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intimidating-fettuccine · 10 months

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okay, I think this would finally end the series right?

Could I request Kate and Nina with a reader who is dying in their arms?

This does end the series! We've got all of the creeps with a dying partner now :) I would say I'd do a platonic sibling one for Sally, but quite honestly that's a bit too much angst for even me and I don't think she needs that level of trauma.

Thank you to everyone that sent in requests to get this series written!

Kate:

She can't hear anything. The blood flowing through her body as her heart relentlessly pounds away in fear and confusion overtakes her as all she can hear is her heart hammering away in her ears. She feels as though she's going to pass out, until she feels your hand tenderly grasp her face, her eyes overflowing with tears looking down at you. Her face scrunches up immediately at the look of sheer adoration and love you give her, and she starts wailing out above you as she clutches onto you and holds you tight. Kate has always been the one that gets scared the easiest in the mansion. The dark, crowds of people, loud noises, such common things that most could handle so easily, but she'd always melt into anxiety and fear around them, although her biggest fear over the last few years had changed. It had changed into losing you. Now, here she was, weeping like an infant as she clutched onto your weakening body, living out her biggest fear in real time. She could feel your arms wrapping around her, feel your soothing kisses on her temple, but all she could do was hold you and shake and cry, unsure of what to do or how to help you. Eventually, you calm her down enough to look at you again, and you speak to her, and while she can hear you, her brain is just so foggy it's almost hard to process the things you're saying. 'It'll be okay. You'll make it out of here safe, and you'll come back for me. I want you to be happy, for both of us. I love you.' She shakes her head in denial as she presses emotional kisses to your lips, clinging onto you as you cling to her too. When your grip goes weaker and your lips pressing into hers get less force, she just holds you, rocking back and forth as she tells you how much she loves you and how much she'll miss you. She tries to stay calm now for you, but once that small, broken smile blooms on your lips and your last breath pushes out, that's all she needs to break down in screams again. She doesn't care if someone hears or sees her, she doesn't care about anything anymore. What is there to care about, when the one single shining light in her life has now been extinguished?

Nina:

Everybody knew Nina was capable. She had risen to the top of Zalgo's ranks within a couple of years of being hired by him, proving herself to be a determined leader, one that cared for her fellow teammates and always looked out for them, one that was incredibly skilled and efficient in all of her missions, one that never left anybody behind. That's why, with all of her might, she tries. She tries to carry you, with her own incredibly bruised and battered body, to carry you home. If she wasn't injured she could do it, she tells herself, so she has to force herself to do it now, however, despite her best efforts, she collapses once more, turning to cradle your body so it's her that hits the ground and not you. She's tired. There were more enemies than expected, and the two of you had been taken by surprise. She tried her best to stay close to you, but in a moment of distraction and a shift of focus, you'd taken a deadly blow to the abdomen, one that sent her into a rage as she took out all remaining targets. She had checked on you afterward, and despite trying to hold out hope, she knew the two of you wouldn't make it home, at least not both alive. She had tried to contact someone for help, for backup, but without realizing it her communicator had been broken at some point in the battle. She had been so focused on you that she hadn't even noticed her tears, her sobs, her choked breaths shaking her body, her weakness, she hadn't noticed it until she heard your voice telling her it would be okay. Nina was known for being the happy one, but beneath that happiness was a bitter, unending sadness. She had her family taken from her, and now she was losing you, the most important thing in her life. How cruel. She could tell your end was coming, so she got you both comfortable, and she just held you. You both confessed your final feelings, reminisced about your relationship and your would-have-been future, you cried, you kissed, you held each other, and then... Nina was left alone, all by herself, to cry and mourn another heavy loss, all over again.

#creepypasta #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta x reader #kate the chaser #kate the chaser headcanon #kate the chaser headcanons #kate the chaser x reader #nina the killer #nina the killer x reader #nina the killer headcanons #nina the killer headcanon

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the-fo0l · 1 year

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Heya! How's your day going? Good I hope! ^^

Anygay (🏳️‍🌈), I was wondering if I could request a kidnapped reader. Like somehow someone was stupid yet also smart enough to break in and just yoinked reader up? How long would it take 47 to know and how long until he retrieves reader? Would he be merciless or would he spare a few people? Like there are bound to be a few people who don't know what's going on. Would he spare them or are they...expendable?

(Also sorry for the reader being able to turn into a cat request idk wtf I was thinking. Seriously I can't apologize enough. Dude my 11-year-old self fucking possessed me and forced me to write that one I sweeeeaaarrr- 😭😭😭😭 [again really sorry it won't happen again unless this request is also too out of the box then pls feel free to ignore it. 🫠] anygay Imma go die in a hole sorry for bothering you again-)

47 rescuing his darling hcs

Notes: whaatt nooo please don't apologize, i just had absolutely no inspiration/motivation/life, I feel so bad😭 hope you like these headcanons, had a lot of fun writing them

Warnings: violence, 47 goes crazy, also he's really emotional which may feel out of character but it's how I see him being

47s heart began to pound frantically when he received news of your abduction. The thought of one of his old enemies daring to use you against him sent waves of unbridled fury through his veins.

He goes about retrieving you with a steely resolve, his mind already calculating every move necessary to bring you back to safety.

He allows the heat of his anger to fuel him, driving him forward with a single-minded purpose- saving you.

He digs into every availableresource, gathering information on your whereabouts and meticulously scrutinizing every detail of your kidnappers operation.

They will pay for what they had done, every last one of them.

His normally calm demeanor begins to crack. Anxiety gnawing at his heart, the mere thought of you being hurt tearing him up inside.

Yet, with a calm determination, he quickly packs his gear and leaves; he will get you back, that is now priority number one, above all else.

Everyone he perceives to get in his way is considered expandable

And whoever is responsible for taking you better hope that every single hair on your head is unharmed, cause that's the only chance they have of a somewhat quick death

47s instincts run wild as he fights his way to you. His entire life has been about killing, it's what he was made for after all. But for the first time, it's not just about finishing a job, it's personal.

Honestly, they never stood a chance, and were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of 47s onslaught.

47 moved with deadly precision, his eyes fixated on his goal. You had been taken from him, and he would stop at nothing to get you back.

One by one, he'll take out those who stood in his way. His movements fluid and efficient, without any hesitation.

He moved quickly down a dimly lit corridor, his senses on high alert. He could feel your captors presence, the subtle rustling of fabric, and the faint sound of faint breathing.

As he approached the door, he paused for a moment, steeling himself for the fight ahead. This was where you were being held.

Your kidnappers were fools to think they were ready for him, for 47 has never been more ruthless or determined.

After the last one of them dropped, a shaky breath caught 47s attention. He looked back and found you huddled into the corner of the room, your eyes wide as you gazed at the corpses around you, and 47, standing there with obsession in his eyes.

47 felt a pang of regret and sadness seeing you so shaken. He rushed over to you, pulling you into his arms, softly whispering reassurances to you until you calmed down.

You were safe in his arms once again, only now could he himself begin to relax. You were safe, that was all that mattered.

Looking down at you, he knew that he would do anything to keep you safe, to protect you from all harm. Nothing would ever take you away from him ever again, nothing.

Btw, you're not gonna be left alone for a while, and Diana isn't getting him to go to work either, 47's taking his first vacation.

#agent 47 x reader #yandere agent 47 x reader #yandere hitman #yandere agent 47 #hitman x reader #yandere headcanons

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rockingrobin69 · 7 months

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Wip Snip

Thanks for the tag (from ages ago), @orange-peony and @littlewinnow! I'm completely and thoroughly taken by my new Victorian era AU. Here's a snip of young nobleman Draco being a brat, and poor stable boy Harry finding it hilarious until... well.

It started raining, a light and yet insistent drizzle. Jumping off the saddle when the stables were in sight, hurrying to get Isolde back and—clashed quite bodily into something warm, and fell, with a great thud, straight in a puddle.

Draco was too stunned for words for a long moment. His assailant came closer with a horrified gasp, and a hand wiggled in front of his nose, presumably to help him up. It was brown and calloused and Draco saw red.

“You,” he murmured, pushing up to his elbows, “you brainless, gormless idiot, look what you’ve—ah!” to discovering his entire sleeve drenched in mud.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said in a weird tone.

From between his teeth: “Sorry?” Draco got up to his feet. He sort of towered above him like that, when Harry’s knees were slightly bent and Draco was dripping. “You’re sorry?”

“So—” his bottom lip disappeared between his teeth. “So sorry. My lord. Can I help you—”

“Help,” Draco said to the heavens. “He wants to help. Have you any idea how expensive these clothes you’ve just ruined are?”

Harry stared at him wide-eyed for a moment. “You ran into me,” he said.

“I ran into—” he only realised he grabbed Harry’s collar a moment after doing so. “You—you—and look at my horse!” for Isolde too had suffered from the splash, and now her side was covered in grime.

“Would you like me to apologise to it again,” Harry said, and the corners of his mouth twitched.

Draco blinked. “You think this is funny?” he asked, in a tone that managed to convey the deepest disbelief while being deadly icy. “You think. This is. Funny?” shaking him with every syllable. There was spittle on Harry’s face, and still he was only barely concealing the laugh.

“Not at all, my lord.”

Draco was so outraged he nearly started laughing too. Or shouting, perhaps that would be easier and more efficient. “You utter imbecile,” shaking him worse, “I will have you—I’ll have you—”

“Please don’t fire him, milord,” Mr. Hagrid’s voice came from the stables. The rain kept hitting Draco’s face in tiny droplets. “He didn’t mean it, whatever he said.”

“What he said?” Draco gasped. He wasn’t entirely certain he had the power to fire anyone, anyway, but there was no point in relaying that. On the bright side, Harry wasn’t laughing anymore, and now looked at least a little apprehensive.

“Harry’s a bit slow, milord. Nothing too serious, but he can sometimes say or do things that might, ah, cause a touch of grief to someone as cultured as y’rself, and, please, milord, he didn’t mean it.”

The serious tone did make him pause. Mr. Hagrid wasn’t one for meaningless chatter, and besides, Draco was willing to grant him leave to far greater extent than most other people. Still, to look over such slight—to himself, to his clothing, and to Isolde—with a gasp as the sky above darkened a degree: “Dinner! I must—it would start soon, and I’m all—all—” running a hand through his matted hair. “I’m ruined,” he said, in a voice nearing tears.

