the lines there was hidden emotion that told the group that they were the most worried, if not just as worried as the other people.

“captain, we all know you’re happy that they’re back… but with your strength, i think it’s not long before you suffocate them altogether.” the boatswain stepped in with a small chuckle, noting the cannoneer’s discomfort.

“besides, you can’t have them all to yourself!” the angler cut in with a huff, arms akimbo. “i was worried sick! i want to hug them too.”

“awww, everyone wants to hug me.” the cannoneer snickered with mock shyness. “i’m flattered!”

“don’t let your ego balloon up again,” the guide teased, winking an eye. “a child had to save your life, if you don’t recall.”

“which brings us to the matter of this child’s most honorable deed.” the commodore announced, bringing their gaze to the smallest standing among them.

the others followed suit, all quiet now. all eyes were upon the yellow-caped in their midst.

“i think we should take a moment to thank this child standing right here, for they have done a great service to us… especially you, cove.” they spoke, turning to the cannoneer with a prompting gaze.

the mentioned turned to the sky kid with a silent gaze, fidgeting with their ragged cape and avoiding eye contact.

“look, kid,” they began, “in all honesty, when you first came to treasure reef, i thought of you as kind of like an enemy. you know… the one whom i competed with to get the most resources. someone whom i couldn’t get too friendly with. and when you brought back that big haul that time… admittedly, i was upset. really upset.”

they paused for a while, trying to find the right words to say.

the sky kid tilted their head, and the cannoneer took that as a signal to continue.

“i thought you were gonna take my place. if this kept on happening, i wouldnt be so… relevant anymore, you know? i was afraid that that would happen, and… of course i went off to do something stupid.“ they muttered, a shadow cast over their face.

“but when i lost my light down in the abyss, it was you who came to my rescue. and then i was like, ‘what? why that child out of all people? weren’t they not supposed to help me or something?’ and it was then i realised that all the things you’ve done… were just to help others. not to replace me or to compete with anybody.”

“so… thanks for that. thank you for all the help you’ve given us, and especially me. i wouldn’t be here speaking to you now if it weren’t for your help.” they finished with a little bow.

the sky kid stared up at the spirit for a while, and wrapped their arms around them in a tiny hug. the spirit couldn’t help but scoff at their height, and tousled their snow-white hair as a response.

“i already said, don’t put yourself down.” they scolded as they pulled away, “you’re really cool. that’s half the reason why i went all the way down there to save you.”

“i’m cool?” they folded their arms and replied in mild surprise. “why look up to me? why not capt- i mean, the commodore? they command a whole ship, much cooler than some person with a gun.”

“you can shoot said gun from so far away and hit the bullseye. i saw that in your memory.” the kid argued back.

“i can vouch for that. i helped them get the target ready!” the guide piped up.

“gah, whatever. enough of this stupid talk…”

(i ran out of ideas sorry-)

#skyblr #season of abyss #fanfic

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dailyadventureprompts · 2 years

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Dungeon: King Ternshal’s Cairn

The crash of waves, the cry of gulls, the lure of secrets held beneath ancient stones.

Setup: There’s just something about a crumbling ruin that calls to those with an adventurous spirit, something ineffable that speaks to our inherent curiosity and draws us into the dark. Generations of brave souls have taken up the torch and explored such foreboding edifices, for no other reason than they were there to be explored.

The Cairn is one such place, a lonely heap of rubble on a desperate spit of land that was once the mighty fortress of a terrible raider king. As the stories go, King Ternshal claimed that his fleet was so mighty it gave him dominion over the sea itself, which rightly angered the local deity of the depths who brought a great wave down to smash the king’s fleet and bury him alive under the stones of his mighty fortress.

Adventure Hooks:

Fisherfolk up and down the coast still tell of Ternshal’s folly, especially on stormy nights when they mutter that the old king must be cursing in his grave, once again invoking the seagod’s ire. The party might hear of such tales while waylayid on such a night in a cozy seaside tavern, enjoying the yarns of travelers and old sailors while they warm themselves by the fire. The tale will likely spin out of control, while folks add in stories about the vaults of treasure buried along with the plunderer king, or the curse of drowning that’s said to follow anyone who disturbs the ruins.

While exploring the upper reaches of the Cairn, the party is ambushed by the wight of a mad treasure hunter wielding the raider king’s ax and jealously guarding the secrets of the ancient fortress. For its part, the ax is quite bored of crumbling chambers and damp ruins, and decides to side with the party during the ensuing fight. Now in possession of an easily distracted magical weapon, the party must find a way to keep their new acquisition occupied lest it go stir up trouble for them.

There’s said to be a hermit who lives in the caste’s ruins, a holywoman possessed of uncanny insights and a mouthpiece for the gods. Some claim that she’s the ghost of Ternshal’s queen, but when the party encounter her, they’ll discover that she’s quite alive, if addled in the way that hermits often are. Thinking that she lives in a grand palace, the dwarven woman will offer the party a lunatic’s hospitality, interspersed with flashes of divine providence and precognition.

Challenges & Complications:

The echoes of the sea-god’s wrath pervade the cliffs surrounding the Cairn, drawing in storms and bone crushing waves to harry any form of exploration. A party could expect to cross a thin land bridge under driving rain, escape lower chambers as they flood in sequence with the tides, or have to defend against attackers while maneuvering over rainslick battlements.

Though her name is long forgotten, the hermit of the cairn was once a powerful wizard who took upon herself the burden of guarding a dangerous artifact: the mummified remains of a mage consumed by parasitic nightmares. Warry of the corpse’s psychic contagion, and fearful that destroying it would unleash the nightmares upon the world, the hermit hoped to use the isolated ruins as an arcane midden, preventing its exposure to waking minds while sure that her own psychic defences would hold. They didn’t, and now centuries on the remnants of her learned life are scattered around the levels of Ternshal’s cairn, just waiting for the party to stumble into them.

#dungeon #Dungeon Crawl #mid level #D&D #D&D adventure #Homebrew Adventure #Adventure #DnD #low level #mage #wizard #oracle #ruin #seaside #treasure #undead

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bk-poetry · 2 years

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The Dangers of Kimberleigh

“Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one you want.” ― Louisa May Alcott, "Little Women" I. When the morning demands you and I— our ghosts shall pass empty resides, Against fields where lines opposing light, force and bind— of Angel's breath and Dæmon's spine. Of shrieks louder than their first meeting's kiss— residing now—perfection upon midnight's bliss, Abiding near the tender gardens upon the blinding dark— creating haste of love-song made by grave Skylark. Who in joyous play—should cause collapse—

towards serene, augmented lapse. Lapse of falling, of where gentle screams— of every child that's ever been, Who stroke themselves against empty glass— and where visions pray upon the grasp, Of wind—Of blinding—Of melody— to hold faint—Immortality

II. This shall be where morning seeks— no longer calming of beauty's cheek. Instead to lash with vain and hostile mount— crimson over dashed and harsh doubt. Until image engraved by forgiving rite— speaking neglect of fiend or fiendish blight. In-versed—coole angelic heart to passéd— passage beside Lilac's memory in mortal castéd. In the unwashed Earth, where the unwashed play— 'till they unfairly capture it from younglings— Away. Lonesomeness of watchtowers in gossamer's breast— when airy words strangled from bless. Reachéd by the hand—abide in fable— quiet tho—in fruition, a single silver Maple. Shyly envisioned inside salvation's solitude— where tenderness drowns tenderéd concludes.

III. The sister was lovely—inside my sight— in our union—created Nature's first night. Through our throats rendered fragile lullaby— which slaughtered silence and made soldiers cry. Her bristles—exploit in darkness—I could not see— or merely recollect in memory. A mouth moving inside of mine— creatures in mawkery of untouched divine. Eyes whom beatéd harder than the breeze— to remind me—gently of the ease. Of being caught in cognitive stance. which leaves surrender to in traditional, disciplined dance. Upon the backs of universal forestry— and inside their stomachs to where we would meet. Offended to death by requiem— made inside our faint dream's drum.

IV. Where dreamer's would lash upon in endless screams— innumerable Rubies ruin'd before their first gleam. Upon reflection in lover's loss— diminished to demise before their first gloss. It is upon the fool's finest end— where lies his fantasy—condemned. The jester who remains as undefeat— before death shall cause lacklustre retreat. Unaware tho, in current mode— as body by body closely will hold. And messages of Gold conspire in streaks— immersed—affection in mind eternally correlates oblique. Ringing and humming throughout what laid— against blonde grass from Sin was made. Refraction's cast that betrayed—to promise me— endless nights of haunting harmonies.

V. Held tightly in grieving borne— broken—in new blood is sworn. Across the snow-cover'd Evergreens— where the temptress grave is left unseen. Not upon her kiss—did darkness fall— alone—in shining pieces did crawl, Against creator—and thus creator hence— bitter loving shrouded by bare defense. As her finite skin had laid eternal flesh— of what laid inside Pine's parting mesh. Holding and crying out for uncertainty— feelings moaned into sudden Mercenaries.

Morose and fledgling in their stand— spiritéd to Death's light misunderstand, Of peerless eyes and broken brooks by the sea— casting ruined cloth over our Evergreens.

VI. Unfurnished dawn may scour for length of furnished night— quick—until mirroréd ebbed ocean does wrong. To consume the idles of Man's afraid mind— fairest—lest His idles struck into divine. Exclaiméd none tho, in archaic lust— deceased—firmest in high robust. Where pleasure finds comforted pause— inside arched-back in neglected cause. Betray the shallow grimace flee— and ethereal composed by the breeze. Lies delicate delusion before sorrow— that shall thieve away the Artist's morrow.

And in thievery is where the Angels lie— angelic beasts with unlawful guise, In courts—castrated by the throat— hardened in assumption by blackened elope.

#poetry #spilled ink #writeblr #poets on tumblr #collection: Juvenilia

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dearcat1 · 3 years

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Hi there! I absolutely adore Xanxu's parenting adventures, but I could only find 8 & 9. Is there a tag I can check out for the others? Sorry for the bother, super excited to read it! Thank you for writing it!

Screw it hahaha that tag is not working no matter what I do about it. I'm just going to post everything that's already published here. So: sorry about the long post.

And for anybody who's interested in reading it, I'm putting the next ones under "parenting adventures au". That should be a better tag.

I hope you like it! I meant for it to be cute.

[Xanxus’s terrible bad day]

Part 1 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

Xanxus does not, in any way shape or form, appreciate mad scientists. He spits out the blood, cleaning up the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. The other hand keeping a tight grip on his remaining x-gun. Irritated, he just keeps glaring at the toddler whimpering in front of him.

Seriously?

What the fuck!

How is this even his life, Xanxus doesn't know but he demands a fucking raise. And all the goddam alcohol. All of it. Every single fucking drop.

This is ridiculous. The enemy is dead and even Xanxus feels a little uncomfortable with the amount of blood and dead bodies surrounding a two-year-old. Or what looks like a two-year-old, in Xanxus rather uninformed opinion.

Brat picks himself up, eyes still watery and then… oh no, oh no, no, no. He makes grabby hands at Xanxus. Xanxus sneers, uncomfortable but the newly miniaturized Sawada just pouts stubbornly, stumbling on wet sticky blood as he tries to make his way to the older Sky.

Xanxus's reaction is pure instinct. He lunges forward, grabs the kid by the back of his overly large hoodie and pulls him up. Brat settles on Xanxus's hip, tiny face hidden against Xanxus's shoulder and the Wrath stands there, feeling more than a little awkward.

Alright, then, he thinks. Fuck it. So an armful of mini-mini-Sawada in one arm, a gun in the other hand. Base full of dead people who are either already dead or soon to be. Because Xanxus is through like that.

Clearing his throat, Xanxus hoists the brat up a little more and stalks out of the room. Cleaning up the base is easy enough, finding Byakuran's little note on the desk should be more of a surprise than it is.

"Have fun on your vacation! You can bond now ~ :3"

Right, Xanxus needs a raise, all the alcohol, and a marshmallow enthusiast killing season.

[Cabin by the sea]

Part 2 of Xanxus's Parenting Adventures

Finding the little cabin by the sea is easy enough with the handy map the marshmallow freak left for them. Mini-mini-Sawada is a surprisingly obedient toddler so Xanxus is still uncomfortable but at least he isn't deaf from crying fits.

The only time the brat had cried, it had been silent sad tears that managed to make Xanxus feel like an ass when the brat confessed to being hungry.

Note to self: brats need food.

So Xanxus had settled in in the little cabin, laid the brat down on the smaller bed for the night and thrown himself to his own bed, intent on waiting this shit out.

Except that he'd been woken up in the middle of the night by a toddler sneaking into his bed and now Xanxus can't sleep because mini-mini-Sawada is tiny. As in smaller than Xanxus's chest tiny and Xanxus is not a good man, he's not a kind man.

But there's a toddler sleeping on his chest, all trust and far too delicate limbs and Xanxus finds himself terrified of falling asleep because what if when he does, he moves and crushes the little brat under him? Then the brat would suffocate and die.

And yes, Xanxus could, potentially, just pick up the brat and return him to his own bed. But what if he doesn't wake up the next time the brat sneaks in? Because if Xanxus has learned something these last couple of days is that mini-mini-Sawada might be mellow but he also has a stubborn bone that won't be reasoned with.

In the end, Xanxus ends up staying awake all night, staring at the ceiling with a hand keeping the toddler in place, just in case he rolls over and falls to his death or something. He waits until the hour changes from absolutely ridiculous to marginally decent to leave the bed.

Doing stuff with a toddler on his arm is easier now that he has practice, his morning routine is no different. It's just when he reaches the point of taking a shower that he finds himself at a loss. They stink, they need to wash. Xanxus has no idea how to clean a brat and he's pretty sure that toddlers don't wash themselves.

Xanxus looks longingly at his phone and snarls, ignoring mini-Tsunayoshi stirring in his arm. "Fucking dimension without YouTube. What the fuck."

[Watery warfare]

Part 3 of Xanxus's Parenting Adventures

Xanxus decides on the bathtub for practicality. It seems like a bath would be easier to handle with a toddler than a shower. Especially a sleepy, clingy toddler. Except that the second Xanxus set the brat down, brat went absolutely fucking insane.

Watching bemusedly as the brat slaps the water around, Xanxus ignores the mess it's making on the floor and chuckles. "Yeah? Show it who's the boss, shitty brat."

Tsunayoshi just screams louder, cackling like a maniac.

"Yeah, yeah." Shrugging, Xanxus sits down on the tub, ready to wash himself. He'll clean up mini-mini-Sawada after.