“No, not at all, milord, look—why don’t you go back to the house and take a nice, quick bath. I find matters always feel mighty better after a bath, don’t you?”

But there was no time. “There’s no—” Draco stopped, shook his head, lost and irritated with the way Harry just kept standing there, not at all horrified or at the very least repentant. “You,” he spat.

Harry came closer. “My lord?”

“You’ll pay for this,” Draco promised coldly.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I will make you suffer.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The evenness to his tone unnerved Draco so completely that he nearly squealed. “Are you listening? Mark my words, you’ll rue this day!”

“Yes, my lord, I’ll rue it forever.”

He was impossible. Draco, out of time and out of his mind, just grabbed the infuriating man by both shoulders and threw him down in the puddle, to stare blankly at his feet like a fish pulled out of the water.

“Milord!” Mr. Hagrid ran forward, stopping only a pace away. Granted he had a very long stride. “Harry, are—milord, was that truly necessary?”

The rebuke was harmless, but the disappointed look Draco did not deserve. “He was mocking me!” came out sounding far too childish, but there was no time to fix any mistake made. Harry stayed down in the mud, blinking long dark lashes like he was too stunned for words, and something not unlike anger moved on his brow, which he swallowed down.

After a long, long moment, in a dull voice: “Forgive me, my lord. I did not intend it.”

“See?” Mr. Hagrid pleaded. “The boy didn’t mean it. All’s well, then?”

The shriek that got out of him: “No!” gesturing wildly, “All is certainly not well! I am filthy, with no time to change for dinner, my mare is soaked through, and this blithering idiot is laughing at me like this is—like—” why did anything coming out of his mouth sound so petty and impossibly small. “Never mind, I’ve no time for this. Have my horse cleaned and taken care of, please, Mr. Hagrid. And make sure to punish this oaf for getting in my way.”

“Will do, milord, will do,” with his natural severity and good-humour, and Draco truly had no time to dawdle. With a last look at Harry in the mud, far less satisfying than he’d hoped, he dashed indoors and suffered a hair-splitting lecture from his maid, who was too old and too scary to punish.

(If it makes you feel any better, Draco will pay for this 😈🙃)

#drarry fic #wip snip #Robin does the thing #Victorian AU #Honourable Draco Malfoy (the future Earl of Wiltshire)#mysterious stable boy Harry #Mr. Hagrid as the stable master #'Mr. Hagrid was Draco’s childhood nemesis before he learned how to ride'#and of course the most important character: Isolde the perfect horse

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radioactivepeasant · 1 year

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Surprise: Free Day Thursday Part Three!

Part One, Part Two

Yes, it's all out of order. But honestly that's kind of by design. See, I've got this idea of the story opening with Samos delivering a prologue, as he usually does. It's very much a statement by an unreliable narrator. And then you'd see what was happening in Spargus and think "wait, this doesn't match up". And then it would go back and forth between game stuff and how Jak got to the Wasteland.

So first Samos would provide a recap of Jak II. Then he'd say something like,

"But, sensing the weakness of our defenses, a ruthless warlord appeared from the Wastes. The dreaded Dune-Wolf, as efficient as he is deadly. He made only one demand: "Give up the Dark Warrior, or we will tear your city apart, beginning with this man we caught scouting around our camp."

But the man was the leader of the city militia, the right hand man of the governor herself. What choice did that leave us? With an innocent man's life in the balance -- to say nothing of the city -- Jak had no alternative but to accept the Dune-Wolf's terms. On the day of the exchange, the governor slipped a dagger into Jak's boot, where the Wastelanders would not find it, so that at least he would not be helpless. It has been many months now since that fateful day, but I have faith that Jak will gather his strength and escape that barren desert, to return to us once more."

And then it would cut to Spargus:

Daxter clung to the exterior of the tower, finding handholds no human would ever have been capable of. Swiftly and quietly, he scaled the rain-slick wall to slide through a window too narrow for most. Once inside, he shook water from his fur and beckoned to the figure crouched by the wall.

"Coast is clear, Jak." Daxter gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. "We'll have to climb down clockwise to avoid the guards, but then it's a straight shot to the elevator."

"Nice work." Jak held out a fist to bump against Daxter's.

He pulled his goggles down over his face and gripped the edges of the sill.

"This is it, Dax. We're getting out of here."

With a crackle, dark eco washed over his body, radiating from the lichtenberg patterns across his chest and arms. Jak's dark form didn't care about whether a space was "too small". He could fit anywhere as long as he could get his head through. With a scrape and a few very unsettling pops, he squeezed out of the window and dug his claws into the wall. Daxter slid out after him and dropped to his shoulder. Then the escape was underway.

Humans were not supposed to be able to cling to vertical surfaces like lizards. But then, Jak had never really been one for obeying conventional ideas of what humans were supposed to be able to do. He crept down the tower, following the clockwise path Daxter pointed out to him. After about two more levels, the walls would become sheer metal, and they would run out of handholds. They would have to switch to indoors then -- provided Jak's dark eco didn't run out and cause them to fall to their deaths.

The window in the pump room had been left open. This would have been suspiciously convenient in most cases, but the rain brought cooler air, and open windows were to be found all across the city to take advantage of it. Jak shimmied in through the foot-wide space and hopped lightly down over pipes and gears. They would have to be careful here: one wrong move could damage the water filtration system and cause problems for a lot of innocent people. Jak eased up beside the open doorway and craned his neck to check the hall.

Perfect.

Taking advantage of the pump room's noise to drown out his grunt of pain, Jak let the dark eco subside, drawing it back into his core.

"Alright Dax, which way?" he whispered.

"Left. Er, my left- not yours. Stick to the ceiling when we get to the hall with the monks. After that it's just two antechambers to the way out."

Moving from room to room in almost complete silence, they met no resistance. Of course, they'd long since learned to avoid the traps hidden under the engraved floor tiles, and Jak put the ease of their journey down to experience.

Daxter wasn't so sure. Something felt...off.

The elevator -- the only true exit from the fortified tower -- sat at the edge of a carefully maintained indoor oasis. It had the rare quality of being both beautiful and strangely threatening -- like Tess, Daxter sometimes joked. Much of this was due to the vast dais sitting opposite the lift. Two braziers fastened to rough stone pillars provided the only illumination that didn't come from the window behind the dais, and what natural light there was had to filter through dozens of small date palms. Between the trees and huge carving set behind the throne, there were far too many shadowy places for an enemy to hide.

Jak was going to take full advantage of that.

Hopping from rock to rock, he deftly avoided the streams to make it to the wooden frame of the simple moving platform. He would have to be quick: pulling back the lever to call the platform up was going to make a lot of noise. The second the bar around the lever locked into place with a loud clank, Jak grabbed Daxter and darted into the shadows between two palms to hide in case someone came to investigate.

He had scarcely turned around when he realized someone was already standing where he had just been. How had he missed them?!

Broad shoulders, heavy bracers, otherwise slight build. This wouldn't be an easy fight if it was who Jak suspected it was. But they were the last obstacle between Jak and freedom, and he'd come too far to back down now.

The person turned as Jak left the trees, and firelight caught on glimmering shards of Precursor metal, set into his skull.

Ah. Of course.

"Dune-Wolf," Jak greeted the warrior casually.

"Escapee," the Dune-Wolf returned.

"Can't keep me here forever, Dune-Wolf," Jak challenged, stepping in a careful circle around the man.

"It's the middle of the storm season, of course I can," the warlord scoffed.

Daxter shook out his arms and took a ready stance at Jak's side. "Better hope you locked the front gate, pal, because we're outta here!"

King Damas raised a brow, and the corner of his mouth twitched up. "Are you now? I wouldn't be so sure of that."

He shifted one foot back, and raised his staff. "You will not set one foot past me."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Jak retorted, and he charged.

The faint sting of old bruises reminded him to jump -- Damas liked sweeping his opponents' legs out from under them -- and he used his momentum to sail over the staff and land to the king's left. His feet had barely made contact with the floor before Damas’s own momentum caught up to him. Damas followed his swing through by pivoting and catching Jak across the midsection with the staff. Jak flew backwards into one of the streams with the wind knocked out of him.

Daxter ducked the staff with a screech and actually leaped up onto it. He clung for dear life while Damas paused in an attempt to shake him off before shrugging and picking him up by the scruff of the neck. Jak surged out of the water like a sea monster to grasp the staff and try to pull it from Damas’s hands. Forced to choose which opponent to focus on, Damas released Daxter just in time for Jak to finally wrest the staff from his fingers and toss it across the room.

"Nice try," Jak panted, and dug in his heels as the two matched grips.

For a moment, neither gave way, but ultimately, Damas had the advantage of size.

He shifted stance for one instant and swept Jak's feet out from under him. Jak landed hard, and before he could get his elbows under him, a hand came down on the back of his neck, anchoring him in place. Jak froze, well accustomed by now to the irritating consequences of failure. Damas crouched beside him, and when Jak strained his eyes to get a look at the king, he was smirking.

"Nice try," he echoed. He let go and stood back to let Jak sit up. "I told you, you can't get past me."

Jak bent slightly to catch his breath, begrudgingly admitting defeat. But then he grinned and pointed past Damas.

"Then who's in the elevator?"

Damas whirled to see Daxter, waving at him from inside. Going for the staff had been a ploy: Jak had never intended to win the fight.

"Got past you this time, Dune-Wolf. A deal's a deal," Daxter crowed.

Jak mirrored his cocky grin.

"We got past you, so you have to let me take my last Arena trial before winter."

Damas grumbled good-naturedly and shook his head. "Why did I ever let you talk me into that?"

He leaned down and pulled Jak to his feet in a single motion.

"I probably should have specified that you both had to get past me. That's on me."

"Buuut," Jak pointed out, "you didn't specify. C'mon, Dune-Wolf, pay up."

"Don't call me Dune-Wolf," Damas sighed -- for the umpteenth time -- "enemies call me Dune-Wolf. Soldiers call me Dune-Wolf. You don't."

Jak flashed a cheeky grin at him. "Sure, sure, Damas."

Daxter could have sworn the warlord's eye twitched just a little.

"Alright, now you're just being impudent." Damas tweaked Jak’s ear. "It's either father, or dad to you."

Jak batted his hand away and rolled his eyes. "Man, I haven't had a father in twelve years! I'm not used to being someone's kid!"

It was truly a mark of progress that Damas didn’t respond to statement with a dampening of his mood, or a wince. Instead, he wrestled Jak into a playful headlock and scrubbed his knuckles across the boy’s scalp.

"Yeah? Well you live here, so you better start getting used to it!"

Jak snorted and tried to break free, but admittedly he was at an awkward angle and Damas did still have a height advantage.

"Ack! Leggo!"

"What? Put you upside down, you said?" Damas teased.

It wasn't an idle threat, that was how the last spar had ended.

"Okay okay!" Jak laughed and smacked Damas’s arm. "I yield! Let up, Dad!"

Damas eased his grip immediately, slackening the hold into a loose arm around Jak’s shoulders. "You did good, cub," he said warmly, "You're ready for the last trial."

"Told you we were!" Daxter chirped. "C'mon Jak, the sooner you get your zoomies out on the Playground of Death, the sooner we get to vote!"

"Aht! Breakfast first!"

Damas shifted one heel, and the next thing Daxter knew a foot had come out of nowhere to scoop him out of the elevator and up into the air. Jak caught him with a truncated curse and fumbled to set him on his shoulders.

"But we already ate!" He protested.

"We ate six raisins and a roll," Daxter tattled, "Lead the way, Mr. The Dad."

#part three #jak and daxter #jak and daxter au #prisoner exchange au #free day thursday #surprise free day thursday #dadmas #king damas #dadmas fluff #this is what bonding time looks like for the House of Mar #and yes i ABSOLUTELY stole the whole first scene from Raya and the Last Dragon and I Am Not Sorry #everyone in Haven: we sold him out! poor Jak is probably being forced to fight as a gladiator for those Wastelanders!#everyone in Spargus: Damas can you please make your kid take a break from the gladiatorial arena we're running out of metalheads #Damas: its this or give him unsupervised access to the vehicles #spargus: arena it is then.#fic prompts #writing prompts

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artemis-the-author · 1 year

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Guess There's Gotta be a Break in the Monotony, But Jesus When it Rains it Pours

Ao3 link:

Fandoms: Percy Jackson and the Olympians; Batman

Word count (Ao3): 1,179

Characters: Percy Jackson

Characters (mentioned): Sally Jackson; Annabeth Chase; Grover Underwood; Luke Castellan; Chiron; Gotham's Vigilantes

Tags: Hurt no Comfort; Homelessnes; Canon-Typical Violence; Percy Jackson is Not Okay

Summary:

Percy was good at fighting. It was possibly the only thing he excelled at. He learned how to protect himself, and how to kill his opponent. Even using an unbalanced sword, he fought like a demon, like there was nothing else in the world.

He's fought and fought and fought for what's been a few months longer than a year but feels like an eternity, because the only thing his own survival is second to is protecting his friends, his family. He would do anything to keep them safe.

He thinks maybe that's why people believe him to be so dangerous. — After losing his mom, Percy doesn’t have anywhere else to turn to but the streets of Gotham, New Jersey. He’s determined to handle homelessness just as well as he has handled every other crisis in his life, and he's doing good.

At least, that's what he tells himself.

Fic under the cut

At Camp, they learn how to fight, how to use any weapon of their choosing. Few of them only use one weapon, and the ones that do are scarily efficient in hand to hand combat.

They learn how to shoot arrows and how to handle a sword. They learn how to swing spears and how to throw javelins. They master using knives and all different kinds of weaponless combat.

They learn how to use their weapons in any kind of situation. They learn how to fight with loose rules and dirty tricks thrown in every movement.

They learn to use their powers in any way that assists them, learn how to make weapons out of their gifts. The Demeter children create vines full of thorns, sharp as knives, while Aphrodite kids use sweet smiles and sweeter voices to manipulate anyone foolish enough to listen.

And when they learn to fight, they learn how to survive. They learn how to make every movement count, how to make every attack as deadly as possible. They learn the best ways to get rid of any monster, from harpies and hellhounds to the ones hiding behind mortal bodies, the wolves in sheep's clothing.

The Aphrodite cabin, the masters of emotion, teach them how to smile and laugh in the face of danger. Teach how to make their opponent think they're oblivious to the risk, how to make the one they're fighting against underestimate them before striking, hard and fast and, most importantly, lethal.

The Hermes cabin teaches them how to be quick and subtle, how to steal and leave no evidence behind. They teach how to trick others, pull their attention elsewhere while you take what you need from their possession. They teach how to lie, how to convince someone you're telling the truth through simple words and body language.

He fought his way through school after school after school, maybe not physically all the time, but if someone hurt him or his friends he would not sit and take it.

He fought before and after being claimed, when Luke pushed him to his limits, tearing at dummies and fighting other campers. Learning how to mix both techniques and dirty tricks in his fighting and ignoring the whispers of 'dangerous' that followed him after being claimed.

The first time he realizes that his learning curve isn't normal is when Chiron sees him pointing his unbalanced sword at the throat of an Ares child two years older than him after a sparring match, sees all the progress Percy has made in less than two weeks, takes Luke to the side, and Percy decides to eavesdrop.

(He thinks that's the first time he's been called 'extremely good, a prodigy even' at anything.)

He fought on his first quest, because if fighting meant he would win, if fighting meant seeing his mom again, getting her back, then that's what he would do.

He thinks maybe that's why people believe him to be so dangerous.

But there's no one to protect, now, besides himself. Grover is off to another mission as a protector and all his other friends are either at Camp or with their families.

His mom is gone, and he tries not to break down at every thought of her.

Now, as a street kid, alone and without anyone by his side, Percy for the first time has to show control when he fights.

(He first realized there were few limits at Camp when Nicole, from the Athena cabin, stabbed Andrew, his at the time unclaimed cabin mate, in his side during a spar. Nicole was declared the winner as a healer rushed forward to heal the wound, like routine. Travis just patted him sympathetically on the back when he noticed Percy's shocked face.)

He can't just stab someone and leave them to die because they're trying to kill him, the way he would do with monsters.

He would do it if he had no other choice, if it was him or them, but he doesn't think he could handle killing someone. Not to mention that doing so would also put him in the radar of the local vigilantes.

Being noticed by the vigilantes would probably mean being put in the foster system.

Percy has heard the horror stories of Gotham's foster system from other children. He has an idea of what it's like.

Being put in the foster system would likely mean having to live with another Gabe.

And that. That's about the last thing he wants.

—

It was much easier, the first few days, when he was still relatively healthy and the lack of food and water hadn't gotten to him yet.

It's been two weeks. Percy has been staying in some condemned building that no one bothered to actually take down. The security around it is pitiful, too.

He gets hit more now, whenever he stumbles into trouble, his movements a little slower than what's safe.

He's fought on less than good conditions before, but never this bad.

His main sources of food are currently a bunch of soup cans, some chips, and a couple of granola bars he managed to lift when buying water.

Each day gets a little worse. Sometimes, he gets faint and dizzy and the world starts spinning.

But he's getting by.

—

Percy ran away from the fast food place before any of the waiters could realize that he hadn't actually paid for what he ordered.

The burger had filled him up to an uncomfortable level.

Before, he would've been able to eat the whole thing, no problem.

Now, though? Even halfway through, he felt full. But he couldn't just leave food to waste like that, so he had forced himself to eat.

He ended up emptying his stomach in an alley not too far from his apartment.

—

"Have you talked to anyone from Camp yet?"

"Well, Annabeth IMd me. Said that so far, the boarding school she wants to got to with Thalia seems good. Though she didn't look too optimistic. I called Grover a couple days ago, he was getting ready for another mission as a protector."

"That's good, honey. I'd like to think that things are gonna go well with Annabeth. And let's hope the demigod Grover is watching over makes it to Camp safely."

"Yeah, but… not just for the demigod. I don't think Grover could handle -"

A light from the window, rapidly coming closer and closer.

"Mom, watch out!"

The car swerves, but it's not enough, it's not enough.

No. No no no-

CRASH!

#percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #percy jackson #pjo x dc #dc #this one is very pjo focused but it expands more into the dc universe as the series goes on #fanfic

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myth-blossom · 2 years

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How about the song iRobot by Jon Bellion? I really like this song and it reminds me of 47 and all the awful things he's been through in his childhood(especially how Ort-Meyer wiped his memories and sawed the legs of his emotions). Although, the lyrics can also be interpreted as heartbreak, so I'll leave up to you how you decide to write it.

Enjoy!

Thank you for the great song! This took my feels in various directions, but ultimately I followed the path I chose below. Hope you enjoy it!

youtube

A pact formed in blood. A bright new scar on his hand.

47 sparred with his mirror image in the gray room, leaving no possibility for error as he disarmed the clone and knocked him unconscious. The fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead as 47 stared at his fallen opponent.

A woman offers him and his twin companion a warm meal. They are not used to such kindness.

if it weren’t for the offensively smelling concoction he was devising, 47 could have sworn he recalled the smell of the stew in his mind. He divided the deadly poisons into their vials for transport.

Something small burrowed into the crook of his arm. The contact soothed the boy and the creature.

Shots echoed in the shooting range as 47 emptied both clips into the paper target. He quickly reloaded as the next target sheet was prepared, the paper silhouette a clinical stand-in for a flesh-and-blood target.

He runs toward the sun, hopeful now, before he feels something sharp…everything fades away…

47 awoke to the noise from the loudspeakers, signaling the start of a new day. Or he expected it to be a new day—he had been paraded through windowless rooms for the last twenty or so days, making it difficult to sense the passage of the sun. He sat up in bed and passively brushed away the wetness that had escaped from his eyes.

It happened again.

47 didn’t have an urge to express himself, to cry or to feel. And yet, for some reason, he had woken this way multiple times in the last few weeks. And the curious part was he was unsure of why he woke up that way, though he had a working theory.

47 clenched the scratchy blanket in his fists and closed his eyes for a moment. I must have dreamt again. It was the only thing that explained the presence of tears when he woke.

He heard footsteps approaching his room and quickly moved himself out of bed. He prepared himself for the entrance of the orderlies in their dull gray scrubs before they led him to the start of the day’s trials. He would go through the motions: fighting, weapons practice, medical testing. As a change, 47 was told he had to leave for an assignment, so he was moved away from the rest of his daily routine to prepare for what he did best.