Mini-mini-Sawada has other ideas, however. As soon as Xanxus settles down, the toddler reaches for him and Xanxus helps him sit beside him, lest he falls down and drowns. "What? I thought you were in the middle of a war, trash. Can't just abandon that, you know?"

The toddler just sticks his fingers in the shampoo Xanxus has just poured into his hand.

"No, that's not for you." Xanxus rolls his eyes, scrubbing his hair and ignoring mini-Tsunayoshi watching him curiously. Ok, so maybe Xanxus might be developing a bit of a soft spot for the toddler. Maybe. It's just… the brat's flames might still be dormant at this age but that doesn't change the fact that whatever is still there… it resonates with Xanxus.

And that's a relief. It is, because it means that Xanxus might not be Timoteo's but he's still Vongola enough for this. Besides, the resonance helped Xanxus get over his initial 'ew, baby' aversion and is probably the reason the brat was so quick to trust Xanxus.

He wonders if it'll translate to the grown Sawada, once he returns.

There's just something about mini-mini-Sawada, so small, so breakable and so trusting, that makes Xanxus feel a little protective.

[Shopping trip]

Part 4 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

It takes Xanxus about a week to concede that this won't be a quick matter. Which means that they need clothes. Xanxus could, in theory, keep washing his uniform daily and it wouldn't be a problem. Except he's fucking tired of doing laundry and the brat can't keep wearing the same oversized hoodie for days on end.

He turns to look at mini-mini-Sawada, who is curled up in Bester's flank, fast asleep, and sighs. It seems they're going shopping.

Which is easier said than done. Unearthing the wad of cash and credit card the marshmallow freak left behind is easy enough, taking mini-mini-Sawada is easy as well. As long as Xanxus doesn't put him down, they're alright.

No, the issue comes from the clerk who is watching Xanxus like he's wondering whether he should seek the police on him for kidnapping. But Xanxus is still a Sky, no matter that he doesn't do the polite charming shit that Tsunayoshi and Cavallone are so fond of.

"We had a little accident," Xanxus shrugs, gruff. "He needs clothes."

Still, the clerk seems unsure until mini-mini-Sawada straightens in Xanxus's hold to point at something in the store. "Ansus! Beste! Look, Beste!"

Bester, Xanxus knows, is back in his box but he turns to look all the same. He takes a good look at the white cat plushie and laughs. "Yeah, that's Bester alright."

Ignoring the now bemused clerk, Xanxus makes his way to that rack and offers Mini-Tsunayoshi the plushie. The toddler grabs it instantly, cuddling it to his chest and Xanxus snorts, catching a look at bath toys down the ail. Well, fuck it. They're spending Byakuran's money anyway, might as well treat themselves.

"Come on, you need ammunition for your next bath."

It is entirely possible that Xanxus got a little shopping happy but he gives about zero shits, the tiny shirt with a printed 'Mini-Boss' on it is Xanxus's absolute favourite.

He buys his own clothes quickly and makes a bee-line for the cabin, mini-mini-Sawada cheerfully waving goodbye to the shopping mall.

[Nap]

Part 5 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

What the fuck, Xanxus thinks, bemusedly. It should have been fine. The weather had been nice and the cabin has a nice piece of beach right there so Xanxus had taken the brat out and yes, maybe, Xanxus took advantage of the nice weather to take a nice nap.

But it should have been fine, Bester had been napping with the brat. Covered by the shade. And the brat never wanders off anyway. Bester would have woken Xanxus up if something had happened or handled it himself.

And yet, here they are.

Xanxus wakes up to find Tsunayoshi sitting next to a hole, definitely of Bester’s making and lapping the water from it?

He has questions, Xanxus has so many questions.

First, how did they get water inside the hole? Where does this water come from? Also, why? Bester looks too damn proud of himself, Xanxus adores him but right now, he’s not sure he trusts the liger. Tsunayoshi laps the water again, makes a disgusted face and repeats. “What the fuck?”

Laughing helplessly, Xanxus stands up, patting the sand off of his clothes. “What are you doing, you little shit?” He picks mini-Tsunayoshi up, settling him on his hip.

The brat tries to reach for Bester, “juice?”

“No,” Xanxus chortles, gesturing for Bester to follow. “That’s not juice, trash. That’s seawater at best. What the fuck.”

“Fuck!”

“Shit,” Xanxus picks up their stuff with their other hand and makes his way back inside the cabin to hunt down some juice. “Your parents are going to lose their shit over that, aren’t they?” Toddlers usually don’t use curse words, he knows that much. Then, he remembers that the father in question is fucking Iemitsu and shrugs it off.

[Tuna-fishy]

Part 6 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

They get returned to their original universe about 4 months in, to them at least. It looks like they’ve been gone for barely a week on their own. Xanxus doesn’t care about that, he’s more concentrated on the strained little smile Byakuran is sending to mini-mini-Sawada.

“What!?” Xanxus snaps, ignoring the toddler’s face hidden against his neck. Brat is shy, that’s all.

“Aaah, yes,” Byakuran shifts uncomfortably, sending a bemused look Xanxus’s way before looking back down to Sawada. “That wasn’t part of the plan?”

“Are you fucking asking?” Xanxus ignores mini-mini-Sawada trying to share his crumpled snack and twitches, debating the virtues of calling Bester or seeking his elements on this moron.

Iemitsu, apparently, decides that’s his moment to shine. Bastard has been starry-eyed since the second he caught sight of the toddler in Xanxus’s arms. And no, Xanxus is, in no way, shape or form, annoyed by this. The consigliere steps forward, big goofy smile on his face, “Tuna-fishy! Come to papa!”

And mini-Tsunayoshi loses his shit, loses it completely. As in loud screams and tears and a grip hard enough on Xanxus’s shirt that the Wrath wonders for a second whether he’ll rip it. Xanxus reacts on instinct because he’s been looking after this tiny brat for months now.

He shifts his weight to put distance between his toddler and the idiotic blonde and points his gun directly between the asshole’s eyes. His elements react with him, of course, and Xanxus finds himself bracketed between Squalo and Lussuria, all traces of humour lost.

“What the fuck, trash?” The question is met with silence but all of them saw the way the toddler’s mostly dormant flames recoiled from the man.

Byakuran steps forward, hands up in placation. “Now, now, no need for this.” He lays a restraining hand on Sawada’s shoulder, “I do believe it might be sweet Tsuna’s nap time?”

Xanxus takes the out, pivoting from his spot but not holstering his gun until he makes it all the way to the car. The brat is still making his best impression of a limpet and Xanxus sighs, cleaning some of the tears off the kid’s face.

“Fuck, Ansus,” the brat mutters sadly into the fabric of his plushie.

“Yeah, yeah, what the fuck.”

Somewhere in the background, Lussuria coos.

[Apple Slices]

Part 7 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures.

Xanxus wakes up with a tiny brat nestled on his stomach and Bester stretched out by his side. Right. He starts the morning routine without thinking much about it before he remembers that they’re not in the little cabin by the beach anymore.

And by remembers, he means he gets forcibly reminded by Squalo breaking down his door with a “voi! Wake up, shitty boss!” Lusurria trailing happily after the swordsman with breakfast in hand.

“You trash!” Xanxus growls quietly, “if you wake up the little brat, you’re dealing with the pouting!”

Luckily for all of them, the toddler has migrated to Bester’s flank while Xanxus went around preparing the things needed for the bad and is now busy sleeping away, face buried in his plushie.

“And get more napkins,” at Lussuria's odd look he adds, "brat's a messy eater."

Though now it seems like they'll be eating before bathing which is actually more practical. Why hadn't he thought of that? Doesn't really matter, this is how they will do things now. He picks up his own plate and eats quietly, ignoring Squalo's attempts to get Xanxus to do paperwork with the ease of long practice. Only once he's done he goes to pick mini-Tsunayoshi up, settling the sleepy toddler on his lap.

Tsunayoshi is more asleep than awake but he’s docile enough. “Juice?”

Xanxus’s mouth twitches up, “yeah, sure.”

Lussuria squeals, offering him a glass and Xanxus just knows, with one look, that shit is going to get messy. He accepts the apple slice being shoved into his mouth and says nothing. Luss can deal with this shit. "It's good," Xanxus approves, giving the brat another.

Mini-Mini-Sawada bites half of it off and then promptly falls asleep, slumping bonelessly to the side. Xanxus catches him before he can fall off, caught between incredulity and laughter. "The fuck?"

(Juice)

Part 8 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

Xanxus stalks into his office with mini-mini-Sawada on his hip. The Varia as a whole are smart enough to know that if he has one arm tied up in keeping the toddler in place, it means he still has one hand free to shoot them dead. “You trash,” he growls at the closest grunt, “bring me my wine!”

“Juice!” Mini-mini-Sawada adds, waving happily.

“And juice,” Xanxus adds, patting mini-mini-Sawada’s head agreeably. He lets the brat down on the floor inside his office, eyeing the paperwork. Fuck that thing, honestly.

By mini-mini-Sawada’s side, Bester chuffs gently, picking the toddler up by the back of his shirt and settling him between his paws. Mini-Tsunayoshi turns to hug the liger as best he can, happily waving his stuffed toy around and babbling up whatever comes through his head.

Toys, Xanxus decides, they're going to need those. Is two years old too young for a toy gun? Hmm… Well now he has google, doesn't he? Oh look, Timoteo's weekly ridiculous requests. He picks them up with a snort, fishing for some pencils in the drawer. "Here," Xanxus offers them to his brat, "this is your portion."

Mini-Mini-Sawada has taken to imitating everything Xanxus does. If Xanxus indulges him, it's simply because it makes things easier and no other reason whatsoever. He ignores the happy little squeal, smirking at his paperwork. When Squalo comes to pick up their finished piles, he makes a face at the brat's handiwork.

Xanxus glares, absent-mindedly cleaning the toddler's face after their snack.

Squalo just huffs, irritably pushing his hair out of his face. "Voi, FINE! Don't complain to me if they bitch!"

"Fuck that trash," Xanxus doesn't care about what they want.

"Trash!" His toddler smashes his juice box in agreement. Xanxus lips twitch. Ok, so he's a little fond.

(Strategy)

Part 9 of Xanxus's Parenting Adventures

Timoteo knows something is going on the moment that the door opens for the Varia's scheduled paperwork drop and it's not only Squalo coming through it but also Mammon and Lussuria. He has half of the Varia in his office when it usually takes months of cajoling to get so much as one other than Squalo. And even then, for this very same dropoff.

But the Varia are a lot like cats, there's no use in pushing them too much. You have to dangle the bribe and wait for them to come to you. So Timoteo doesn't show hesitation, he simply settles in to give their paperwork a quick check. There's never any blood but he does get a kick out of seeing the progressively more ridiculous fake signatures over the line with his son's name.

This time, it's a toddler’s handprint in ink so strong that some of the text is no longer legible. Timoteo blinks once, twice and then looks up at the gleeful faces of the Varia Officers. "What is this?"

"The mini-boss," Mammon begins, smug and greedy, "is living up to his name,"

Oh, Timoteo realizes, thumbing through the paperwork with new eyes and finding the sort of drawings he hasn't seen in over a decade. Iemitsu had been over yesterday, Timoteo had listened to his ramblings with half an ear but now it's starting to make sense. It hadn't been Iemitsu's usual delusions, Tsunayoshi really is a toddler now. Carefully, Timoteo picks the drawings from the rest of the papers. "Name your price."

Squalo smirks, "vacation. One week, full expenses covered, anywhere we want."

"Done," Timoteo stretches his hand, waiting patiently while Squalo looks inside his bag and comes up with a little plate. Tsunayoshi's small palm is etched on it, colourful kid's drawing decorating the outer sides, under it, in Xanxus's elegant writing, it's Tsunayoshi's name in perfect japanese.

"It's perfect."

"Whatever," Squalo snorts. "Voi, nice doing business with you." Squalo turns on his heel and walks out the door, his two tag-alongs following behind him.

#fanfiction #khr #katekyo hitman reborn #xanxus #sawada tsunayoshi #ask #anon #parenting adventures au

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minaslittleone · 3 years

Text

Fission & Fusion (Part 2)

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Summary: How did the refined and proper Wilhemina Venable end up working for two coked-up tech bros out of the back of a van?

An origin story of sorts, dedicated to the amazing @lucyintheskywithxanax who has developed such a beautiful and nuanced depiction of Mina. This was inspired by her incredible story "And I failed to climb the mountain".

Word count: ~2700

The hours after that were fuzzy. After storming out of her parents house with little more than the bare essentials and no intention of returning Wilhemina didn't really have much of a plan. She had never fantasized about running away as a child, she hadn't even been brave enough to rebel vicariously and yet here she was, with no plan and no where to go. And terrified.

But Wilhemina was nothing if not practical so she sequestered all of those doubts and anxieties down into the deepest corners of her brain to be dealt with later, she told herself. Really to be dealt with never.

Practically speaking, money was her first concern. She knew that her mother's threat to cut her off had not been idle, but she also hoped that her mother would continue to underestimate her long enough that she would be able to clear the remaining funds out of her account before her mother froze it. Her pride raged against the idea of taking the idea of taking the money religiously placed into her "allowance" once a month by her father, hating how spoiled that made her sound and wanting to be free of any lingering ties to her parents. She would have gladly traded every last dime for any other monthly ritual with her father, for anything with him really. But she was a casualty of her parents' failing marriage, the only thing that they hated more than each other was the idea of acknowledging that their marriage had long since fallen apart. Her father avoided the house like the plague, and her by extension, throwing himself deeper and deeper into his professional life to mask the failure of his personal one. And so their relationship had become almost completely transactional, her father attempting to atone for his absence by providing her with everything she could ever dream of, save for the one thing she truly wanted - his affection. But as much as she hated the money and everything it represented, she really wasn't left with much of a choice.

That was how she found herself standing in front of a bank teller at 1:30pm on a Wednesday afternoon, lying through her teeth and praying that her voice wasn't shaking as much as her hands. Exactly how she had got there she wasn't sure - a bus? Surely she hadn't walked this far - she was completely focused on getting what money she could and getting out.

The process was certainly made easier by the fact that she had been coming to this branch since her father had opened the account on her sixteenth birthday. And maybe for once in her life her twisted frame would be an asset - it was difficult to forget a girl her age with flaming red hair and a cane.

So she lied. She told the teller that she was using the money to put towards a car but that her parents were unfortunately too busy to accompany her. That part wasn't even really a lie, her parents were always too busy. Either way the teller didn't seem to see anything unusual about depositing the entire $5000 balance into Wilhemina's hand, before politely wishing her a pleasant day.