Though he kept focused on his given objectives, 47 had been passively lost in thought over the glimpses he recalled from his dreams. He concentrated on the fragmented wisps of his last thoughts before waking, trying to understand why they seemed so familiar to him. He had no memories of these situations that he could recall, but he felt as if he had lived them. How was that possible? How else could he explain what he somehow knew was an accurate memory of each sight, smell, taste, and touch in his visions?

47 examined each piece over and over in his mind on the flight. Yes, he had a scar on his hand, but he had scars all over his body. What made this one special? Who were those people offering him food and shelter…who was his companion? Why were his dreams so vivid and different than what he knew his life to be, and what did they mean? It was as if the answer was on the tip of his tongue, in his mind somewhere but ultimately unobtainable.

He had no answers. 47 was not encouraged to find answers. He only needed to move forward and complete the task that he was assigned, as he was designed to do, and move on.

47 was nothing if not efficient and made quick work in disposing of the target. The dead scientist had been working on some secret project, holed up in his own makeshift lab in a nature preserve. There would be no witnesses to worry about, no human to question his immediate absence. Only his test subjects would suffer in his absence (though, they hadn’t fared any better in his care.)

It seemed the doctor chose the nature preserve for its abundance in test subjects, a never ending supply of animals for whatever happened in his experiments. The little squeaks of fear seemed set on a constant loop in the small building.

What are you doing?

47 paused, his hand hesitating above the door handle. His goal was complete, his target assassinated. There was no further objective to complete. He needed to make his exit and return home for his next orders.

Turn around.

He felt something tug inside his chest at the scared sounds and scratches behind him. He turned and stared at the wall of lab animals, each one trapped in their cages without any hope of escape.

Help them.

47 clenched his fists at his sides. The assortment of lab mice and rabbits looking back at him felt all too familiar. He was reminded that he and the others were experiments too, expendable specimens kept in a cage with no personal freedom afforded to them. Subjected to an assortment of needles and tests, not wandering into the world of their own accord unless at another’s direction. So many of the others fell ill and died and no one seemed to care.

47 wouldn’t—refused to, in fact—let the same fate befall the animals before him. He propped open the lab door and, cage by cage, returned the test subjects to the wild. They left the building in a frenzied haste towards freedom.

All except one animal, who seemed trapped in the corner of their cage. 47 lifted the cage to the counter and felt a pang of recognition in his chest at the sight. The rabbit was clinging to the back of the cage not in injury, but in fear. His little body shuddered with shaky breaths as he stared at 47.

47 slowly reached for the rabbit in the cage. He scooped up the animal gently from underneath and carefully placed him in the crook of his arm, making sure to tuck his feet beneath and support the creature’s hind legs. The rabbit burrowed his face further into 47’s arm, finding comfort in the warm darkness and safety of its new position.

They like to be held this way.

47 wasn’t sure why he thought that—he couldn’t recall holding such a creature before, with the exception of his dream.

“It’s okay,” he told the small animal. It’s over now.

47 softly pet the rabbit as its shuddering body became relaxed. The rabbit eventually unburied itself from 47’s arm to look up at his stoic face. 47 took the rabbit outside and gently set him upon the ground. The rabbit spun around in front of 47’s feet for a rotation before making his way into the bushes.

47 made his way towards the vehicle now that his additional objective was complete. He would keep that part to himself in his report, just as he kept private the questions he had about his dreams. But though his dreams were still a mystery, at least he would remember that moment with the rabbit. It was something unique, something that couldn’t be forgotten.

At least I know it was real.

#hitman #hitman fandom #hitman fanfic #agent 47 #hitman fanfiction #hitman playlist #song inspired fic #inspired by hitman playlist #iRobot by Jon Bellion

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flower-seller · 2 years

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Species: Boaravage [Previously extinct]

Designation: The Ruthless Hunter Pokemon

Type: Water/Steel

Dex Number: ???

Height: 4'3" to 5'10"

Weight: 660 to 1,000 lbs

Preferred Foods [Hypothesized]: Springy Mushroom, Hearty Grains, Meat Cake

Research Notes:

If the Hisuian Zoroark is the Baneful Fox of the Alabaster Icelands, then the savage Boaravage is the Ruthless Hunter of the Crimson Mirelands. Once feared greatly in the past by those who wandered into the wrong corner of the wetlands, this fierce pokemon who was said to have arrived in the region by swimming across the sea has since gone extinct in Hisui.

Recently, with the advent of space-time distortions, rumors have surfaced of a pokemon matching its description being spotted within the anomalies. Such reports are sparse but if they have any ounce of truth then something old and vicious has been torn back into reality and set loose upon the lands.

[Long post + written slight gore below cut]

The Diamond Clan has many tales involving Boaravage that have been passed down through tales from elders, a few of the oldest members even being able to recall early memories of witnessing the destruction these pokemon could wreak when they were enraged. The clan's current head, Adaman, is in possession of a family heirloom in the form of a 'snaptrap' that sits at the end of a Boaravage's whip-like tail. This particular specimen is from a large alpha male that one of his ancestors hunted down after it stalked the settlement during a particularly harsh winter, goring many a hunter and even devouring several people over the course of those frigid months.

The snaptrap is approximately 45 pounds and 42 inches in length, made of a rusted metallic material that the tusks, hooves, horns and spines along Boaravage's back are said to share.

It is a truly chilling thing to behold, especially after hearing of how the beast it belonged to used it with deadly efficiency; At one point latching into the torso of an unfortunate hunter with its curved, rusty teeth and tearing a large portion of his rib cage and left shoulder away before anyone could react. It then absconded with its grisly prize, leaving the man's companions to deal with the devastating scene that remained.

As far as descriptions of Boaravage itself goes, it was said to be a massive, sturdy porcine pokemon that was an efficient ambush hunter in lean times. The bristly fur is described as always appearing wet and being a murky grayish brown that shifted black on the legs, face, belly and tail. It had a mane that ran along the spine in a ridge before circling its neck, dark red in color and limp like sodden water foliage.

A set of long, notched, blade-like horns protruded from that mane on either side of the head like a pair of ears. The older a specimen was said to be, the more rusted these horns were, with newborns and young adults having a more polished appearance. Much like how the Granitehide Acre provided materials for armor and shields, an intrepid warrior could fashion these horns into a blade. Several families in fact have such weapons that have been passed down, the edges only having slightly dulled even without maintenance.

Spines of similar material rose up through the mane along the back, laying flat when not making territorial displays or used in battle. Its tusks curved wickedly up from below as well as down from above, giving it an impish, demonic expression [sic].

Interestingly, these tusks made scooping roots and vegetation from its watery surrounding quite easy. During the spring and summer it was described to be almost docile or even frolicsome, following a diet similar to the clans by being an active hunter only during the colder months barring any opportunistic scavenging.

Research and rumor are still forthcoming, but nothing has been concretely confirmed as far as Boaravage returning to Hisui by way of the space-time distortions. However, with autumn on its way, I am hoping it remains hearsay.

#FlowerSeller lore #FlowerSeller writing #Pokemon Legends Arceus #Salem FlowerSeller #Absolutely they are daeodon and kelpie inspired

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the-ghost-of-jason-todd · 8 months

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This is a @badthingshappenbingo fill for PULLING TEETH, ft. Talon Dick Grayson. You can read it on ao3 HERE.

The Talon is a weapon. It is made of sharp points, a thousand cutting edges created from the ashes of a time long past, born to kill those which the Owls order it to kill. Its fingers curl into claws, the lines of its body only made longer and more lethal by the armor it dons. Its teeth, all, are filed to a deadly pin-point made to rip and rend and tear enemies asunder. And if it fails to complete a task to satisfaction… well…

It is the teeth that are the first to go.

The Talon knows better than to struggle. The hands on it won’t soften, with or without, but struggling will only make the process hurt that much worse. It is a Talon, a weapon, and thus feels little pain—but the Owls, they know how to seek out the very core of it. As if on a raw, exposed nerve the tools work—the Talon can only gasp through the chill of cold metal in its mouth and black, brackish blood down its throat.

It takes forever. The Talon knows nothing of time—not here, deep under the ground where the walls are labyrinthine and the echoes endless—but as the hands and the metal pull its teeth one by one… it feels as if it lasts an eternity. One after another after another are pried loose, rattling into the white marble dish at the side of the surgical suite. It takes so long that the Talon can hardly remember what the punishment is for, why it ever chose to spare the dark-haired man (little boy, something inside it still insists—a man who was once a little, little boy in a costume of red and yellow and green—a little boy, a brother—). There is nothing here but the pain, the punishment, transcending the pull of time. It wants to scream, wants to cry… but all it is allowed to do is lie still and bleed, bleed, bleed.

The teeth, it knows, will grow back. The memory of the pain, though… such a thing can never be lost in the first place. Not once, not ever. Not like the other memories the Talon used to have—memories of a home without a land, with music and people and clapping hands. Memories of a cold, a blue glow in deep darkness, climbing and hanging and chattering excitement. Memories of a sleepy fullness, the smell of old wood, the taste of rolling laughter. No… those memories were ripped from it more permanently than teeth, taken, as efficient and effortless as an Owl flies. All it has now are scraps, fleeting, sifting like sand through its claws. They flow faster than the blood in its mouth, gone before it can think to grasp them.

The truth… oh, so simple, is the truth. The Talon has nothing—is nothing—will be nothing—if not for the sharpness gifted by the Owls. It is at the Owl’s whim that the Talon loses its teeth, and it is only by the Owl’s generosity that they will grow back, the Owl’s healing magic coursing through its weapon’s undead veins. Everything before that, everything the Talon once was, everything the Talon could have been… it is all simply dust, blown away by a wave of an uncaring hand.

The same hands curl, wrench, metal tool clamped tight over the last of the Talon’s teeth. They hold its mouth open, jaws wide and unable to bite, unable to move, unable to cry as the root is twisted free of its housing. One last yank and it comes free, tossed aside like so much scrap. The tools retract, and the hands push the Talon away. It can only blink up at the Owl standing, silent and proud, beside it. Its tongue is slick with blood, the muscle feeling out each of the gaping holes left behind.