She had thought she would feel safer with the money in hand, feel like she had more control over the situation. In fact all it did was make her realise how vulnerable she was. How she would never be able to defend herself if someone decided they wanted to take it from her. Maybe her mother had been right, maybe she really was too broken and useless to survive on her own.

She could feel her heart racing. She had to find somewhere to stay. Find somewhere that she could get off the street. Maybe then she would feel safer. Maybe.

Except she didn't know how long she would need to make that $5000 last. She had no job and had effectively forfeited her degree the minute she walked out her parents' front door. Any future prospects she had were tied to their connections anyway. Oh god, what was she going to do? She had no experience and no qualifications, and any jobs that would have been open to her without those were made impossible by her twisted spine. She wouldn't have been able to stand for long enough to finish a shift as a waitress, let alone carry much whilst also maneuvering her cane.

So she would have to make the money last. At least until she managed to come up with a better plan. Which is how she found herself unpacking her meagre possessions into a battered shell of a room in a run down hotel that offered rooms by the hour. As she eased herself down onto the bed, finally allowing her back some respite after hours on her feet, she reasoned that this was the best choice for now. And she would think of something, this was only temporary.

But it hurt. The adrenaline from her triumphant exit earlier that morning was long gone and now she was left with the painful reality of what life on her own would look like. At the moment it consisted of a sea of mismatched floral patterned fabrics, a green melamine kitchenette and far too many questionable stains.

She felt like she was suffocating, that the battered walls with their pealing wallpaper were steadily encroaching on her, squeezing the last ounces of calm and confidence out of her by force. She had to get out, had to keep moving, had to keep busy lest the reality of her situation catch up to her and drown her in its melancholy.

She burst from the room, shaking fingers struggling clumsily against the lock. She had to get away, to be anywhere but here. Away from the stale smelling room with the pealing wallpaper. Away from the lumpy bed swathed in garish floral covers of questionable cleanliness. Away from the suffocating reminder of how alone she was.

It shouldn't have surprised her that she would end up back in the college library, it's where she spent most of her time any way, finding any excuse she could not to go home. It was quiet and it was safe. Between the warm, dim lighting and the earthy smell of the old wooden shelves and the books themselves Wilhemina finally began to calm. She could feel the tension to funnel out of her trembling fingers, feel heart finally stop racing and draw her first real breath in hours.

She didn't know how long she sat there, not really seeing or hearing the world around her, just being, adjusting. Letting her body and mind begin to come to terms with her situation. Start to reset her parameters and realise that she wasn't going home tonight, that there wasn't a home to go anymore. Perhaps there never had been, not in the ways that mattered.

She was drawn from her haze by the gentle but insistent whispering of her name that indicated that this wasn't the first time the owner had tried to rouse her. As her vision cleared she was met with the kind, if not slightly concerned countenance of her adviser, Professor Thompson.

"Is everything alright, Wilhemina?" She could only nod dumbly in response. "I missed you in class this morning" the older woman added. "I know you said had a specialist appointment and might be late, but I got worried when you never showed up. Did everything go ok?" Wilhemina couldn't find the words to answer, couldn't find a way to explain how her life had been pulled out from under her in the preceding few hours. Her mouth guppied in response, producing several sounds that could have been the start of ideas but nothing intelligible.

Professor Thompson's brow furrowed. Over the years that she had known Wilhemina Venable she had always been impressed by her tenacity. For all this young woman had endured, she had refused to let it define her. She was always the first present in class, sitting front and centre, attention never wavering, even on the days Professor Thompson could see the tell tale signs of pain breaking through her indifferent facade. The tension in her brow and jaw, the twitch of her lips and narrowing of her eyes at each spasm, the shifting in her seat in a desperate effort to find some level of comfort. There was a hardness, a determination in the eyes of that girl which said she refused to give up which was notably absent now, replaced by a glazed, foggy expression that made Professor Thompson's heart hurt.

"Wilhemina," she tried again, "would it be easier if we discussed this in my office?" The redhead's eyes rolled up to meet hers almost drunkenly, obviously still not entirely processing the world around her. She managed a small nod, vacant eyes focusing somewhere in the middle distance. "Here, let me take your bag" she offered, hands floating just beyond Wilhemina's shoulders as the redhead hoisted herself to her feet, swaying slightly as she found some semblance of equilibrium.

Professor Thompson couldn't help but bring a hand to gently cup Wilhemina's upper arm, causing the younger woman to finally meet her gaze. Oh and didn't it just break her heart, the pleading terrified desperation she found in those deep brown eyes. "Come on, dear" she coaxed, "this way."

Wilhemina felt herself start to come back into her own body as she sat in Professor Thompson's office, old worn leather chair beneath her and warm cup of sweetened tea pressed into her trembling hands.

Professor Thompson noticed the change as well. "Easy, dear" she cautioned, as Wilhemina's shaking hands tried to raise the warm mug to her lips. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes" Wilhemina managed to rasp.

Professor Thompson reached out her hand to rest on Wilhemina's knee, rubbing slow comforting circles. "Do you think you can me what happened? Was it something at your appointment? Do you need another surgery?"

"No" Wilhemina whispered, teeth worrying her bottom lip before lifting her eyes to the older woman, who's warm gaze encouraged her to continue. "The surgeon doesn't want to do anything, doesn't think it's necessary to do anything. My mother on the other hand is not satisfied and won't be until I look *normal*"

"I'm sure she just wants the best for you" the older woman tried.

"She wants me to stop being an embarrassment. She flat out told the surgeon she doesn't care about my pain, she only wants him to fix how hideous I look." It was happening again, Wilhemina realised, the years of repressed pain and frustration spewing out of her unbidden. "The surgeon stopped recommending procedures when I was eighteen because they weren't likely to help but my mother kept insisting because I looked so hideous she couldn't stand it. She put me through years of pain because I was so ugly and she was so ashamed of me." Her voiced cracked as the tears she had tried so hard contain broke free down her cheeks.

"She was trying to do it again" Wilhemina choked. "She was trying to convince him to operate again and I finally told her no."

"And how did she take that?" Professor Thompson asked, almost fearing the answer. Wilhemina let out a self-depricating laugh through her tears, rolling her eyes. "Wilhemina," she added urgently, gently squeezing her knee to get her attention, "she didn't hurt you, did she?"

Wilhemina stopped at that. "Not physically, no." A beat of understanding passed between the two women before Wilhemina continued. "She threw me out, cut me off, told me I was completely on my own unless I agree to have the surgery. Told me I can kiss my degree goodbye." The older woman gasped. "I told her she could have it, I was done with her controlling my life."

Professor Thompson reached out to take Wilhemina's hands, squeezing them in her own. "That was so incredibly brave." Wilhemina let out a wry chuckle "You don't think I'm completely mad?" Another warm squeeze of her hands. "Absolutely not. I think you are so strong."

Wilhemina raised her eyes again to meet those of her professor, searching them for the signs of a lie. Finding none she felt her chin begin to tremble as she fought against the tears.

She lost. The tears came bubbling out of her against her will. Tears for the years of pain she had endured, both physical and emotional, at her mother's hands. Tears for the little girl who spent years in pain trying to convince her parents that it wasn't all in her head. For her childhood that had been stolen from her. For the little girl alone in a hospital, who's parents were far too busy to visit, who was left to rely on nurses for comfort and support. For the twenty four year old woman who had just lost everything.

She curled in on herself as much as her twisted spine would allow, rocking rhythmically backwards and forwards, trying in vain to offer herself some comfort. She felt the chair next to her dip and then she was being cradled in her advisors arms - how embarassing. But try as she might she couldn't quiet the hysterical sobs.

Eventually pulled herself out of the older womans arms, trying to regain some level of dignity. Professor Thompson gave her hands one last squeeze as she let her go.

"We will find a solution to all of this" she assured "but for now all of that can wait. You need to eat and you need to sleep. You must be exhausted" Wilhemina nodded, still frantically pawing at her tear-stained cheeks. There was no point hiding anymore, not after her earlier display.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?" Professor Thompson asked. "You're welcome to my spare room if not"

"No it's fine" Wilhemina replied, glad to avoid imposing on her professor further. "I have a hotel room."

"Ok I'll drive you" Wilhemina tried valiantly to rebuff Professor Thompson's kindness, but the older woman would not be dissuaded. And once Wilhemina realised how dark it had gotten she was secretly grateful.

As the car came to a stop in front what currently passed for Wilhemina's lodgings, Professor Thompson took her hand once more. "After work tomorrow" she pressed "I am picking you up and you are having dinner with me. It will give us a chance to come up with a plan for what happens next. I refuse to see someone as smart and driven as you are, Wilhemina, be sabotaged by negligent parenting. We will figure this out."

Wilhemina couldn't even bring herself to try and rebuff such kindness, for how her heart ached for it. Instead all she could manage was a watery "okay" and tremulous smile. As she walked back to her room she felt lighter than she had all day, tension finally beginning to drain from her body like water trickling down her arms and plummeting from her fingertips.

Exhaustion quickly rose to fill vacancy making her limbs heavy and fingers clumsy. Almost there, she told herself as she struggled with foreign keychain, not much longer. Just inside the door and then you can rest. But try as she might her exhausted mind could not make sense of the lock nor could it co-ordinate her trembling fingers well enough to keep hold of the keys which fell limply to the concrete just beyond her door.

It was as if the universe was laughing at her, she thought, as she gingerly squatted down, bending her legs to compensate for her immobilised spine. After all the humiliation she had endured today she could not be allowed to rest without at least one more reminder of her inadequacy. So fucking useless, the voice in ear chided, so fucking stupid. Hurry up and pick up the god damn keys and open the door like a normal, functional human being. Can you manage that much at least?

And maybe she could have managed it had the hand she extended to reach for her keys not been firmly crushed into the concrete and pulled away from her by a steal-capped boot, upsetting her precarious equilibrium and sending her sprawling face first into the concrete.

"Now, what's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?"

A/N: Ok, so number one - I'm sorry (ducks). I promise I won't hurt her too much. This part wasn't even in my original plan but then the angsty little plot demons took over and here we are. Number two - for those of you who are interested I wrote Professor Thompson with Prof. Stromwell (Holland's character from legally blonde) in mind because I think she is exactly the type of tough but caring person that baby Mina would be drawn to. But also because I'm dying to see Sarah and Holland work on a project together, so this was my own vicarious little head cannon.

#sarah paulson #wilhemina venable #lucyintheskywithxanax #mina #baby mina

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poorks · 3 years

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Salty Sea-Dog pt. II

Before long it was time for his crew to take off again on a long voyage across the sea. It was estimated to take at least a year to go to the destination and back, and the sailor took some time as the boat set sail to look out into the ocean and mourn the distance between him and his mermaid lover, whom he had begun to develop a small obsession with. He didn’t dare tell anyone about her though, lest she be hunted and captured for some sick man’s amusement.

Though he had been a sailor for years, on this voyage seasickness hit him with intensity. Some of the other sailors had jokingly considered throwing him overboard if he was going to keep vomiting over the edge of the ship. Despite having such a difficult time keeping food down, no one could ignore the increasingly obvious potbelly. Maybe he was just overeating, the sailor thought, but skipping meals only made the nausea worse, and didn’t make his belly any smaller. Quite the contrary, in fact; it seemed to always be getting bigger.

When the nausea finally started to subside, maybe due to adjusting for the voyage, the teasing and ridicule for his appearance finally started to take hold. His belly was beginning to pull at his clothes and be harder to hide, making him a very easy target for a laugh on the open ocean.

He couldn’t begin to explain why he was so horny. It wasn’t unusual for him to occasionally touch himself at night before bed, but it felt almost constant now. He was always thinking about the cocks of his fellow sailors, wondering if they would feel as divine as his enchanting mermaid. As embarrassed as he was by his growing form, at night he would run his hands along the stretching skin and admire his growth. It didn’t feel like fat; his skin was tight and stretching, and rubbing his warm hands up and down felt lovely. He decided to keep doing it when he felt uncomfortable, even while working. Though he had to be careful; too much rubbing was making him hard.

The larger he grew, the more attention he gathered, the more of a target he was for the lonely sailors who needed a night of flesh to fall asleep. The hornier his body made him, the more eager he was to take on the role. They would grab his belly, rub the stretched skin, pretend he was an imaginary wife growing with their firstborn. He relished in the feeling of being filled again, full of cock and dripping with cum. It made him think of his love, though it was never truly as satisfying.

When their destination was finally reached, his walking was reduced to a waddle. He was uncomfortable, but something about the discomfort was deeply exciting. After months at sea with the same men, he felt no more shame in his rapidly growing appearance, and instead began to take some pride in it. Every step earned a huff of breath from him, and instead of carrying any cargo in his condition, he was tasked with going into town to find a place for everyone to drink and wind down.

In town he gathered a lot of attention, mostly in the form of stares. He responded by keeping both hands on his belly, gently rubbing to remind himself of how much joy this transformation has brought him. The stares added to his arousal in himself, and he wondered if he would attract anyone new to fuck him all night.

As he wandered through town he attracted the attention of an old woman, who immediately pulled him aside to inspect his belly. Though the creatures had long disappeared from this place, there were old stories of mermaids coming to land in the guise of pregnant women looking for shelter. Though their true intent was to find young human women to impregnate with their eggs and carry their young. The mermaids would impregnate themselves with men at sea, usually drowning them in the process of insemination, as these mermaids didn’t have men of their own species to reproduce with.

She intended to warn the sailor and urge him to seek help, but with the truth to consider he only grew more excited and aroused. It all made sense; his beloved kept him around long enough to impregnate him, leave him with her eggs to remember her. And he was growing with them magnificently. His hands refused to leave his belly as he continued on his way, licking his lips as he wondered how big he would grow with her healthy children. It was a long way home, and he was determined to not give birth until he returned to her.

That evening, while the rest of the crew was eating and drinking and chatting up local women to bed, he obsessed over the situation he was in. The longer he thought about his tight belly, his growth, the fact that she chose him and saved his life to fill him with her children made his cock stiffen harder and harder. Though, by now he was so large that reaching himself for self-pleasure was nearly impossible. As he slipped away into an inn for the night with a man eager to pound his swollen and pregnant self, he imagined the love of his life, the mermaid, bending him over on the bed while she pumped his impossibly full body with more eggs in an endless cycle. Oh, how he missed her and longed to return to her. And how he dreamed of being the crew’s pregnant and growing cock sleeve the whole voyage home.

#preg #mpreg #preg kink #drabble

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im-the-king-of-the-ocean · 3 years

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The Bitterness of the Earth

Jonmartin Week Day 3: Healing & Recovery // Self Sacrifice

I originally planned for this to be the first in a series of oneshots set in this fantasy au, but things didn’t go quite as planned (I didn’t get the other oneshots written in time for jmart week). So instead I think I’m going to restructure it as a short multi-chapter fic.

Enjoy!

@jonmartinweek

The first lesson Martin learned after transforming for the first time, when his mind was still realizing his body had switched sizes and everything was different and wrong, was never to interfere with the ocean’s whims.

The old sea captain who had changed him looked down upon his flailing form with uncaring eyes and told Martin it is their way. As one of them now, Martin is bound forevermore to follow their laws without question, lest they forsake him to return to his miserable life on shore.

Martin tried to gasp and beg, plead ‘no, no! Of course I’ll follow the rules!’ at that. The thought of returning to where everything ached and hurt and was never ending pain horrified him down to his soul. Neither words nor familiar sounds came out of his mouth, for it was gone completely. Instead, Martin made a gurgled, strained squawk with his new, unfamiliar beak.

Peter Lukas, the old sea captain, chuckled at Martin as if he could understand him. He rubbed a hand across his large, salt-speckled beard, took one final consideration of Martin, and then turned and strolled off into the thick fog that covered the docks.

It took Martin a handful of days, though time blurred together so he’d never be quite sure just how many, to adjust to his albatross form and learn to fly. It took significantly longer for him to gain the confidence to leave the shoreline behind and glide out to sea for the first time. It was almost two years before he realized he could purposefully transform himself from albatross form to human and back again.

It was not something Martin did often.

He kept to his role, gliding out above the waves, always watching, observing, but only swooping down long enough to feed himself when he felt hunger. High amidst the clouds, everything was easier. The world was quiet and calm, unbothered by his presence. Martin found it nice, pleasant, and came to not care how deeply he sank into the feeling.

Eventually, driven by the need to have a place to rest after particularly brutal storms, Martin found a small, isolated island to call his own. He never considered turning it into a home, but he did build a structure and fill it with books and other distractions for the few times when he felt like being human again.

Things progressed for years. Martin’s life remained peaceful, tranquil. Not much changed in the day by day for him. He could never bring himself to care too much.

...

As one unremarkable day dies and an equally uninteresting night begins, thick, dark storm clouds roll across the sky. Not in the mood to deal with the lightning spirits who would surely come out to dance, Martin hunkers down on his island.

He observes as wind whips the few trees and vegetation of his not-home and howls bitter agony. Waves roar and crash, wreaking havoc upon the beach. Thunder bellows. Lightning cracks across the sky in blinding flashes.

The storm reaches its crescendo somewhere in the hours just before dawn. The wind twists and twists. For a moment, Martin fully believes a tornado will form and sweep him off wherever it pleases. With a deafening snap, the sky cracks open. Something falls, tumbling through the funneling wind. With a mighty smack, it plunges into the ocean. Water shoots up and sprays in all directions. Waves roll, and then still.

Slowly, surely, as if nothing of note had happened, the storm subsides. The world calms back into silence. Martin blinks, and ducks his head back inside his shelter. He’ll wait until sunrise to take off again. Best not to tempt the powers that be so soon after they expressed themselves.

When morning comes, and Martin walks across the beach, indulging in the squish of the sand between his toes, he finds himself coming to a startled stop just before the spot where he usually gives up his human form. There’s something there. Someone. Someone with the warm, even breath of the living. A form, unceremoniously dumped by the ocean on dry land, where it naturally belongs.

Martin stares at it, uncertain of what to do. It has been so, so long since he’s come across another person, he doesn’t know how to, what to, should he…?

A muffled groan comes from the person, and an emotion long disused painfully twinges inside Martin. He smothers it back down and, when that doesn’t truly work to rid himself of it, resigns himself to dragging the person to his shelter. He doesn’t care what happens to them, Martin tells himself. He just wants the guilt that will accompany doing nothing to go away.

The person sleeps and sleeps and sleeps and fills Martin’s abode with the rich scent of earth, and life.

…

The first time Jon wakes, it’s in the unexpected way one does when they weren’t expecting to wake at all. Which is to say, he opens his eyes, sucks in a breath, and abruptly feels everything hurting, throbbing, all at once. He groans and tries to bring up one arm to shield his eyes from the too bright sunlight. He’s stopped, and shushed quietly. Calm, cool hands pin him down.

Jon thrashes. His throat is too hoarse to scream, but he won’t, he won’t. Not after everything he did. He stopped Elias—Jonah—whoever. He sacrificed his life. The world is better off for it. But, no. No. If he must live yet, then Jonah doesn’t get to keep him. Have him. Jon struggles, uncaring of the damage he does to himself or whoever’s holding him.

“Be still,” says a tentative voice, unsure of itself, like it’s not used to speaking. “You are very hurt.”

Jon relaxes. It’s not Jonah’s voice, dripping with condescending and self-satisfaction. Regardless of how much his head is swimming right now, Jon is positive Jonah is incapable of sounding so timid. He attempts to speak, to ask who the stranger tending to him is. He only manages a mangled whimper.

A dish is pressed to Jon’s dry lips. A trickle of cool, crisp water runs into his mouth and down his throat. Without hesitation, Jon slurps the water greedily. When he’s drunken all he can tolerate, Jon settles his head back down. He closes his eyes to give them a brief reprieve.

He won’t remember falling asleep until the next time he finds himself waking again.

…

Jon sleeps and wakes and sleeps and wakes in a dizzying cycle he can’t keep track of. Each time he stirs, it’s for a handful of minutes at most. Long enough to gulp down some water or what could possibly be soup broth offered to him. He groans and murmurs what are hopefully intelligible articulations of the questions his feverish brain comes up with; Who are you? Why are you taking care of me? Where are we?

His mysterious caretaker doesn’t offer explanations, only soothing ‘shushes’ that are so soft Jon wonders if he imagined them. The most Jon is able to feel the person’s presence happens late one night, when he’s jostled out of a nightmare into wakefulness. There’s hands on his shoulders. Jon almost screams at the physical contact. The hands immediately vanish.

“You’re alright. It was a bad dream. You’re safe. Nothing will hurt you here.”

Jon gasps. How can I trust you? is the question he wants to ask, but he can’t quite get those words out. He’s not scared of this person. If they wanted to hurt him, they’ve had ample opportunities. The question of trust, though, is something Jon’s not sure he wants an answer for. Not while he’s so vulnerable.

Out of the darkness comes a thick blanket of better quality than any Jon has noted so far during his stay wherever this is. It surrounds, and then swaddles him. No matter how hard he looks, Jon can’t make out more than his caretaker’s moving silhouette. It leans in close to Jon and he hears the words, “Sleep peacefully now,” whispered in his ear.

In the morning, Jon wakes. There’s no sign anyone but himself was ever there.

…

Martin paces across the beach. This is bad. This is very bad. Being around someone for so long feels uncomfortable, like something under his skin is aflame. No matter what he does, he can’t make the sensation go away. He wants it to. He wants to not care. He can’t.

“I just need to get him off the island,” Martin tells himself, while not sounding very convinced. “Then everything can go back to the way it was. Like it never happened.”

Is it technically even interfering if the ocean spat the man out onto the island? Surely, if it was the waves’ will to drown him, the man would have been gulped down long before he could ever reach Martin. Saving his life, therefore, wasn’t actually breaking any rules.

Martin pauses in his pacing, considering. He knows what Peter would say to him now. What Peter would have done in his place. He’s not Peter. Martin squeezes his eyes shut and clenches and unclenches his fists. No matter how hard he tries (and he’s mostly done his best to avoid having to try at all), he cannot bring himself to be cruel, or completely callous.

Martin sighs. He heads back into his shelter. He purposefully looks everywhere but the man he’s been nursing back to health. Martin reasons with himself that, if he is to make a voyage (a true voyage on a boat), he needs to take stock of what supplies he has.

He’s deep into counting what little funds he has and debating how to go about acquiring a boat when he hears a small, but pointed cough. Martin ignores it. He knows how to sail well enough. Once upon a time, he was part of the Tundra’s crew. That’s not the issue. Flying to the coast and acquiring a small dinghy to transport the man is. Martin will have to talk to people.

Maybe he could steal something? Scavenge from a junkyard?

There’s a second pointed cough. This time, it strikes Martin that someone had to have made it. Apprehension sinking in his gut, he turns.

Looking at him, studying him with what could be called a curious expression, is the man. He has warm brown eyes and tangled curly hair matted with sand and sea water. He clears his throat, making a hoarse, rough sound. Habitually, Martin reaches for the fresh water he’s been keeping for his patient and passes it over to him. He watches as the man’s long, spindly fingers tentatively reach out, touch the water gourd, take it, and then lift it to his lips.

It’s hypnotizing to watch the man drink. The way his adam’s apple bobs up and down as he gulps. How he pauses to take a breath and wipe his mouth on the back of a hand. It’s like he’s a beacon radiating warmth and life directly in front of Martin. The longer Martin stares at him, the more the chill that has cloaked him for years dispels.

Martin jumps back. He calls upon Forsaken to wrap him in its cold, comforting embrace. Fog rolls. The man makes a startled noise. Without thinking, Martin calls forth light mists and pushes them forward to shroud the man. He tells the mists to make the man sleep.

Martin exhales with relief when the man’s eyelids flutter and he slumps back down.

…

In the end, Martin leaves the man in an enchanted sleep, flies to the nearest continent, finds a wooden, one-man dinghy on a dock, and leaves a pouch with all the coins in his possession in its place. The sail back to his island takes some time, as he’s unused to traveling without a bird’s eye view, but Martin manages it.

The man’s state is unchanged upon Martin’s return. He slumbers uninterrupted. Martin gazes down at him, wonders at him, and then gently bundles him up in blankets and carries him to the dinghy. It isn’t hard. He’s a small, slight man.

The journey is a peaceful, contemplative one. If he’s being honest, Martin rather enjoys it. It’s been years since he last took the time to sail anywhere.

Reaching shore, however, brings back all his old anxieties and fears in a tidal wave of inescapable emotion. The first moment he sees land, Martin panics. What is he going to do? He can’t just unceremoniously dump the man somewhere. Not after all he’s done to take care of him. He needs to make sure he’s safe. At the very least.

Martin stays out at sea for a few days, floating, uncertain and nervous, until a fog bank rolls in from over the water. Under its comforting, concealing damp, Martin finally approaches the shore. He steps off onto the docks, the man held securely in his arms, and soundlessly walks off to find a hospital.

For three days and nights, Martin watches from windows, in his albatross form, as doctors and nurses tend to his man. He’s there when the enchanted sleep wears off and the man wakes and blearily looks around.

Martin spreads his wings and takes off before he can be noticed.

As he flies away, one of his feathers already loose and on its way out, drifts in through the window and lands on the floor of the man’s room.

The man turns at the movement, slides himself out of bed, pads over, and plucks the feather up between his fingertips. He studies it intently, an unreadable expression on his face.

…

There is a man in Jon’s dreams. One he doesn’t quite recognize, but who feels so very familiar. The man’s hair is the color of sand shifting on a beach. His eyes, the blurred blue-gray where sea and sky meet. His skin is vague, somewhere between seashells and fog. Sometimes Jon thinks his imagination concocted the man all on its own. A fantasy. A personification of the ocean to humanize his own experiences while lost at sea.

It’s a lucky miracle, the doctors and nurses of the hospital where he stays during his recovery tell him, that the dockhand who found him unconscious on his boat discovered him when he did. They feared the worst would have happened if no one had stumbled upon him. Jon silently nods along with their explanations. He doesn’t wish to worry them, or be argumentative over the matter. Even if his memory is hazy in some areas, he knows they wouldn’t understand the full story of what he’s been through. He doesn’t want to drag them into it either.

Jon insists on keeping the albatross feather he found on the floor, despite the doctors protests of cleanliness. He holds it at least once every day. Studies it. It reveals nothing to him. At the same time, he can’t bring himself to discard it. It connects him. To what, he’s not quite sure, but it’s not a connection he wants to lose.

When he’s finally discharged, Jon makes arrangements. He acquires a horse and rides across the land to a city tucked in the mountains. It would have been easier to hire an airship, certainly, but an unease in his stomach prevents him from taking to the skies.

Jon passes through the city until he finds the university it’s famous for. He inquires around and makes his way to an ivy-covered, lopsided but still standing, tower on the edge of the campus some distance from every other structure. Without knocking, he opens its door and walks up its spiral staircase all the way to the office at the top.

“Come in,” speaks a tired voice from the other side as he reaches the final step. “And tell me what you seek.”

Jon does as he’s bid. He walks into the office where books are stacked high against the walls. He places his albatross feather down on the desk in front of the seer, who quirks an eyebrow. Ever so carefully, Jon takes a folded bit of parchment out of his pocket and smoothes it out so the seer, a man with long, unkept black hair can read what it says:

My voice was once stolen. This is how I speak.

and a little below that,

I need your help to find the one who this feather belonged to.

#jonmartinweek2021 #the magnus archives #magnuspod #jonmartin #jmart #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #whirls writing

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asunshinepuff · 3 years

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Secrets of the Darkened Seas

🧜🏻‍♀️ Hello! Welcome to chapter one! This has been a long time coming and I apologize for the wait. Please give a follow to my co-author and best friend Luna ( @ladynightmare913 ) because this story would not be where it’s at without her help!

This chapter features one of my own ocs, and I really hope you like him! As always, a reminder that there is some lore included within this, however it will be explained over time so no worries. There’s no mention of lore for right now.

The Included lore on different types of merfolk will be taken from the book “The Secret World of Mermaids” by Francine Rose. I will not take credit for it’s writing. It’s a childhood book of mine that I adore dearly and sincerely think you should all check out!

Anyways, that’s about it. I hope you enjoy! 🧜🏻‍♀️

Chapter 1: The Tail of Fates

The gulls glided across the scorching sky, the sun beating down on the portmen docking the ships that traveled across the sea. The merry drunken men who stumbled their way out of the taverns filled with jolly music made their way to the docks. Wincing at the harsh rays of sunlight, the sweltering heat and humidity offers no reprieve for the men who indulged in the advantages of liquid courage to disregard their tasks. Merchants bring in goods from the islands that seemed worlds away to a mere boy at the age of fourteen.

The boy had medium-length tawny brown hair, tanned skin from days working out in the sun, and very bright amber-colored eyes which seemed to capture the same essence of the crystalized equivalents of the color. Dressed in a rather modest attire appropriate for his status - consisting of a white long-sleeved shirt, the sleeves were rolled up due to the heat, light brown slacks, and dark brown boots. Around his waist was a light blue scarf, supposedly what he had been found swaddled in when he was just a babe. He could never find the strength to part with it. The guilt overpowered him.