“Go. And this time, you will kill him,” the Owl says. The metal tool is set down beside the marble bowl with a heavy clank, a punctuation to the command. The or else does not need to be spoken. The Talon knows what waits if it fails. A coldness deeper than any other it has ever known—caught, trapped, in a glass box, unable to move or cry, unable to die but too cold to live, frozen at the blade’s edge of unbearable agony until the Owls decide it will serve them once more.

The Talon will not fail. Not again. It lifts its heavy body, closes its bloody mouth, and bows to its master. It does not stumble as it leaves the surgical suite, as it rises toward the moon-lit world above—not even when it feels the wicked glass edges of new growth splitting apart the bone of its jaws, fresh fangs working their way up through its gums. This is not the agony of failure—this is the pain of a second chance, a chance to right its wrongs, to prove itself.

It is not a little boy it seeks. Not a brother. Not a robin, an innocent baby chick peeping up from its nest. It is a man—and this man, the Talon knows, must meet his end at the Talon’s claws. He has escaped his fate once already, and it will not happen again. The Talon will complete its task—it will bring its target’s severed head so that the Owls will know it is a good weapon, that it is worthy of protecting them, of enacting their will.

Yes… the Talon will kill Jason Todd.

There is no other option.

#batman #batfam #liveblogging batfam #dick grayson #pulling teeth #bad things happen bingo #bthb #my writing

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gezelligheiid2 · 3 years

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I just really like to think about Sul, okay. About the fact that most people, when they first meet him, would think that he’s some hardass— this muscular Dunmer guy with his mohawk poneytail and his serious expression. He’s good at making people afraid at first glance, he’s a muscular guy and he carries his great sword with him everywhere (and he might even have more weapons on him). This guy that hardly talks in new situations, who’s family name is burned into the mind of anyone in Vvardenfell brave enough or dumb enough to attempt Daedra worship or heresy. And he’s a kid. Underneath that armor, those weapons, is someone lost and confused as they try and stumble around blindly in this bizarre situation they’ve ended up in.

#showing up randomly to cry about my son you better believe it #I feel like I had something better to say #but ngl I just like thinking about how jacked this dude is #he uses a great sword but makes use of other weapons #like bows #and ngl I live for snapping the ‘twink archer’ trope in half #archers are ripped #but man I live for the idea that Sul is just. a beast in battle #tearing through people with deadly efficiency #House Redoran builds its warriors to smash yours to pieces and tbh that’s what he does #『 🛠 ᴬ ᴸᵒʸᵃˡ ˢᵒⁿ ᵒᶠ ᴿᵉᵈᵒʳᵃⁿ 』;; sulkan headcanon.

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evolutionsvoid · 2 years

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So far all the Illhveli mentioned have shown how they use brute strength, deadly weapons and endless ferocity to live up to the "evil" title. Powerful sea beasts that can smash boats to pieces, tear sailors to shreds and cause fishermen to flee the waters as fast as they can. A showing of strength like that would certainly convince anyone that these species deserve the infamy, but sometimes it isn't always about raw power. A creature does not merely have to be strong to be dangerous, and there is a certainly Illhveli that gladly proves this point. Size and strength can do a whole lot, but intelligence can bring down giants. Wielded properly, it can outclass any brute and overpower any blade. Such words are usually meant to be uplifting, but in this case, it brings dread. What if a beast is granted such smarts but decides it is best used for wickedness? What if that power and brutality is not usurped by this intelligence, but instead, is powered by it? The Taumafiskur goes to show that cruelty is not born from savage ignorance, but is rather chosen by those who should know better yet embrace this evil. The Taumafiskur is a whale that swims through the icy depths of this northern region, bringing terror and torment wherever it goes. Those who wish to avoid its ire refuse to speak its name aloud and instead refer to it as "Bridle Fish," which personally drives me insane. You got a category called "Evil Whales" that has species that aren't whales, and then when you get to a real whale they call it a fish! Is there no end to this insanity?! Regardless, the reason it has this name is because of its distinct coloration. Spotting it in the dark waters is nearly impossible, as their hide is black as night. Looking towards its head, though, and you will notice pale streaks that break up this darkness. White stripes extend from its mouth, wrapping around the head and stretching down the body. This pattern brings to mind a horse's bridle, which is where this nickname arises. Outside of this patterning, you will see a long thin pair of jaws, perfect for slicing through the water and snapping up prey. Upon its back is a wicked dorsal fin, but one that is not bladed, as that distinction belongs to only one Illhveli. The other prominent thing to notice lies atop their head, swollen like an obsidian fruit. Their forehead is quite large and bulbous, and people often point to that when one brings up their intelligence. It is a beast that flaunts its massive brain, because look at the size of it! Well, I hate to ruin the fun, but that isn't its brain. It is actually a mass of specialized tissue, called the "melon," that is used for altering and magnifying its vocalizations. It is sensitive to sound, and is used in tandem with the Taumafiskur's calls to navigate the icy ocean and track down prey. Other toothed whales possess such a feature, but this species has a surprisingly large one compared to its body. One of this size means that this sense of theirs is increased in sensitivity and use, allowing them to detect the smallest sound and emit a wide variety of specialized calls. This allows them to communicate with other members of this species in a rather complex way, but it also means that they are frighteningly good at tracking down their targets. Fish, squid and seals are the preferred prey of this Illhveli, using its thin but strong jaws to seize them. A small throat means that they have to either swallow smaller prey whole or tear anything too big into meaty chunks. While they are fast and strong, those aren't the only reasons they can efficiently find and take down prey. Going back to that melon, they use it to for echolocation and they are quite good at it. The simple use of it is to send sound out from their heads and listen for what bounces back and when. Most whales use it as a straight beam, but the Taumafiskur can alter its melon to change the direction. Instead of shooting it straight from its face, it can angle it more to the side, which helps broaden the range of their senses, but also can confuse prey! Most ocean critters are used to these calls coming from the same direction as the hungry jaws, but by aiming it a different way, they can make prey think that danger is in a different area. While this doesn't seem like a crazy wild move, this little difference makes quite the impact! Shooting these sounds at the back end of a fish will make the piscine believe that danger is nipping its tail. In this case, they zip forward and away, believing they are escaping. But if the call is coming from the side of the Bridle Fish's head, then they may be fleeing right into its path and gobbled up! This highly tuned sense allows them to detect the faintest sound and smallest fish, meaning nothing in these waters can escape their notice. Once they are locked on, they won't give up, and they will use any tactic they can to secure dinner.

One Taumafiskur is often a big enough threat on its own, but unfortunately for the denizens of the sea, they tend to travel in groups. These groups range in size from two to five, which doesn't seem like a lot but is quite terrifying when you encounter them. Their vocalizations allow them to communicate with one another and they will develop strategies to hunt down prey. They will do the usual ambushes, or bait-and-switches, but they can also do things like make waves to wash seals off of ice blocks or coordinate attacks to drive larger prey into shallower waters. What they do to claim their meal is quite surprising, as they can cobble together solutions for nearly any situation. These strategies also show how social these creatures are, as they are quite bonded to the members of their pod. They can be seen playing together, chasing each other around or defending wounded friends when predators show up. It would be absolutely heartwarming to see if it wasn't so dangerous to be in the same waters as them!

I know before I threw around words like "wicked" and "evil," which sounds quite alien coming from me. I am always the first to denounce any slander like this thrown onto innocent species, but I must admit that these whales can make me wonder if such claims are true. While they are very good at taking down a variety of prey, there has been many instances where people have watched these pods delay the kill and instead play with their food. A single bite could end this hunt at any moment, but the Bridle Fish choose to keep it going so that they can chase and batter this victim a little longer. They have been seen ramming prey or slapping them with their tails, and then waiting for the animal to regain its sense before they bash it again. And some stories say that these tortuously long hunts sometimes end with the pod leaving the body untouched, left for the scavengers to fight over. These whales are also known to harass other cetaceans, biting and bashing them for no real known reason. Sometimes they will use their brains and melon to mimic other species' calls, luring individuals into an ambush where they can beat the blubber right out of them. It seems that they have a vicious streak, and find a whole lot of fun in hunting and killing, even when no food is to be gained. I have heard of one story where a particular Bridle Fish would use chunks of prey to bait scavengers, like sea birds, into coming close and then killing them in its jaws. It is a bizarre thing to witness, but it must have some kind of purpose to them. True, they could just be doing it all for fun, but I sincerely hope there is a real reason to this. All the locals, however, are perfectly content with stating that they are vicious little monsters that love to torture and kill. With the knowledge of what they do to other sea creatures, you should immediately realize why they are such a problem for the locals. Fishermen and whalers are just another toy to play with in their eyes, and they like to play rough. Boats are overturned, catches are stolen. Nets are grabbed and pulled, often dragging the poor soul along with it. They beat ships to pieces with their tails, or they break every paddle and rudder they can get their teeth on. Those who fall into the water are toyed with, often pulled down then released so that they can thrash back to the surface as the whales watch. Rescuing these poor souls is another opportunity for them to torment, as they leave floundering victims alive so that they can lure in more. It is truly shocking to hear what these beasts will do! Though I am certain some of these tales are hyperbolic, there is definitely some truth to these. You can see it on their faces, whenever a survivor recants their story. You won't see a lie on their face, only dread. Some would suggest fighting back against these monstrous creatures, but the locals won't dare raise a finger. The Taumafiskur aren't just smart, they have a really good memory. It appears that this species is great at memorizing everything they hear and see, which often helps with recognizing members of their pod or identifying prey. Others claim that it is also great for holding grudges, as the Bridle Fish will never forgive the slightest offense. Those who attack or anger them will be remembered til the day one of them dies, and often the Taumafiskur will do everything in its power to ensure it is the last one standing (or swimming, I guess). Foolish sailors who happen to wound one of these beasts will be forever remembered for this trespass, and will be tormented by that very same whale anytime they go out to sea. Often it is said that the Bridle Fish will poke its head out of the water to spot its nemesis and memorize their face. Others claim that the Taumafiskur instead memorizes the voice and sounds of the particular sailor, even listening to their heartbeat if they fall into the water. Once they have that committed to memory, they will forever be on the lookout for those very same sounds, so that they may have vengeance. These grudges of theirs can get so intense, that it is said that certain sailors can never return to the sea, as that very whale is waiting there to kill them. Some can get a whole lot more complicated then just flipping over boats and drowning the offender. One famous tale speaks of a whaler who targeted a bothersome Taumafiskur, but his harpoon missed its mark and struck the whale's pregnant mate. Her death drove this particular Bridle Fish to madness, and he became obsessed with killing this whaler. It attacked the vessel, but failed to kill the man. However, it claimed the lives of many sailors aboard, nearly sinking the ship before it limped back to port. Once he was on dry land, the whaler thought himself safe, but the Bridle Fish would not give up. It instead laid siege to every boat in the harbor and chased away all the fish in the waters. When the locals found out the reason for these attacks, they found the whaler and demanded he return to the sea. Though he feared going back into the waters, the locals threatened him with death if he stayed, as they wished to be free of the Taumafiskur's ire. He took his remaining crew back out to sea, and the whale was quick to greet them. The ship was besieged and the rest of the crew was slain. The story ends with the whaler alone on an ice flow, his crew and ship sinking to the bottom of the sea. Only then, when he had lost everything, did he take up the harpoon and give the duel that the beast desired. Some say that the creature got its revenge and killed the whaler, while others say that the two struck each other down, with the two bodies falling to the bottom still locked in combat. How it really ends, I can't really say, because everyone died. How did that story even get told if everyone perished? Not really sure, it could just be speculation or pure fiction. I have heard it around the tavern a couple times, but I also did find a book that went over the whole story, so it could just be from there. Fact or fiction, it does indeed sound like something these creatures would do, so that is why I made the mental decision to stay on their good side! I kept plenty of fish on my person in case I ever saw one at sea. No clue if they could be won over with food, but if they are truly intelligent like me, I would say it is a safe bet! Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian ------------------------------------------------------ And from our evil whale that is a crazy violent walrus, we go to an evil whale that is pretty much just an orca. At least tried to give it a slightly different look. Also I just realized we are reaching the halfway point of the month I am nowhere close to having all the stuff posted crapcrapcrapcrap!