“The beauties of the islands lads, best three days of me life mate.”

“Three days of only looking at the dames.” The sailor snorts a retort as he leans against a pillar on the dock. “They probably ran off in the other direction just at the mere sight of your pathetic self.”

The group of three jolly sailors laughed in merriment as the sailor who was sharing his tale shoved the other two in embarrassment.

The boy had been sweeping the dock nearby the sailors, rolling his eyes at the stories. It was always the same. Seamen making port and bedding the beauties from the mysterious island that he himself has never traversed. Internally, he began counting the seconds till one of the sailors again made mentions of the maidens of the sea, and as always- it took only a count of ten.

“I wager the beauties on that port can’t hold a candle to their maidens of the sea.” A sailor with three scars slashed across his face grinned.

“Oh not this, again,” The first sailor, with a fancy for the beauties, with tattered clothes and blonde hair groaned. “Bloody hell mate, you say that cursed tale every time. The women of the sea, with a fishes tail.”

“Aye, and you’d best heed it.” The sailor with three scars eyes his mates in suspicion. “Lest you never return to land, drowned like a dog and fed to the fishes.”

“No one has seen those monsters for centuries mate. Let it go. It’s nothing but stories to scare sailors, nothing more.”

“No!” The sailor yells. “I’ve seen them! The war didn’t wipe them out. They were the ones who scarred me face! There ain’t anything like it, to hear the songs of those maidens. You try to pull away, to drown it out with your thoughts, but ya can’t. There is no escape, it invades your minds, pulling you to the sea and into their webbed claws!” He grumbles out as he touches his scarred face tenderly. As if the scars were fresh, open with fresh blood spilling.

“You lads wouldn’t stand a chance, I should be at the bottom of the sea, but these maidens be fickle things, they are.” He looks out to the sea, calm waves kissing the shore. “To see one, changes your fate. To hear one’s song, is your doom.”

The boy paused momentarily as he heard the scarred sailor's warning. His thoughts race across his mind before he returns to the present when he’s called.

“Oi boy!” A man from upon the ship called down, leaning overboard. “Come up here lad! There’s a job I need ye to take care of!”

The boy looked up to the adult man, he couldn’t discern fully from this far away the man’s appearance. The high rays of the sun give the wooden docks a shadow of coverage. He was rather reluctant to leave the cool reprieve, however, it would be worse if he neglected his duties of the port, “Be right there.”

Walking upon the loading dock to the deck of the rather large ship, it was difficult to fight the urge to look around in a strange awe, even though it’s appearance is rather haggard and beaten. Although he has spent many a day upon ships for moments at a time since beginning his work a few years back, there was a certain mystery behind each ship that entered the ports of this bustling town. Each ship held a story behind its experiences. Each cannon battle, the waters of the seven seas it has traversed, the storms it has survived possible destruction, treasures it has held and lead its captain’s to discover.

“Yes sir?” The boy looks up to the bulk of an angry looking man whose face always seemed to have a sneer. Even in his sleep. The bulk of a man was dressed in a shirt that looked two sizes too small, and a tattered grey coat that squeezed the man, fitting his frame with strain as his arms were always pulled back. His pants were faded from black to grey, his boots were old and worn. Smelling like a dead rat. His teeth were ghastly to gaze upon, yellow with brown stains, his breath could probably kill a man. His eyes were a beady black like the sharks that swam in the shallow waters, a bald head with black spots. A pity, he must’ve looked worse as a child. As most children do. He glowers at the scrawny boy before he looks away.

“Go search the taverns for this ships’ Captain. We leave at dusk. Blokes probably drunk beyond hell, feeling up the women.” He shakes his head as he waves the boy off with a mere wave of his hand.

With a nod in confirmation, the boy exited the deck and headed off in search of the tavern so that he may find the Captain of the ship, rather grateful to being away from the rather disgusting first mate. If that bulk of a man looked that haggard, he could only imagine the Captain with a shudder at the thought. In the distance, he could see another ship that seemed to be a practical stark contrast. The masts that were open, were as white as the very clouds that floated in the sky, the wooden haul was a rich brown mahogany, the railings were painted gold like the sun. The sailors looked well-groomed, their clothes neat and fitted to their frames.

The boy searched from tavern to tavern, until finally, he came across the Buccaneers' Oyster. With a sigh of exasperation, he opens the doors and enters the busy tavern hoping that this time he had finally found the correct one. The tavern was dark with dim lighting from the candles that were scattered about the establishment. The windows were the only source of natural sunlight that seeped into the tavern that reeked of alcohol and vomit. The sounds of clinking glassware and cheers from sailors echo all around, the soft giggling of women sitting on the laps of the drunkest of seamen. Ignoring the commotion, and his disgust at the reeking smells, he makes his way to the main counter where a man was the barkeep. The wall behind was lined with large kegs and the shelves were lined with clean pints.

“Excuse me. Do you happen to know if Captain Barclay is here?” The boy says, raising his voice over the loud cheering of the sailors in their merriment. The barkeeper doesn’t even spare the boy a glance as he simply points to the back of the tavern where a man was sitting, well more falling off his chair than anything, as he smiled stupidly at a lady.

The captain in question was a tall lanky man with a hooked nose, horrible teeth, a large mole on the side of his neck, tanned skin, and green eyes. His clothes were an absolute mess which could possibly be vomit, or mashed potatoes. The boy was very much hoping for the latter. A white shirt with a red stain, rum possibly, short brown pants, and his shoes seemed to have vanished. Hopefully, the shoes walked away themselves, saving what little dignity they had, and drowned themselves in the sea. The stench dying with them. Or the captain had lost his shoes in a gamble. That seemed more likely.

Taking a deep breath in preparation, he makes his way over to the back of the tavern so that he could finally fetch the man and get out of this place. The man seemed practically worse close up, if that was even possible. “Excuse me? Captain Barclay?” He asks, hoping to gain the drunken Captain’s attention and draw it away from the woman. “I was asked to fetch you by your first mate. And bring you back to your ship.”

The man makes a small noise of acknowledgment as he turns to look at the deck boy. His alcohol glazed eyes look over the small boy before he shrugs him off and turns the lady he had in his lanky finger. “Bugger off boy, the adults are talkin.’” His hand waves him off with the pint of rum that sloshed to the ground in his sluggish gestures. “Now where we?”

“Please sir, let me go. I do not work here. I am merely looking for my fiancé.” A pale soft face young lady pulls her hand to try to free herself from the seaman. Her soft brown curls bouncing as she turns her head to the boy. Her hazel eyes lock eyes with his, her skin pale from her bold green dress. Help me she mouths.

The boy’s eyes widen a small fraction, trying to figure out a way to help the woman out of her predicament. “Captain. I insist.” He repeats, his tone much more firm and without argument.

With a sneer, the lanky captain looked to the boy before he points at the boy with his pint. Standing up, he was two heads taller than the boy. “Listen boy,” he stumbles closer, the pint in his hands dropping what little rum it had to the floor. “I spent six months at sea, I ain’t about to let a lass like this slip past me, now runoff. Before I beat you.”

“You chose quite a profession that allows you to be at sea for months at a time, Captain.” He says, looking up at the man, “Guess there’s sacrifices to make now isn’t there? And if you actually listened with your ears rather than another part of your body, then you would understand that this lady has no interest in you. And is taken.”

“Why you little rat!” The man grips the boy's collar, forgetting the pint, dropping it to the floor, letting the lady go as he raises his fist. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

“You’re really going to punch a child mate? How low can you get?” A voice interjects as a rather handsome young man walks over. The tall young man, around the age of twenty-one, had short tousled red-brown hair, fetching blue eyes, and light tanned skin. Dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt with a light brown vest on top, a burgundy red long buckled coat with bright red accents, dark brown slacks, and black boots. On his left hip, a wide looking sword was sheathed in solid black and red with gold accents.

“Who the bloody hell are you? Bugger off!”

“No one of consequence. Just let him go.”

“Why the hell would I do that, a good beaten ought to teach about being respectful to his elders!” He looks away and aims for a punch.

The man scoffs, “As if you’re worth giving respect. The boy was just doing his job.” He steps forward and grabs the man’s fist in a hard grip as it nears the boy. “If you want respect, then earn it.”

“Why you!” The man drops the boy and turns to punch the man who stopped him from giving the boy a lesson.

The man can’t help but roll his eyes with a sigh, “Oh for Heaven’s sake.” The drunk captain isn’t even able to reach him before he retaliates with a punch of his own, knocking the captain out cold. A satisfied grin falls upon his lips. The lady gasps before she quickly runs off after giving the man a quick thank you. The man turns to the boy.

“Are you alright there boy?”

The boy nods, looking up to the taller man who intervened. Why did he? He cannot help but wonder. Most people would've just ignored the ruckus and not bat an eye. “I’m alright. Thank you, Mr…”

“Sandoval, Quinn Sandoval. But please just call me Quinn.” He smiles down at the boy. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you boy now can I?”

“No, I suppose not.” He replies with a light chuckle, “My name’s Remus. Remus Lupin. It’s nice to meet you, Quinn.”

“Well, Remus, it’s nice to meet you as well.” He looks down to the unconscious captain with an exasperated sigh, lightly kicking his leg. “Best take him back to his ship eh?” He looks at Remus with mirth in his eyes before he walks over to the captain’s head, grabbing ahold one of his arms before pulling him up. “Grab his other arm will you? Let’s take him back to his ship. Although I doubt he will be useful.”

Remus nods quickly before he walks over to the other side, grabbing ahold of the other arm to help hold him up. “Doubt he will as well, to be frank.”

The pair carry the dunkard back to the docks without much strain. Aside from the occasional bump to the head. They walk up to the ship where the first mate sees them approaching, walking down the loading dock.

“What the bloody hell happened to him? I have been waitin’ here for hours boy!” The bulky man marches to Remus. His face red in anger.

“Well rather difficult to track down a man with this many taverns in this town isn’t it?” Quinn says in defense, looking down to the unconscious man before continuing an explanation, “Your Captain got himself plastered and in a tavern fight. I had to help the boy carry him back.” He glances at Remus and gives him a conspiratorial wink.

The first mate begrudgingly orders two men from the crew to take the captain onboard. He looks to the boy with a scowl. “What are ye waitin’ for, get back to work!”

Quinn frowns lightly as he looks to Remus. “You work the docks?”

Remus fights the urge to flinch at the hard scowl under the first mate’s gaze. He looks to Quinn at his question before nodding. “I do.”

Quinn can only nod once slowly in understanding. He looks to the first mate, then to the docks, then to Remus before he smiles. “Well not anymore.”

Remus’ eyes widen as he looks quizzically at the man he had just met. “What?”

“What the bloody hell are you talkin’ about.” The first mate growls out.

Quinn ignores the man as he looks over the young boy. “Tell me honestly Remus, would you rather work the docks for men like him, or come with me to my captain’s ship and actually live your life without regrets.” He looks back to the docks and the wrecked ship the bulky man sent the drunk captain to dock. “I know what I’d chose. And it wouldn’t be a life with little to no rewards.”

Remus looks out to the sea beyond the docked ships, watching the sun’s rays reflect upon the blue waking waters as he contemplates. This man hardly knows him, practically just met him about half an hour ago, and yet he’s offering him a chance to sail? A chance to leave this place? How can someone be this trusting?

He looks back to Quinn with a skeptical look, “Why are you offering me this? You hardly know me. I could be a thief for all you know.”

Quinn smiles. “Because I like you, you have wit and you clearly are a hard worker. I have a good feeling about you.” He looks to the sea. “So, what will it be, Remus? A life of servitude, or a life of freedom?” He looks back to Remus.

Remus cannot help but smile in return, “Freedom.”

#wolstar #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #quinn sandoval #asunshinepuff oc #pirate captian #mermaid #pirate and mermaid au #alcohol cw #cw drinking #cw drunken #secrets of the darkened seas

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faelune-home · 3 years

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FFXIV Write 2021 #27: Benthos

(a/n: Set after 4.1, three different watery focused POV stories across the lands.

Fhara deserves a vacation after all she’s done, although she would insist otherwise in favour of continuing to help; Alphinaud gets some swimming lessons; and Gostestu and Yotsuyu are crossing the Ruby Sea.

Word count: 1154)

She’d been shoved out the door of the Stones, half forced into a swimsuit at Tataru’s hand, and sent off to Costa del Sol. Fhara wanted to argue that she had no time for rest when everything was still so busy in the aftermath of all that had happened - Rhalgr’s Reach no doubt had materials in need of moving to the newly reclaimed city, not to mention the Saltery would need assistance in setting up, even with the East Aldenard Trading Company eager to help due to Lolorito’s odd kindness - but many of her fellow Scions insisted otherwise.

“You have more than earned your rest with all you have helped achieve. Plus all the better to relax now and keep your strength up for whatever will come in the future. We also don’t need you suddenly collapsing on us trying to haul cargo from place to place because you would rather push yourself to your limit,” Y’shtola had insisted amidst Fhara’s own struggles against their lalafellin receptionist.

“And there shall be no buts about it!” Tataru had asserted with a final shove of the warrior toward the door, “I have already called ahead to Costa, and Gegeruju is more than eager to welcome such an esteemed figure to partake of his beaches.”

Fhara wanted to argue further...but upon setting her sights on the golden sands and blue oceans, and the pretty corals glowing beneath the surface, she finally caved. Just for a few short days, she could enjoy herself, right? After all, the worst had passed for Eorzea and the Empire hadn’t stirred yet after losing the crown prince. They had time to spare and recover.

She took off down the decks and leapt into the water, hoping to take full advantage of her Kojin gifts to explore every nook and cranny of the seabed as the sun beat down on the little vacation spot.

“Come on now, back in. You almost had it,” Arenvald said, Alphinaud collapsed at his feet on the shore of the loch, coughing and spluttering.

“Twelve above, I regret this,” the younger lad gasped,the salt water stinging in his eyes and the back of his throat. Arenvald pulled him to his feet.

“You can regret it all you want, but you asked for the help and I’m giving it now. And you ain’t gonna have anywhere better to practise than here. And I know you’re not the type to be giving up when you want to do something, so let’s go!” Despite Arencald’s encouragement, rather than race back to the water, Alphinaud sat down on the water lapped shore with a huff. Arenvald shrugged and joined him.