#orca #killer whale #whale #illhveli #taumafiskur #monster #creature #sea monster #art #drawing

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

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More than Enough

For @tma-mspec-week Day Three: Polycule

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Sasha James/Tim Stoker/Martin Blackwood

Rating: Teen

Summary:

“But what if-” Once again, Jon struggles to find the right words. He knows their situation is unorthodox to most people, and the thought of Martin looking at him differently is too much to bear. “What if he doesn’t understand?”

“Then explain it to him,” Sasha relays patiently, her hand never leaving his. Things are always so clear to her, Jon envies that. “You’re my partners, you’re dating Tim, sometimes me and Tim have-”

Or: How One Became Four.

It starts with Sasha and Jon.

She’s fresh off six months in Artefact Storage, shell-shocked and stand-offish. Jon starts a few months later and they learn the ropes together. She warms up, divulges little tidbits of her time in the other department that Jon devours. He’s young, hungry for answers and Sasha’s already jaded by her few years in academia. This is just a transitional job, she assures him. It pays better than most research gigs and allows her to keep up a certain lifestyle.

“I’m looking at other places, putting out feelers,” she confides in him one day over coffee. It’s become their daily ritual, a mid-morning break where they can commiserate on the staid academics that ask too much of them and the fanciful statements that end up on their desk. “Whatever you do, don’t get stuck here.” She leans back in her chair, gives a cynical little smile. “Or maybe you should. It’ll be different for you, you’re a man.” He starts a protest but she cuts him off. “It’s an old boys club and you know it. Besides, I know all about your extra meetings with Bouchard. He’s never done that with anyone else. Who knows - in a few years you might be my boss!”

He scoffs at that. Jon feels like he’s treading water. He’s a great researcher, sure, but he hasn’t exactly made himself popular among the others. He’s quick to bite, dismissive, blunt. It’s why he and Sasha get along so well, tucked away in their own little world. Of course she would notice the attention from Elias; Jon’s flattered by it, even if he stammers his way through every interaction. Elias seems to find this amusing, but Jon wants to impress him.

Though not at the cost of his friendship with Sasha. “I always mention your work to him. I’m rubbish with technology, but you-” She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t, he’ll see right through that. Manipulation’s not your strong suit.” Jon stares down at his rapidly cooling drink, an embarrassed flush spreading across his features. But her hand reaches out to grasp his and a fond smile lights her features. “Thank you, though. It’s sweet of you.”

Jon likes Sasha. Their personalities occasionally clash, but never for too long. Jon’s quick to forgive and Sasha’s too fond to hold a grudge, though she’s loath to admit it. So when her roommate suddenly moves out and she’s left in a bind, it’s only natural for Jon to take her place. He’s been rent-poor, living paycheck to paycheck in a shitty studio that’s still an hour’s commute. Sasha’s closer and her flat’s substantially nicer; she offers and he accepts, easy as that. It’s a practical move, and Jon has to admit his lonely little flat is starting to feel suffocating.

They fit together easily, like pieces of puzzle slotting in place. Sasha’s brutally efficient in her personal matters; bills and maintenance that Jon finds overwhelming and confounding she takes care of with ease. He’s heard her on the phone in that light, practiced tone of hers as she casually threatens the landlord for necessary repairs. Jon finds himself relaxing bit by bit, feeling comfortable in his own skin as she snarks at the dinner table over a dish he’s made. He used to cook for Georgie like this. Now he cooks for Sasha.

“You’re good at this,” she comments one night over chana masala. “Loads better than the frozen meals I’m used to.”

“It’s nice, having someone to cook for. Harder to do it for one.” He feels a bit uncomfortable with the admission, though he knows he shouldn’t - this is what it’s like, when you love someone.

He’s never said that to her, of course. He gets attached too easily but never knows quite how to show it. And it’s not his usual sort of love, he doesn’t want to date her. She’s more than a friend, and Jon’s never had many of those; he has no metric to measure this against. He thinks he could stay in this flat with her forever, so long as he could see her smile every morning and yawn every night.

On a Saturday morning she stumbles out of bed and makes her way over to the kitchen. “Morning,” she grumbles, as she reaches for the coffee pot and kisses his forehead. Jon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

On a Wednesday night Jon drinks too much.

“Sasha,” he slurs, her arm the only thing keeping him from falling off his stool. “I want you t’ know…”

She smiles indulgently, takes a sip of her drink. “Yes, dear?”

“I-I love you.” She pauses and Jon’s heart drops. “N-Not like that, but like friends. Good friends. Very good friends. But m-maybe not.” She’s still smiling, that’s got to be a good sign, right? “I-I just love you, okay?”

And then she laughs, puts an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close. “I love you too. Stay with me forever, okay?”

He takes her hand between his and promises, with all the solemnity a drunken man can muster, that he’ll stay with her forever and then some. The next morning, while they’re both nursing massive hangovers, Jon broaches the subject again.

“Did you mean it?” he asks tentatively, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “What you said last night. Do- do you want me to stay forever?” She turns to look at him, bleary eyes suddenly alert.

“Yes.” There’s no tease in her words as she leans into his side, a warm weight on his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever meant anything more.”

Jon stays.

______

Two years later, Tim joins the Institute.

He’s handsome; charming, but subdued. He’s been assigned a desk near theirs, invading the quiet little corner that had become their world. Tim greets them both with a smile and a perfunctory handshake before settling down at his desk and powering up his laptop. He doesn’t speak to them again.

Jon watches as he goes back and forth between circulation and his desk, building an impressive stack of books- The Pantomime Life of Joseph Grimaldi, The Congress of Clowns and Other Russian Circus Acts. Sasha told him he worked in publishing, Jon knows she got that information through her usual nefarious means. Perhaps he’s writing a book, Jon says. Sasha thinks otherwise.

“He’s one of those,” she says over sandwiches and tea. She invited Tim, but had been turned down with an apologetic smile.

“Hmm?”

“Like you.” She sets her drink down, eyes him with her steady gaze. “He’s got a reason.”

Mr. Spider doesn’t like it.

Jon shivers at the reminder. Sasha never brought it up after he initially confided in her one vulnerable night last year; she just held him through the shaking and the tears. He’s only told the story twice; once at eight, again at twenty five. It never got easier.

“No one believed me,” he whispered, tucking his face into her shoulder as his body itched from phantom legs skittering across skin. She squeezed him back.

“I do.”

They’re friendly enough to Tim, giving him his distance while still trying to be helpful. Jon points him in the direction of texts and scholars who might be useful, Sasha teaches him a few of her more invasive tricks that Jon refused to learn. Slowly, bit by bit, he opens up. Never shares his story, no- but he smiles, jokes around with them, accompanies them on their lunch breaks and eventually entices them to after work drinks.

He’s handsome when he smiles, Jon thinks to himself as Tim regales them with stories of dates gone wrong. Sasha catches his eye and winks. He wonders if she’ll tire of Jon now that Tim’s around. He’s everything Jon’s not; good-looking, confident, secure in his intelligence. Sasha laughs so freely around him. He could ground her where Jon cannot- they can be a chaotic force, the two of them. It’s why they keep to themselves.

But at the end of the night it’s Jon’s hand she takes, swinging it gently with hers. “Stay with me forever?”

He smiles. “Forever.”

They invite him over to their flat one night in spring, when the trees are blossoming and Jon’s allergies are acting up. He’s sniffling miserably on the couch, Tim sprawled next to him as Sasha pours some wine. Despite his misery, Jon’s content.

Tim nudges him with his foot. “So what’s your deal?” he asks in a wheedling tone, though his smirk betrays an almost imperceptible anxiety. It’s strange. “You and Sash. Dating, roomies…?”

It’s Sasha who answers, handing Jon a glass of wine and standing before Tim, tall and proud. “Jon’s my partner.” It’s matter of fact, and Jon can’t help the warmth that floods him. “We’re not dating. I’m not interested in that.” She hands him his glass with a smirk. “But if you want to romance Jon, feel free.”

Jon sputters as she laughs- he’s transparent, as usual. They’d talked about it briefly- Sasha’s fine with him dating other people, but Jon’s never felt the need to. Sasha’s enough. She still is, but he can’t deny the way his heart swoops whenever Tim aims that smile in his direction. Sasha likes him too, in her own way.

Tim’s still gaping at them and Jon can’t help but join in on the laughter, as embarrassed as he feels. “Is the great Timothy Stoker nervous?” Sasha says in between giggles. “Guess we know how to shut him up now.”