“I know full well what I asked, but in this moment, I’m almost reconsidering. I’ve managed quite well without the skill for many years now, and I’m sure I can do without for a few more. Besides, Alisaie is quite happy being the preeminent swimmer in the family.” He chose not to mention that even with all her skill, she was now lucky enough to possess the Kojin’s water breathing skill, allowing her more capability under the waves, to his resentment.

“This isn’t about making you the best, it's just about getting you good enough. And just ‘cause you’ve been alright till now doesn’t mean much. What about the future after all, anything could happen!” Arenvald stated, earning him a raised eyebrow in return.

“Such as?”

“Well, who knows? What if you end up on the bad end of some watery creature set to drown you out, or somehow have to swim out of the deep oceans?”

Alphinaud couldn’t help but shake his head at the suggestion. “No offense my friend, but that first idea sounds more like something you’d expect from a children’s story. A touch too fanciful I would say.”

“Maybe, but you never know, there could be other things out there like that kelpie Fhara said she ran into down in Skalla’s ruins.” Rather than continue on about fae tales, Alphinaud looked to the sky, bemoaning that the sun was still high above them. There was still plenty of day left, and he had no other plans.

“Thaliak, give me strength,” he muttered, using his friend’s shoulder to boost himself back to his feet. Arenvald bolted up after him, a keen glimmer in his eye.

“Very well, let’s continue. Let’s at least end the day with some progress made,” Alphinaud said, trying to ignore the way his legs shook as he approached the water again.

Most of his lessons that day were spent spluttering and flailing through attempts to gain any traction in the water, as he turned his mind to wondering how much work would be needed to get the scent of salt out of his clothes after all of this was done.

“And here we part sir, any further to Doma, you will have to make your own way,” the boat owner said, casting another wary glance at the oddly familiar woman accompanying the great roagadyn, as she nibbled away at a stick of dango. Gosetsu shielded his eyes as he watch the horizon, biting back the scowl at how far away Othard’s shores yet lay from their position. He managed to offer a friendly nod to their courier.

“My thanks good sir, for bringing us all this way on what little coin we had,” he said, knowing most of it would no doubt not even go to the man’s own pocket, but more likely to pay the tithe should the Confederates find the sailor. Gosetsu could only hope the pirates would be more focused on the dinghy than themselves, allowing them a clear passage to Yanxia without any interruption.

As though aware of the thoughts crossing the samurai’s mind, the sailor replied simply, “I did what I could. You are the Confederate’s worry now.” And with that, he pushed away from the pier with his oar, quickly paddling away and back toward Kugane.

Gosetsu’s scowl came out in force at that, enough that Yotsuyu saw it when he turned to walk along the shore.

“How are we going to get across now? I don’t know if I could swim,” she asked innocently.

“Bah, we’ll think of something,” he assured her quickly, “Come, let us not dawdle lest we be caught by the fishes when night falls.” The woman gawped in surprise, rushing to catch up, although at his tired pace, she didn’t have much distance to cover. They would just have to walk as much as they could and then hope for a miracle when they eventually needed to cross water.

Gosetsu had heard from the Scions of the Kojin blessing they’d received, allowing them to traverse the seas without need to break the surface for breath. He could only hope that they could be so lucky during their travels to come across the skill for themselves. Twould make their work so much easier.

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2021 #my writing #keeper of the moon miqo'te #my wol #fhara laali #y'shtola rhul #tataru taru #alphinaud leveilleur #arenvald lentinus #gosetsu daito #yotsuyu goe brutus #stormblood #FFXIV #Final Fantasy XIV

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atortoiseinimladris · 3 years

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Lashing Waters

Summary; In which Elrond acknowledges the power of the sea as akin to his own strength when in weakness.

“Elrond commanded it. The river of this valley is under his power, and it will rise in anger when he has great need.”

Elrond was unwell. He knew it to be true, for he could feel the encasing hold of pale-green sickness like stinging nettles twining with his veins. The throbbing pain of their touch lingered upon his brow and he shied away from their hold; unconsciously flinching when a healer laid a hand atop his forehead and rustled the thorny leaves against him in burning agony. There was a tumultuous sea within his stomach, restless as it consumed his lifeless form and lashed out in mighty waves which departed his lips into a porcelain basin that rested at his bedside.

“I do not understand; he was fine two days ago…”

“Much can happen in the course of a day.”

“He needs help. He will die if this continues.”

The night was still, but for the oceans restless thrashing. Elrond thought he recognised the sorrowed voice, but it was so very distant; its own despondency far overshadowed by the weeping of the waters within him as they whispered their leaden burdens into his ears, aging his soul by six thousand years not yet passed. A hand brushed against his own, but it was ablaze with clawing fire and his heart yearned only for the chill of winter, the bitter ice caressing the wrath of the waves into a cradling embrace akin to the rocking of a cradle. The fire cowered away from him as he flinched.

“Please. You must help him.”

Such was the command that was given; that Elrond be aided in his recovery and at every worsening of his condition prevented from entering the shadow world to which he drew ever closer to succumbing to. Wise and knowledgeable healers renowned for their greatness were summoned to his sick bed, masters of lore flickering hastily between books in search of answers for the illness which had taken him so very unpredictably; he had been laughingly indulging in a late luncheon before he collapsed. Yet no answers could any of those great folk provide, as Elrond’s condition worsened with every passing hour and the shadows overcast his ailing form with foreboding clouds of darkening grey. Though Elrond was too weak to utter words of condolence- let alone to move his deteriorating body- the weeping of the High King still rang within his ears; tears of love and brotherhood lost brushing against his dreamscape as his friend’s hope dwindled. He heard them, but they meant to him naught; the raucous of the oceans was louder and more destroying, tugging at the hems of his tunic so that he may become submerged beneath their depths.

Eventually- though Elrond knew not how long he had tarried before the doors of death- a single word of advice was found between the flourishing hand of a long deceased Valinorean healer.

“The waters shall heal.” proclaimed the parchment. Though it revealed no further council, the archaic text was all that they had and as such arrangements were made for Elrond to be taken from his bed and to a nearby stream which was murmured in folk’s tales to have healing qualities beyond description. A swift horseman would take him, they said. Elrond had lingered upon the borders of consciousness as he heard the High King, his dearest of friends, vehemently assert his right to take Elrond himself to the stream; no other was fit for the role.

Elrond knew better. No other would be more distraught to see him leave.

For three days they had ridden in haste as the storm within him lurched and crashed against his skin and consciousness; he was given water to drink, to soothe his aches, but it only gave more to the infuriated seas that billowed as though alight within him. Distressed, he cried out in his sleep; the moonlight pitied him and tried to guide him away from the shores but he would not depart, for he was the centre of the storm and the oceans encompassed him, ebbing from his stomach to fill the shadowy void. Each time a hand was laid upon his brow to comfort him and each time he turned away from it in agony.

At some point they ceased their journeying. Elrond was bundled up with ivory shawls and layed down upon the soft grasses as they tickled against his forehead with the evening breeze. He had not the strength to contain the water for any longer and it had begun to brim his eyes and dampen his cheeks as the hazy sunlight touched against his face. His mind was filled with vast, sorrowed oceans, yet now there was something else flickering within his mind; as though the curtains had been drawn to reveal the filtered light of the morning. A myriad of pale blue hued his vision as the lashings of the ocean seemed to fade temporarily into the background of his thoughts.

Ho now, Elrond, you weep but for what purpose! The sun is without but it storms within, I take it.

The spirit's voice was kind but Elrond wavered before its presence; the waters terrified him, had always brought naught but loss to him, and he knew that when this being left he would be at their mercy once more.

No no Elrond, you are mistaken; I would not leave you to drown! But what now makes you think that you would be submerged beneath the seas that encompass you at all, hm? The waters are not enemies, lest you would make an enemy of yourself!

The being spoke in riddles that Elrond’s fatigued mind could not comprehend- though not for lack of trying. He made to convey some form of delicate response, but there were footsteps fast approaching as another voice joined with that of the river-spirit.

“Do not touch him, fiend!” The newcomer roared.

Your friend names me your enemy now Elrond, ha! The spirit whispered within his mind before addressing the other with spoken words:

“Do you both find foes where there are none? It would seem so!”

“Elrond is unwell; why do you speak to him like you have conversed?”

“But we have! Come now; I know your purpose and of this ghastly sickness. Do you wish to see Elrond restored to his former vigour or nay?”

“Of course I do.” Elrond felt trembling hands adjust his shawl as his friend knelt at his side and made to lift him once more, ceasing to do such as another hand pressed him gently to the ground.

“There are foul creatures yonder; you would be leaving Elrond at their disposal. Do you truly believe that you possess the ability to fight whilst cradling your poorly friend to your chest?”

“He must receive the water. He must heal.”

The dispute between the two faded away into mere whisperings of the wind as a sudden, foreboding dread quenched Elrond’s heart and irked the sea within him once more into grief-stricken thrashings of anger. The waves glittered steel as the melody of swords being drawn drifted over the horizon. The river-spirit’s presence still lingered at the edges of the storm and Elrond felt indescribably safe despite the storming oceans.

Cries of vexation laced together with his vision as a battle began around him; there was a hand made of fire upon his arm and it burnt and stung like nettles thrown into a furnace and brought against his chilled skin. Yet there was an almighty storm within Elrond now and he understood at long last its purpose; not to harm, but to defend him. A furious descension of hail and waves was tearing at his heart and crashing against his skin, for suddenly he was the waters which encompassed him: powerful, infallible and knowledgeable beyond the count of years. He was water, but he would not fall.

The flames cowered away from the lashing thunders which he summoned to him now, the oceans of despair which he had long borne drawing themselves up from where they lay about him and whipping at those who would seek to weaken their Lord with the unquenchable force of a thousand armies of righteous warriors wronged by evil. Elrond lay still, but the storm he himself had conjured crashed and thundered with a rage never before seen as the orcs fled before the awful shrieking of the winds and the harrowing cries of the tempest sea. As the rivers thrashed, the earth shook and hail descended the skies until his foes were gone and could no longer bring about hurt to his weakened form. The High King came to Elrond then, kneeling before him amidst the waters and brushing a hand against his face; his touch was no longer ablaze, for the fires had witnessed Elrond’s wrath and bowed down low before his fea, beholding his power.

“The water rose for him.” His friend’s words were that of incredulousness, but to Elrond there was nothing at all questionable about his power. He was a descendant of the Ainur and he held within himself a storm that could make even the most hardened of foes fall to their knees. That did not bode well for those who would seek to undermine the strength of his will. He needed no weapon; the waters were his sword.

“The river answered it's summons, as a faithful subject does. You came seeking the aid of the water to use in healing, but you were mistaken. There is no greater power than the water, it is true, but you forget whom you behold before you now.”

The spirit turned its formless gaze towards Elrond, leaves rustling against his ebony hair.

“The water shall heal, which it has. But Elrond has not merely been healed by the liquid for which you sought after. Elrond is the water.”

It was unquestionably true, for though Elrond lay still and diminished by sickness he did not drown nor wake as his tunic dampened and his ebony hair ascended the waves which had borne him upon their surface.

He was water. That power to him alone was granted, for he alone had lost so much to the tide; so much so that his identity had become entwined with its very depths.

From that day forth, the oceans never ceased to obey Elrond’s every command.

#elrond #silmarillion #lord elrond #fanfiction #lord of the rings #elrond half-elven #writing #my writing #mine

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leenukeath · 3 years

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The essential cannot be seen (Darkest Dungeon fic)

So @sir-crypts recently published an illustration (here: https://sir-crypts.tumblr.com/post/636062084110680064/thing-i-drew-for-leenukeaths-fic-of-abomleper) of an Abomination/Leper fic I wrote for a discord server, I figured I’d share the story, set in the Darkest Dungeon game. Thanks again Sir Crypts for the lovely art.

The Essential cannot be seen Abom/Leper friendship (more?) fic by Leenu

He hated this.

Trudging his way through the murky brine of the cove, Baldwin did his best to keep his gaze forward lest it slipped to the loathsome companion in his back. He was supposed to be accompanied originally by Reynauld, but he (and the highwayman) had disappeared a few days ago and were nowhere to be found when the Heir had called them to formation. Which left him with the following company: a plague doctor, Paracelsus, eyeing with what seemed like curiosity whatever moved or crawled around them, an Occultist, Alhazred who kept his hand closer to his dagger than usual and … the thing that called itself Bigby.

Baldwin wanted nothing more than to leave this Abomination in the Hamlet and go alone, but since the fall of the crystal from the sky, the Heir had forced him and his companions to take the wretched creature with them on the crawls through the dungeon. And thus, the Leper was saddled with the rattling of chains behind his back. His eyes may have been focused on the way ahead, but his ears were listening and making sure no growl was coming from Bigby.

They had been tasked with clearing a sector of the cove, so far the battles had been manageable: the plague doctor’s grenades had done miracles against the pelagic creatures, and despite a few open wounds, the Occultist had kept everyone in one piece. The Abomination had decided to keep its tamed form, throwing his chains around and spewing bile over the enemies that the Leper happened to miss.

Then in the last room, the tune changed: a Squiffy Ghast started plucking on its rotting viola, sending bars upon bars of Maddening Shanties and Off Kilter Jigs.

Baldwin tried his best to hit the slippery skeleton, but whenever he hit, the things always seemed to jump back out of his reach. If only this creature had been the only enemy faced, the team would have cut it down with little combined effort, but it was accompanied by a Pelagic Guardian and an Uca Major. The latter one swinging its pincers with deadly precision, opening great wounds that drenched the seafloor with dark stains. The doctor was too busy stitching the team back together to throw any grenades, and the Occultist himself was struggling to replenish their blood levels, it was thus left to Baldwin and Bigby to carve their way through.

While the leper kept hitting the thick carapace of the Uca, the Abomination once more spewed his toxic bile over it and the Guardian, slowly dissolving their armor, too slowly however.

Another hit connected and the Occultist fell, his hand desperately clutched the skull in his hand to keep the flame from getting blown away as he begged: “This was not the deal we struck!”. Baldwin set himself up in a defensive stance to try and stop any more attacks from hitting Alhazred while Paracelsus fumbled with her vials when he felt something rush past him in a roar as it struck the beast.

The red creature pulled its horns out of the fleshy mass under the crustacean’s carapace it had dug itself in before starting to gnaw off its pincer, ripping it out after a few seconds of inhuman screeches. The Uca expired as it’s claw bled lymph all over the coral walls, and in response, the Guardian set down its shield over the Ghast. It hadn’t stopped playing for a second. Notes, bars, tunes, symphonies, … it had been playing the sounds of madness, and the team could feel their minds slipping into the abyss as the air brought forth ancient memories they wished were forgotten.

Bigby was the first one to snap.

The Ghast’s rotten fingers slid its bow over the algae covered cords, producing more of that unbearable sound, more of that noise that dragged painful memories with it...

The Abomination had started to lunge to take a bite out the skeleton, but his legs gave under him as he gripped his shaking head. Baldwin braced himself to defend the rest of the team from the new foe, ready to cut it down as soon as it bared its fangs in his direction. But to his surprise, Bigby started to shrink down until only his scrawny form was left on the briny floor: “It feeds off my essence, and now … I falter” he muttered as his trembles rattled his chains in a sick accompaniment to the squeaks of the damned viola.

The Leper himself was feeling his resolve falter, he could grab his human companions and run, leave these beasts to themselves and save the ones who were not yet damned in the Light. The Guardian started making its move and raised its bladed fist over the hunched Bigby, one strike would be enough, and all that Baldwin needed to do to rid the world of this creature was to hold back…

The viola’s notes rang, and his mind caved in.

The slimy head of the Pelagic Guardian split under the weight of the massive sword in the bandaged hands of the Leper as he pushed the Abomination back to his teammates:

“Mountains defy the consuming sea!”.

After pulling out the heavy blade from its fishy sheathe, Baldwin proceeded to wildly swing around wherever he could see the Ghast, he wasn’t counting his swings anymore, all he wanted was to crush those cords and find again the respite of silence.

Until he realized that he could not hear the viola anymore over his screams. As his vision cleared, he found himself surrounded in wood and bone splinters, the rush of blood roaring in his ears calmed down until he could hear Paracelsus and Alhazred stabilizing the shivering Bigby.

Over, finally, some silence.

The Leper was too glad to finally be granted this peace of mind, but it was short lived. The team made its way back through the murky paths, carrying themselves as well as possible, but it was clear the Occultist would not be able to guide the Abomination for much longer with his wounds. Thus it was Baldwin’s duty to hold Bigby on their way out of the damp tunnels.

He was not enjoying this, keeping this creature in such close proximity, but at least he could maintain an eye on it. Bigby was clearly not focused on the walk and tripped over nearly every single piece of coral on the way out, after a few near falls, he started holding onto the Leper’s bandaged arm, like a drowning man holding onto a piece of wreckage in a storm.

At first Baldwin considered pulling back and letting the damn thing find its way out by itself, but something stilled his hand. A warmth had seeped into his arm, a familiar feeling he had not experienced for years before … before his illness turned him into the feared creature he was now, forced to hide under the heavy bronze mask. As he felt the finger, human fingers, curling over his bandaged skin, he had a vague memory of fonder times, when the sun shone and he could feel the caress of the rays over his face, when he still had a family with his name…

He didn’t shake off the Abomination on their way back home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back at the Hamlet, the team dropped off their loot in the vault and went their ways. Paracelsus was eager to analyze the samples she had gathered from the cove, Bigby ran out of view and Alhazred had to get stitches at the sanatorium, accompanied by Baldwin who needed his weekly injection. He didn’t know how it worked, but it was enough to keep his disease stalled, though not enough to cure him.

After dropping off the Occultist, the Leper was left to his own device. He noticed that his hand was still slightly trembling, and it was not because of the needle that had been implanted earlier. The ghost of the tune still sang in the back of his mind, and he needed to get it out.

He took the steps to the Abbey and cracked open the door, he expected the Vestal tending to the sacred fire, or the Flagellant in his rapturous devotion. Not the huddled and chained being bowing to the altar, furiously praying: “The world would be better off without us. The world would be better off without us. The world would be better off without us.”

Baldwin knew this feeling too well, it was something that needed peace of mind before the Light would grant him relief. The Leper went to sit himself in a corner of the church, lighting some incense, closing his eyes and focusing on his breath: In … Out … In … Out …

His heart was a war drum no more, just a slow tap reminding him that he was still alive.

In … Out … In … Out …

The tip of the fingers on his right hand had started to go numb a few days ago, and his eyesight was turning blurrier, this was probably why he couldn’t hit the Ghast at first back then. He had come to terms with his illness, he had no choice but to do so and accept that mortality would probably not come in a glorious strike, but in a slow loss of his senses as he decayed away.

In … Out … In … Out …

What had hurt most was the banishment, it was his choice, but he knew that if he didn’t do it himself, that choice would have ended up being taken for him. All who suffered like he were treated as outcasts, for the good of the people. But he had seen the colonies filled with the ones less fortunate than he, they were treated no better than monsters, he felt a twinge of regret toward his brothers and sisters in adversity.

In … In .. Out … Out.. In … In .. Out … Out..

Baldwin opened his eyes and saw Bigby, no longer shaking in front of the Altar, instead looking up to the Light, calmly breathing out his prayers of hope. Their gazes crossed for a few seconds of mutual acknowledgment before they went back to their respective communions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few weeks later, the two of them were sent together once more, this time in the Warrens to slay the Swine King. The Leper noticed that he was feeling less nervous with Bigby in his back, the rattle of his chains were a soothing sound over the squeals of the swine men roaming about these caves, and those very chains served well in combat to stun and slow down the enemy to let Baldwin push his sword into the enemy. The Vestal Junia was clearly still feeling nervous; but he figured that his presence alongside Milicent, the Arbalest, was aiding her in keeping her nerves calm enough to keep the torchlight up and their wounds closed.

Of course things were never easy for very long, especially when a Swinetaur decides to show itself. The squad set itself in position to face the massive enemy, but what they failed to notice were the two Swine Slashers lurking in the beast’s shadow. Only when the Arbalest fired her Rallying Flare did they find out too late. Baldwin did his best to try and let the first hook hit his plated armor, but was too late to dodge the swipe of the second one. The slash went upwards, leaving a mark upon his chin and hooking off his mask that went flying off into the piles of refuse, leaving his deformed face in view to the rest of the group. He didn’t need to look to feel his companion’s fearful gazes in his back.

More sword swings, more bolts, more prayers and a pair of horns put an end to the repulsive creatures. But at the cost of multiple open cuts that risked infection in the squalid conditions of the Warrens. Milicent suggested camping so she could dress up the worst of the wounds, a welcome respite, especially with all the food in their packs.

As the Vestal set down her sanctuary for the night, Baldwin noticed that Bigby had walked away, maybe to avoid distracting the nun during her important duty, he did not consider this situation much longer as Milicent had started unpacking her bandages and stitching needles. She was keeping her head down as she worked on him, averting her gaze from his face.

He could not blame her for it, but he had to admit that the waft of air on his face had an intoxicating feel after hours upon hours of treading through hot and humid tunnels. Though he was almost grateful for his lack of nose when he looked at the piles of filth surrounding them.

Speaking of those, as soon as the Leper was done getting patched up, Bigby walked out from one of them and approached him with something in his hand: “I don’t think you need to wear it, but if it makes you feel better, you can keep it.”. His bronze mask, still slightly stained with what looked like pig blood, but it seemed like the Abomination had tried to clean it the best he could with the rags on his back.

“... you went to look for it?” asked Baldwin as he took the piece of metal with slightly trembling hands, Bigby nodded: “I understand if you want to hide yourself. I just want you to know that … well, I don’t mind you taking it off.”.

Pulling back the few chains that had slipped off his shoulder, the scrawny man was about to walk away before the Leper spoke up as he grabbed a loaf of bread: “Won’t you stay by my side for supper?” he asked as he broke it in halves, offering one to his companion.

His answer was a small but grateful smile as Bigby sat himself next to Baldwin: “Thank you for this”.

The night in the Warrens felt less cold to the both of them with a shoulder to lean on.

Whatever happened with the Swine King, they were grateful for this moment.

#darkest dungeon #Leper #Abomination #ficlet

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haberdashing · 4 years

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The Archivists

Elsewhere University’s Archivist meets The Magnus Archives’ Archivist.

on AO3

The Archivist was inside their office, the door cracked open, when they heard nearby footsteps and rushed outside to take a closer look.

The man prowling the Library’s stacks was not from here, that much was evident from his wide eyes and the confusion crested upon his brow. If the Archivist had to choose one word to describe the man, it would be dark. Dark hair, dark clothes, dark eyes with dark bags underneath them, dark skin covered in dark scars. So unlike the Archivist, whose form (such as it was) was translucent to the eye, light and color refusing to cling to them any more than was needed to provide a bare outline of themself.

The Archivist didn’t concern themself with the man at first, though they did watch his meandering out of idle curiosity. That sort of thing was better left to the Pages, after all. One of their number would find him in time, they were sure of it.

But before that could happen, before the man was no longer visible in the library stacks that stretched and stretched and stretched, the Archivist heard a high, cheery voice call out “Archivist!”

The Archivist, naturally, turned their head to follow the sound, in order to spy who was calling them, who wanted their attention and perhaps their assistance.

They were a little surprised to find that the strange man wandering the Library turned his head to do the same, their movements nearly synchronized as the both of them looked over at the new visitor.

The Archivist recognized the speaker before long as she approached. It wasn’t the first time Timber had come to the Archivist, likely with another trinket to trade away--and sure enough, as Timber grew closer, the Archivist could see that her hands were cupped, that she must be hiding something within them. The Archivist wasn’t sure where she got all of her little charms--some seemed handmade, but others were more likely the product of other trades with beings likely to be less benign than themself.

Not their business, though. They were there to be a resource, to trade and give to those in need and to tell stories of those who came before, not to lecture those who either already knew or already should know the danger they were putting themselves in.

As Timber met the Archivist, she opened her cupped hands to reveal what looked to be a paper flower, well-made but otherwise unexceptional.

Of course, the Archivist knew well enough that looks can be deceiving.

“I come bearing a charm to trade you, Archivist!” Timber said.

The Archivist merely raised an eyebrow; that much seemed evident enough already, but some people do insist upon following their internal scripts just the same, and this wasn’t the first time that Timber had proven to be one of that ilk.

“It may appear to be a rose made of ordinary notebook paper, but its form is firm and unyielding as stone.” Timber demonstrated by poking and prodding the flower repeatedly in a way that would crinkle or rip ordinary paper, but left the paper flower unharmed. “And if you smell it-” Timber took a deep, theatrical breath in through her nose, then held the flower up so that the Archivist could do the same. “-it always smells of a filled cranberry bog just before harvest.”

The Archivist nodded, a thin smile appearing on their face. “A fascinating charm, though I fear whoever made it may earn the ire of the Courts for so commingling their blessings. I know just what to trade for this, one moment...”

A quick pop into and back out of their office, and the paper flower was safely stored away, with the Archivist holding out a thick red pen in exchange.

“For paper, a pen. The indigo ink of this pen flows of its own accord, and it will only ever write exactly what its current owner needs it to.” Timber eagerly extended their hands, and as the Archivist handed over the pen, they added, “Do note that need and want are often very different things indeed.”

“Of course, of course.” Timber said, though her tone wasn’t a terribly solemn one, and the Archivist was less than convinced that she had actually taken their warning to heart. “I do appreciate the trade, Archivist.”

“As do I.” The Archivist responded, adding a slight nod of the head as Timber bounced back towards the building’s entrance.

Truth be told, the Archivist had almost entirely forgotten about the strange visitor to the Library during the course of their exchange with Timber, and they were thus more than a bit startled when the man, who had apparently been standing in place watching them the entire time, asked, “What is this place?”

There was a certain urgency to his question, one that could be found not in its volume nor its tone but in something else entirely, something that made the Archivist’s speech rise up before they could think their words through.

“The Library of Elsewhere University, though further in than most students will ever wander.” And they recognized what had happened, knew the stranger’s trick for what it was at least broadly, so they added, a bit curtly, “And for what it’s worth, my tongue will flow freely enough without your assistance in the matter.”

“I’m sorry.” The man said. To his credit, he looked like he meant it, looked like he truly did regret invoking whatever magic that had been, the picture of contriteness. He also looked scared, though, scared of the Archivist of all things, like their meager semblance of a body was going to lash out at him any second, like a half-being like them could strike real physical harm.

“Apology accepted, no debt owed. And do be careful about handing out apologies so easily; some on these grounds would not dismiss a potential debt so easily.”

“...sure. Thank you.”

“I’d avoid thanking people as well if I were you. ‘Please’ is also a dicey one, for the record. But I suppose you’re not accustomed to the Rules, now, are you?”

“I don’t even know which rules you’re referring to... I’m not from around here.” The man let out a bitter laugh as he added, “Really not from around here, from what I can tell.”

“I gathered that much already; the Library does have a way of picking up strays from time to time.”

“Strays.” The man laughed again, shaking his head as he did so. “Interesting term for it.”

The Archivist shrugged noncommittally.

“So you’re an archivist, then?”

That strange, unnatural urgency from before wasn’t present this time around, and the Archivist hesitated before they answered, weighing their options carefully. They knew well enough that their title was growing perilously close to a Name as their time in the Library dragged on, but... but the man had already heard Timber refer to them as such, could put the pieces together easily enough even if they tried to skirt the question, and even if their title was nearly a Name at this point, it was unlikely that he would know how to do harm with it.

“I’m the Archivist, yes. That’s been my role here for some time now.”

“The Archivist?” The man shot the Archivist a weak smile. “Funny, people call me that too. And not-people, sometimes. It gets annoying, really, I do have a name-”

“Best keep that to yourself, then.”

“What?”

“Names are valuable property, here. Better not give them out to any who ask.”

The man nodded, starting to speak with a “tha-” before stopping himself and taking a breath before restarting. “Alright. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The Archivist looked at the man again. He’d said he, too, was called the Archivist? Well, they had received a few inquiries clearly intended for another with that title, heard a few stories not about them but about another who shares their role... and as they gazed upon this man, upon the scars that criss-crossed his skin, upon his eyes that shone with an unnatural gleam, the Archivist began to put together some of the pieces.

“Other Archivist.” The man met their gaze, then, and oh, there was fire in his eyes, a sign of something burning deep within. “I may have heard your story before. Or pieces of it, at any rate.”

“Oh?” The man raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“You are the Archivist from across the multiverse and across the pond, the one who watches and is watched in turn, the one who Knows too much and yet too little. Is that right?”

The other Archivist let out a laugh as dark as the rest of him. “That does seem to sum things up pretty well. Though... do you always speak like you’re telling a riddle?”

His eyes lit up, and some of that unnatural urgency was back, but it went away with a glare and a curt “Often, yes.”

“I didn’t mean to, I’m s-”

The Archivist cut him off before he could make another unnecessary apology. “Words are valuable here, too. Loose lips sink ships, or so they say. One should be either very specific or very vague in speech, lest the wrong thing slip out, and many here, yours truly included, find the latter to be easier and safer than the former.”