“L-Look, can you blame me?” Tim says, a smile growing on his face. “You two can be very intimidating, not to mention gorgeous-”

Jon kicks at his leg. “Don’t joke.”

“No, we are.” Sasha interrupts, daring him to disagree. She turns that deadly smile back on Tim, delighting in his falter. “So what’ll it be, Stoker?”

There’s silence, Jon can feel his heart racing. They’ve got this all wrong, Tim doesn’t want him, Tim’s going to leave, Tim doesn’t understand-

“Can I take you out to dinner tomorrow night?”

Jon blinks. “Uh, yes?”

“He likes Thai!” Sasha calls as she walks over to her bedroom, leaving the two of them on the couch, laughing nervously.

“So you’re bi, then?” Tim asks, scooting closer to Jon and throwing a blanket over their legs and an arm around his shoulder. It’s warm in all the right ways and Jon leans closer, the awkwardness dissipating at the touch of his hand.

“I prefer pan,” he replies. It’s the first term that felt right to him. Georgie used to make some stupid joke about a ‘gender buffet’ and him ‘having one of everything.’ It still makes him smile. “And- and you should know I’m also ace. So there’s some things I won’t be able to do for you.” He looks for disappointment in Tim’s eyes and finds none. “I hope that’s alright.”

“Of course.” Tim smiles like he means the words and Jon feels light, almost dizzy. “Are kisses alright?”

He nods shyly, and Tim takes this as his cue to pepper him in obnoxiously loud smooches- one in his hair, another on his nose. Jon manages to bat him away after Tim almost gets him in the eye.

So Tim and Jon are dating. Tim takes him out to dinner, the movies, one memorable night of karaoke. Sasha joins in when she wants; they go to museums and lectures. One night she laces her fingers through Tim’s, smiling at his wide eyes.

“What?” she says innocently, doing the same with Jon. “I’ve got two hands.”

On Wednesday nights Tim goes to the gym. Jon sits at the table, passes Sasha a bowl of reheated spaghetti before settling down in his chair. He fidgets, not touching his fork.

“What is it?” Sasha asks, setting her own fork down. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“I-” he stutters, sighing as the words won’t come. Just tell her like you practiced. “I’m not trying to, well- hmm. I don’t want to insinuate anything-”

“You would never.”

“But, I’ve noticed- I’m not- Tim is very handsome.”

Sasha smiles indulgently. “Mhm. Go on.”

“And I’ve noticed. I don’t- if you wanted to-” Goddamnit. Pull yourself together. “I wouldn’t mind it, if you were to - that is, if you’d like to engage in-” He closes his eyes, purses his lips in frustration. “Please stop me.”

“Why Jon,” she replies, her voice coy and teasing. “Are you giving me your blessing?”

Jon sighs, his face warming as he opens one eye- she’s grinning, just as he expected. “...Yes?”

Six months later, Tim moves in.

_______

“Jon wants to bring a boy home!”

Jon smacks him in the arm and scowls. “Tim, don’t-”

“What, it’s true!” He leans back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Jon wants to knock the smile off his face and maybe onto the floor, if he can get a good kick in. “I don’t blame you and in fact, I encourage it. Martin’s a catch-”

“Martin?” Sasha perks up. “Finally!”

“Not you too-”

“Jon, he’s a very sweet boy-”

“-good-looking, too!”

“And if you want to bring him over, please do.” She reaches across the table to give his hand an encouraging, if condescending, squeeze. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other.”

“I don’t think I’ll need to go into that much detail just yet,” Jon cuts her off, ignoring Tim’s snicker. “It’s just...what if he thinks it's weird?”

“Weird can be good. And if he doesn’t agree, well - he’s not worth your time.”

If only it were that simple.

It’s been about three months since he first ran into Martin in the break room. He’d seen him around plenty of times, but despite his hulking form, the man can make himself very, very small. It wasn’t until he quite literally ran into him, causing him to drop his newly organized files, that Jon got a good look at his face.

It was a nice face. Soft, kind, with big blue eyes and curly red hair that fell across his forehead. He wanted to touch it, tuck it behind Martin’s ear and he almost did, despite the man’s rambling apologies and meek demeanor. He stood there, frozen, even as Martin handed back the file with a bashful smile.

“Sorry, I’m pretty clumsy. Are you alright?”

Jon was fine. He should probably say that.

“Y-Yes. I’m Jon.” Wow. Smooth.

“I know.” Martin put a hand behind his neck, nervously chuckling. “You’re quite known around these parts.” His eyes widened and his face turned red. A nice red. “N-Not in a bad way, of course! You’re- you’re just very smart and- and direct- and oh Lord, that’s not a compliment, is it-”

“Thank you for my file,” Jon replied robotically, his eyes trained somewhere over Martin’s shoulder and not on his very, very blue eyes. “I have to take my leave now.” Why are you talking like this?

Their next few encounters were similarly stunted and awkward. Martin made tea at ten every morning, coincidentally when Jon got his yogurt from the fridge. He started making Jon a cup as well; he wasn’t sure if Martin was particularly excellent at making tea, or if it just mattered that he was the one making it. Jon tried not to dwell on the sentimentality of it all.

He shouldn’t want another partner. He’s got Sasha, who he loves, and Tim, who he also loves, albeit in a different way. They should be enough for him. They are enough. But Martin makes him tea and asks him how his day is going and smiles at him and people don’t do that. He tells himself he just wants a friend, but he finds his mind wandering- Martin’s hand in his while they walk down the street, Jon nestled into his side on a movie night and Tim’s there too, because Martin is very comfy and handsome and warm. Sasha’s in her armchair reading a book because tonight they’re watching a romantic comedy and she hates those. Jon hates them too but Martin likes them, of course Martin likes them-

No. He’s getting distracted. And he’s standing in front of Martin like an idiot, saying nothing. This is going terribly. Why did he ever think this would not go terribly-

“Jon? Are you alright? You look like you’re about to have a stroke.”

“I’m not having a stroke,” Jon responds on auto-pilot. “I’m trying to think of a clever way to ask you out but you are very distracting.”

Shit. Martin stares at him, mouth open in shock. He’s got nice teeth. Very straight.

“Um- I-I thought you were with Tim?” Martin squeaks out. Oh God, I’ve scared him. Do I keep going? “Or- or Sasha, oh! I’m not accusing you of -”

“No, you’re correct,” Jon grinds out, willing himself to be calm. He doesn’t want Martin to think his frustration is aimed at him. “Sasha’s my partner and I’m dating Tim, and sometimes Sasha and Tim-” No! Abort! “-sorry. We’re together. But, um, I-I also like you, and I think Tim likes you but he hasn’t said- I’m sorry, this is going all wrong.” He looks down at the floor, clenching his jaw. “I understand if you say no.”

“I’m not saying no,” Martin’s voice is lower now and Jon feels a hope rise in his chest. He’s not? “So it’s, it’s like an open thing? You’re accepting applications?” Jon would laugh at the joke if he weren’t so paralyzed with fear.

“Not really? It’s, we aren’t dating around or anything, but I suppose it is open, in a way.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Open for you.”

Martin’s smiling like he can’t believe his luck, and it confuses Jon because who wouldn’t want him? Kind, handsome Martin who makes him tea and doesn’t laugh at his stupid jokes but rolls his eyes affectionately and tells his own in turn. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever understand his humor but it makes him smile and that’s important. And now Martin’s taking his hand and he- oh fuck Martin’s taking his hand Martin’s got his hand and it’s warm, just like he knew it would be-

“I-I think I’d like that.” A squeeze. Jon dies but only a little. “Wow, this is sort of crazy for me, y’know? You’re all so, so intimidating and good-looking-”

“Yes, we are,” Jon agrees, squeezing his hand back. “But we’d like to buy you dinner, if you’re amenable.” Martin laughs and says yes, he’s very, very amenable. It feels right holding Martin’s hand. It feels right to see him with Tim and Sasha, smiling and joking. It feels right to lean into him at the end of the day, to nudge his side in the night and apologize in the morning.

Martin’s lease expires in seven months. They start looking for a new apartment after three.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29032062

#tma #the magnus archives #tma mspec week #jonmartimsasha #archive polycule before there's an archive #jonsasha #jontim #jonmartin #timsasha #jonathan sims #tim stoker #sasha james #martin blackwood #jon is pan #tim is bi #sasha is aro

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i-ship-therefore-i-am · 3 years

Text

my kingdom come undone

I wrote a thing. Inspired by this post by @lanzhanshands about an AU where Lan Zhan is forced to kill Wei Wuxian. (Ugh, how DARE) 2500 words, wangxian

Warnings: self-harm, suicide, violence, death, blood

my kingdom come undone

if I am doomed to death, then at least I could be killed by you

Wei Ying has lost control.

The buildings themselves are starting to crumble, the very earth beneath their feet screaming with rage, as if to shake them all off, to free itself completely of the living. Cultivator or servant, old or young.

Even the Jiang clan is no longer being protected, just swarms and swarms of puppets lashing and tearing them all to pieces.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji barks, voice booming above the fray. There is no way he has not heard it, and yet there is no reaction, no pause in his playing, not the tiniest flicker.

There’s nothing in his eyes anymore, nothing left but the resentment, leaving them dull and flat and lifeless. His skin pale and deathly, the telltale black lines crawling up over his neck. It’s clear he doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore, that he’s not Wei Ying anymore. That his control is gone.

Lan Wangji’s greatest fear unfurling right in front of him.

Wei Ying is the eye of the storm, the relentless, rotting resentful energy is thicker and more violent the closer Lan Wangji comes, pressing through and grunting slightly at the impact against his chest, his thigh—the burning, mournful screech of it. He does not stop.

Does not dare stop.

Once close enough, he pulls Bichen free and attacks. “Wei Ying! Stop this now!”

They fight, Wei Ying with just his flute to counter and parry, slipping under and away from Lan Wangji’s strikes, and for a while it seems their same endless draw, but Lan Wangji knows himself to be the superior swordsman. Especially now.

He has been holding back.

“Wei Ying,” he tries one more time, ignoring the curl and burn of resentful energy whipping against his body. “Stop this.”

Please.