“I... I think I understand. Sort of. Isn’t this-” He paused. “This place has a strange sense of logic, I suppose.”

The Archivist shot the man a tight smile. “Between your appearance in the Library and what I already knew of your story, I suspect that you might well be able to say the same about the place you call home.”

“You’re not wrong.” His laugh sounded a little less bitter this time, a little more genuine, but there was a hunger behind his eyes. “You already know the big picture of who I am, it seems. I- I would appreciate it if I could learn the same about you.”

The Archivist’s smile widened. He was learning.

“I was human, once, long ago, lifetimes ago. I was a sailor, back them, and I drowned upon the Unsea.”

The other Archivist silently mouthed the term “Unsea” shortly after the Archivist used the term. Not a familiar one, then? Not a huge surprise; the world of the other Archivist sounded like an unfamiliar one indeed, and it was only fitting that their world would be equally unfamiliar to him.

“Fog rolled in on the Sargasso Sea, and none of us knew what it presaged. Drowning on the Unsea was like drowning on a true sea, but also like nothing you can know. It was like nothing. I washed up on the Unsea’s shores, and I was preserved, such as I am now. But much was lost along the way. Much of myself was lost. I freed myself, I sought shelter within the Library, I became the Archivist of this place.” The Archivist paused for a moment before adding, “Such is my story, or at least the grand outline of it.”

A minute or two passed where the only sound to be heard was that of the man’s breathing, neither especially shallow nor especially heavy for a human, or one claiming to be so.

“You were human, you were drawn into something much bigger than you knew, and becoming Archivist was both a gain and a loss, a role to be played in a strange new world...” The man shot the Archivist a wry smile. “I think the two of us have more in common than merely our titles.”

The Archivist tilted their head to one side and pondered this for a long moment. “Perhaps.”

“Much as I appreciate meeting you, though, I really should be getting back. There are people that need me back home.” Another bitter laugh. “Or that need an Archivist, at least.”

“Go back the way you came, then. The Library is vast indeed, but searching enough will lead back to where you started. If you need more detailed instruction than that, I can try to hunt down a Page for you.”

“No, no, that should do just fine, th- I appreciate it.”

As the man turned to head back into the depths of the Library, he waved and called out behind him, “Goodbye, Archivist.”

The Archivist nodded, a smile on their face, as they echoed, “Goodbye, Archivist.”

#elsewhere university #elsewhere u #tma #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing

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sasorikigai · 3 years

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If you had three wishes that come true without consequences - what would you wish for? @ Scorpion!

If...Questions || @somniaxperdita || always accepting!

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Finding positivity in something as dark and moribund as death is perhaps the biggest inspiration a human being can achieve. Hanzo Hasashi never feared death; he fears wasting a life for nothing, and as Scorpion, he had wasted enough of it to know that he breathes regrets and remorse. He harbors heavy heart, a heavier black tar of soul encased around it. How the undead wraith grows centuries old by every year lost of Hanzo Hasashi’s stifled silence. He divulged too much of his wounds on a sanguine-bearing Sea of Blood, where the Shirai Ryu ninja’s lost and relinquished will, conscious, discipline, and honor. His entirety still viciously writhes in sweeping paroxysm when he thinks himself being rendered to become Quan Chi’s loyal lapdog, without the proverbiality of Hanzo Hasashi’s whole.

He still has moments of waking up greasy and warm, sweat clinging to him like the bedsheets he so desperately grasped the night before. Scorpion’s mourning of Harumi Hasashi will continue as long as he takes a living breath. For everywhere he looks, he finds a melancholic beauty, with somber glance in every face he sees. The purified flames may light a scintillating spark for better tomorrow, hoping the dusk will recall her lost soul to come back home; in the dilapidated fragments of his kintsugi heart as the smoldering silence will feed Scorpion’s maelstrom emotions to continue to ravage his being in a monstrous devouring.

“I would gather all the crimson petal tears flowing downhill from the ravaged mangle of Harumi’s body and make her whole, as a living, breathing being in the cradle of my heart as I will embrace her in all eternity,” his love is absolute, and even when the world becomes an excruciating chisel that will erode his being at all cost, Scorpion will continue to hold her in the most exemplary form of a steeled rose. Even when the arbitrary blackness gallops in to make him depressed, as he shuts his eyes and all the world drops dead, he will seek her out; death and beyond. “I would also like to watch Satoshi conquer his own monstrous demons, lest he he bends and breaks, struggles beneath the tides of his own hate-fueled vengeance, but I know that if he would mature and grow into a fine Shirai Ryu of his own, he will surpass my own feats and achievements. He will even become the youngest Grandmaster ever in the history of Shirai Ryu, narrowly beating my own age. He deserves much more than I could ever bestow upon him. For the splended radiance of his life had been unjustly eradicated without the pursuit of happiness, as he drowned in an empty hollowness instead...” There is deathly silence, as Scorpion’s glinting fire reflects the shrapnel of Satoshi’s tender, shattered bones beneath the absolute merciless of the winter’s despair.

“In our synchronicity, the Shirai Ryu and I have suffered beneath the scorching inferno of all-destructive nether. I would also like to revive them, for I could not bear to be eternally wounded by my own understanding of love. They are more than the extension of my family, for I have vowed to bleed willingly and joyfully as their Grandmaster, to wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving in solemn duty and responsibility, to rest at the noon hour and meditate the splendor of its space, to return home at eventide with gratitude. Their presence means more than a world to me. All the elders, warriors solemnly dedicated themselves to protect and serve, and all the apprentices and children looking up to their respective caretakers in imitation and reverence. All amounts to exquisite contentment, as I have been extremely lucky to live in wonder and ensorcellment.”

Such arising vehement passion in his voice thickens, as the gushing magmatic fervency suffocates his heart, its pieces already scattered and ripped apart with the insurmountable loss. The depths of his loneliness, despair, and sinking guilt become the triad that will perpetuate his heartstrings, as the beaten exterior of his being, as fevered heat suffocates beneath his mask. A tsunami of emotions that he had futilely tried to keep in reigns but how they backlash in their vicious violence. Nothing could be held as prisoners for far too long, for the renegade of his intrinsic qualities will always overcome as the haunting scream of his hopelessness becomes roaring and soaring column of hellfire, as his graveled, harrowing scream spills like volcanic eruption, as he oozes magmatic inferno from every orifice. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#✗ obsessive cathartic (headcanon)#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ hellfire fibrillating beneath his skin (iv)#(mortal kombat legends; scorpion’s revenge)#(obvious question to obvious answers lol)#(I couldn't think of anything else when it comes to Scorpion)#(literally they're all in his head)#(Harumi. Satoshi. The Shirai Ryu. and in order)#(IT'S NOT THE SHIRAI RYU PRIDE. IT'S YOUR WIFE AND SON)#somniaxperdita

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reading-while-queer · 4 years

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Hi, I was wondering if you could recommend any LGBT fantasy that isn’t based in a highschool? Thanks

Hi! Thanks for sending in this question, I would be glad to!

Books I recommend: Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo (Review) Ensemble cast of criminals pull off a heist in a magical original setting, during the rise of a fascist regime. YA.

With Roses in Their Hair by Ennis Bashe (Review) (Read Here) Lesbian retelling of Tam Lin in a fantasy/dystopian setting. Adult short story.

Peter Darling by Austin Chant (Review) A trans and gay reimagining of Peter Pan. Adult.

Quoria by Calhoun Crimin (Read Here) An early 20th century-inspired fantasy setting starring a con man-turned-detective who gets in way over his head solving magical crimes. YA appropriate.

Amberlough Dossier by Lara Elena Donnelly (Review) Speculative rather than strictly fantasy (it takes place in a non-magical original 30s-inspired setting), the series is about spies and revolutionaries facing the rise of fascism. Adult.

Heartwood ed. Joamette Gil (Review) A collection of non-binary comics from various authors, all with fae inspiration. YA appropriate.

Huntress by Malinda Lo (Review) Two girls must go on a journey to the city of the fairy queen to restore the balance of nature. YA.

Nimona by Noelle Stevenson (Review) A fantasy comic about a shapeshifter, and the villainous Lord Blackheart she works for. YA appropriate.

Taproot by Keezy Young (Review) A gardener who can see ghosts gets involved with something bigger when his ghost friends find themselves transported to a creepy forest on another plane of existence. YA appropriate.

Books I’m excited about (but haven’t read): Cinderella is Dead by Kalynn Bayron (Goodreads) It’s 200 years after Cinderella found her prince, but the fairy tale is over. Teen girls are now required to appear at the Annual Ball, where the men of the kingdom select wives based on a girl’s display of finery. If a suitable match is not found, the girls not chosen are never heard from again. Sixteen-year-old Sophia would much rather marry Erin, her childhood best friend, than parade in front of suitors. At the ball, Sophia makes the desperate decision to flee, and finds herself hiding in Cinderella’s mausoleum. There, she meets Constance, the last known descendant of Cinderella and her step sisters. Together they vow to bring down the king once and for all–and in the process, they learn that there’s more to Cinderella’s story than they ever knew… YA. (Blurb from Goodreads)

Stealing Thunder by Alina Boyden (Goodreads) By night, Razia Khan is one of the most sought-after dancing girls in the desert city of Bikampur. Later in the night, she is its most elusive thief. When Razia finds herself dancing for the maharaja's son, the handsome prince Arjun, she knows that she's playing with fire. As a trans girl, known as a hijra, she can never be a wife to any man, and as the former crown prince of the Sultanate of Nizam, she guards her identity carefully, lest her father's assassins find her. But in the dragon-riding prince of Bikampur, Razia sees not just a ticket out of the gutter, but a kindred spirit. (Quoted from NoveList)

Once & Future by Amy Rose Capetta (Goodreads) When Ari crash-lands on Old Earth and pulls a magic sword from its ancient resting place, she is revealed to be the newest reincarnation of King Arthur. Then she meets Merlin, who has aged backward over the centuries into a teenager, and together they must break the curse that keeps Arthur coming back. YA. (Quoted from Goodreads)

Of Fire and Stars by Audrey Coulthurst (Goodreads) Betrothed since childhood to the prince of Mynaria, Princess Dennaleia has always known what her future holds. Her marriage will seal the alliance between Mynaria and her homeland, protecting her people from other hostile lands. But Denna has a secret. She possesses an Affinity for fire—a dangerous gift for the future queen of a kingdom where magic is forbidden. YA. (Quoted from Goodreads)

Pet by Akweke Emezi (Goodreads) In a near-future society that claims to have gotten rid of all monstrous people, a creature emerges from a painting seventeen-year-old Jam's mother created, a hunter from another world seeking a real-life monster. YA. (quoted from NoveList)

Spellhacker by M.K. England (Goodreads) Magic was a natural resource until a corporation used a magical earthquake as an excuse to make magic a controlled substance - and an outrageously expensive one. Diz and her friends run an illegal magic-siphoning operation, and are about to pull their last heist. YA. (Paraphrased from Goodreads)

Black Leopard, Red Wolf by Marlon James (Goodreads) A mix of fantasy and African history and myth. Tracker is sent to track down a boy who disappeared three years ago, and must break his rule of working alone, joined by a shapeshifting man/leopard, and other strange characters. Adult. (paraphrased from Goodreads).

The City We Became by N. K. Jemison (Goodreads) An evil stirs in the underbelly of NYC, threatening to destroy the city and her 6 avatars. Adult. (paraphrased from NoveList)

The House in the Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune (Goodreads) Linus Baker leads a quiet, solitary life. At forty, he lives in a tiny house with a devious cat and his old records. As a Case Worker at the Department in Charge Of Magical Youth, he spends his days overseeing the well-being of children in government-sanctioned orphanages. Adult. (Quoted from Goodreads)

Ash by Malinda Lo (Goodreads) In this variation on the Cinderella story, Ash grows up believing in the fairy realm that the king and his philosophers have sought to suppress, until one day she must choose between a handsome fairy cursed to love her and the King's Huntress whom she loves. YA. (Quoted from NoveList)

Girls of Paper and Fire by Natasha Ngan (Goodreads) Each year, eight beautiful girls are chosen as Paper Girls to serve the king. It's the highest honor they could hope for...and the most demeaning. This year, there's a ninth. And instead of paper, she's made of fire. YA. (Quoted from Goodreads)

Shark by Kevaughn Ryder (Goodreads) Silver Shark, youngest of the royal family of Near Shallows, has been having strange dreams for many nights. He barely remembers them, except for a handsome man with a beautiful smile.On his first trip to the surface, Shark is horrified to discover that the man is human; a creature feared and hated by those of his underwater kingdom. In his confusion, Shark commits unspeakable treachery: he saves this human from drowning. Age range unknown. (Quoted from Ryderworlds.wordpress.com)

Everfair by Nisi Shawl (Goodreads) Everfair is a wonderful Neo-Victorian alternate history novel that explores the question of what might have come of Belgium's disastrous colonization of the Congo if the native populations had learned about steam technology a bit earlier. Fabian Socialists from Great Britian join forces with African-American missionaries to purchase land from the Belgian Congo's "owner," King Leopold II. This land, named Everfair, is set aside as a safe haven, an imaginary Utopia for native populations of the Congo as well as escaped slaves returning from America and other places where African natives were being mistreated. Adult. (Blurb from Goodreads).

The Deep & Dark Blue by Niki Smith (Goodreads) After a terrible political coup usurps their noble house, Hawke and Grayson flee to stay alive and assume new identities, Hanna and Grayce. Desperation and chance lead them to the Communion of Blue, an order of magical women who spin the threads of reality to their will. Middle Grade. (Quoted from Goodreads)

The Deep by Rivers Solomon (Goodreads) Yetu holds the memories for her people—water-dwelling descendants of pregnant African slave women thrown overboard by slave owners—who live idyllic lives in the deep. Their past, too traumatic to be remembered regularly, is forgotten by everyone, save one—the historian. This demanding role has been bestowed on Yetu. Adult. (Quoted from Goodreads)

Crier's War by Nina Varela (Goodreads) After the War of Kinds ravaged the kingdom of Rabu, the Automae, Designed to be the playthings of royals, took over the estates of their owners and bent the human race to their will. YA. (Quoted from Goodreads)

A Taste of Honey by Kai Ashante Wilson (Goodreads) After meeting a handsome Dalucan soldier, Aqib bmg Sadiqi, a fourth cousin to the royal family and son of the Master of Beasts, struggles with his family's expectations and the love he feels for Lucrio. Adult. (Blurb from NoveList).

#asks only #miscalculated-obsessions #fantasy

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