The spread of Wei Ying’s lips reveals blood-stained teeth, and when next his flute lifts to his lips, the shrill, shrieking note is for Lan Wangji.

Meant to kill.

He barely dodges and deflects the resentful energy made solid and lifts his sword with deadly intention. There is no more time to hold back.

Lan Wangji’s strike hits home, Bichen sliding relentlessly into Wei Ying’s chest, going all the way through, and Lan Wangji’s wrist is twisting on instinct, muscle memory of endless practice brutally finishing the move. Blood immediately gushes from Wei Ying’s mouth, his entire body jerking.

The dark energy pulses and screams with rage, the wind and dust picking up, stinging Lan Wangji’s eyes and cheeks.

They have seen Wei Ying pull an arrow straight from his chest and continue on as if nothing, but this time he will not. Wei Ying’s limbs are already twitching, muscles spasming erratically.

Yet his empty hand lifts, striking out, latching onto Lan Wangji’s wrist, the skin so cold and cracked against his own. It isn’t an attack though, but something much worse.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathes, soft and garbled, and for that tiny moment, his eyes are once again his own. So warm and full even as they are red-rimmed and pained.

Everything seems to freeze, everything else dropping away. For Lan Wangji there is nothing but Wei Ying.

He thinks there must be tears on his face, but he doesn’t care, hasn’t let it make him hesitate.

There is the slightest smile curving Wei Ying’s lips as he looks back at Lan Wangji, his face impossibly pale, blood gushing down to the ground. He nods once, as if to accept his fate, Lan Wangji’s judgment, and then his eyes drift shut, leaving him looking almost peaceful.

“Lan Zhan,” he mumbles one more time, a faint echo like a distant ghost.

He slumps, his fingers falling away from the back of Lan Wangji’s hand, but before Lan Wangji can even think to reach for him or pull back his sword, or save him, save him, save him—the world explodes, the Stygian Tiger Amulet shattering into countless pieces, a single name a piercing shriek in the wind.

Wei Wuxian! Wei WUXIAN!

Resentful energy bursts outwards, a solid, punishing wind, knocking people to the ground. Lan Wangji stumbles back, leaning hard into it, arm lifting.

Behind and around him, the puppets fall quickly, docile now without anyone to command them, cut down quickly by survivors or merely melting back into the ground with a mournful wail that shudders the earth.

Moorless. Uncontrolled. Their master dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

The blast knocked Lan Wangji back, far enough for Bichen to slide free of Wei Ying’s chest. When Lan Wangji recovers enough to look, Wei Ying is crumpled to the ground, boneless and ungainly.

His eyes are open again, now unfocused, inert.

Empty.

There is cheering, somewhere in the distance, which makes no sense, rattles irritatingly against Lan Wangji’s skin, but he can’t really focus on that, instead staring at the body at his feet, the slow drip of blood off the end of Bichen where he still holds it.

He’s waiting, maybe. To feel something?

Waiting for Wei Ying to rise and smile and do one more impossible thing?

But the stillness and the silence only grow and grow and grow and the waiting is now a writhing, furious thing, something cracking in half inside of him, withering and decaying.

No. No. No. No.

It slowly grows, the wail that wants to rip out of his throat. The furious rage at the world that led them to this. Every misstep, every wasted moment, every missed opportunity.

He wonders what his own eyes look like, if there is anything but emptiness to see. If he can possibly survive one more moment of the inescapable, sheering pain.

Lan Wangji does the only thing he can think to do to make it stop and lifts Bichen, the blood and metal catching the light.

“Wangji, no!”

But his brother’s voice is soft and distant where the blade is blessedly sharp and close to his neck. One quick motion is all it takes.

He falls to his knees, sword tumbling from numb fingers as he reaches for Wei Ying and death.

Refusing to let Wei Ying again go where he cannot follow.

***

Xichen must flood his body with every fleck of spiritual power he has to keep his gaping neck together, to keep blood flowing in Lan Wangji’s body and not out. There are others too, maybe. Outnumbering him.

He does not want to be saved. Fights against it. Rages with what little strength he has.

“Wangji, stop it!”

He doesn’t want to.

But it is the one time Lan Wangji’s strength fails him. He has done, as always, what is necessary. Denying himself all else. He has always been strong. But not in this.

Even in this one final wish is he denied.

But there will be moments. Opportunities. No one can be watched at all times.

The first time he truly wakes, now in a bed in Cloud Recesses, there are small arms wrapped tight around his thigh, a child’s body curled trustingly against his.

A-Yuan.

Lan Wangji lifts his eyes to his brother, sitting calming nearby, but eyes sharp. He has played a dirty trick and knows it, watches to see what will come of it.

Lan Wangji squeezes his eyes shut, feeling tears streaming down his face, soaking into his hair and the bandage still wrapped around his neck.

He puts his hand down on the small child’s head and nods.

Perhaps living will be the true punishment deserved.

***

The scar is a rippled, monstrous thing. Bichen’s blade is sharp and efficient, but Lan Wangji’s fight against being saved has warped and stretched the wound, his refusal ripping it open time and again. It takes most of his voice with it.

He can speak, but his words are rough and incomplete, each syllable a painful struggle. He’s always had little use for words, now he will have even less. He saves whatever words he has all for A-Yuan, who never flinches at the bruising sound. Who never stares at the scar, who touches him freely without fear.

A constant reminder of the only other person ever to do so.

“Body?” is one of the first words Lan Wangji manages to force out to his brother.

He braces himself to hear of a callus punishment, Wei Ying’s body burned and cremains spread recklessly, giving his soul no place to find peace, no place to tether it.

“There was no body,” Xichen says.

Lan Wangji gives him a sharp look.

“The resentful energy…it seemed to rebound back. It devoured him.”

When he is able, Lan Wangji drags himself upright behind his guqin and sends his questions out into the ethos.

Are you there?

Are you at peace?

Do you hate me?

Inquiry has no answer for him, year after year, and he begins to understand that Wei Ying is not just gone from this world, but gone from existence.

Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.

***

Lan Wangji walks the world, first to share it with A-Yuan, to let him see things for himself and not as described in books and lectures through others’ agendas. To let him learn his own judgment and beliefs. And later to bring whatever justice and order he can to the forgotten, the people the sects either do not see or do not wish to see.

He wears the scar unflinchingly. Refusing to hide it from sight. Not proud, not embarrassed. Just another part of him.

People learn not to call him a hero if they don’t wish a sword drawn against them.

They fear him now too.

As they should. He is a ghost. Just one more corpse at Wei Ying’s disposal. And perhaps this transformation is the Yiling Patriarch’s one last great feat.

***

When Wei Ying is born back into the world, Lan Wangji is there to stand by his side, to keep this world from destroying him yet again.

Lan Wangji had never known what to say to him before, how to speak to him, and now even less, so his silence seems right. Wei Ying never asks about the injury that took his voice, just gives him long looks, his eyes lingering on the scar. It is hard to know what he remembers and what he doesn’t.

Lan Wangji keeps him safe, helps him unravel the mystery of a sword ghost that becomes a blade that becomes a murder and spilled secrets of using the Yiling Patriarch as a scapegoat for power grabs and petty revenge. Of each manipulated step that dragged Lan Wangji’s blade into Wei Ying’s heart.

He stays by his side and keeps him safe, always knowing it is not his space to occupy. That he does not have the right to it. He is a shield and nothing more.

Meaning he does not deserve to feel anything like pain when Jin Guanyao holds Wei Ying by the throat, Bichen gleaming a mere inch from the throb of Wei Ying’s pulse in a failed attempt to free him. When Jin Guanyao laughs and strikes out mercilessly.

“I always knew it would end here again, Lan Wangji, with your sword buried deep in Master Wei’s chest. How I look forward to seeing that again.”

“Never,” Lan Wangji whispers and seals his spiritual power without daring to look at Wei Ying.

When it is done, each bitter truth dragged out and unfurled and Wei Ying finally free, Lan Wangji follows him out onto the road.

He stops at the first curve.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, looking back to see why he hasn’t followed.

He unsheathes Bichen, closing the distance between them, watching for alarm in Wei Ying’s eyes, but there is only curiosity and trust.

It cuts worse than anything else.

Reaching out, Lan Zhan takes Wei Ying’s hands and carefully wraps them around Bichen’s hilt.

“Lan Zhan, what are you—”

Lifting the blade towards himself, Lan Wangji falls to his knees in front of him. Sizhui is grown and safe. Wei Ying is free. He has paid as much debt as he can without this.

Wei Ying looks between him and the blade, his face paling. “Lan Zhan, you can’t be serious.”

“Wei Ying,” he rasps, leaning towards the blade. Yearning for it. “Please.”

“No!” Wei Ying says, not dropping Bichen in the dirt, but swinging the blade away, tucked safely behind him. “Why would I—Do you really want to die this badly?”

He feels himself sway. “It is what I deserve.”

It’s what I did to you.

“No, it’s not,” he says hotly. “How could you ever deserve that!”

Lan Wangji lowers his face, staring down at the ground.

“Lan Zhan. You think I—? I don’t blame you, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying drops to the dirt in front of him, his hands taking his. “Deep down, I always knew I could count on you to stop me if I went too far. I don’t remember much, I really don’t. But I don’t doubt that I needed to be stopped. That you did the right thing.”

Lan Wangji squeezes his eyes shut, throat burning from too many words, stretching him to his very limit. “I failed you.”

“No, Lan Zhan, no.”

There’s a long, protracted silence and Lan Wangji forces himself to just wait. He feels like he’s been waiting forever. Like this is all he has ever done.

Wei Ying’s fingers on his throat make him flinch, but if he wishes to strangle him instead, he will take that as well. But the fingers are gentle instead of rough. Far too gentle.

“Tell me how this happened, Lan Zhan,” he says, voice so soft.

Lan Wangji presses his lips together, shaking his head.

“If you will give me something, give me that.”

Everything inside him revolts against it. But what right does he have to deny Wei Ying anything? “I tried to follow you,” he says, each word a struggle, like he might soon feel blood on his tongue, his vocal chords screaming in agony. “But you are always going where I cannot follow.”

On his wrist, Wei Ying’s hand trembles. “Lan Zhan,” he says, voice nearly broken as his own. “Lan Zhan.”

He forces his eyes up, and Wei Ying is crying.

“It wasn’t fair to ask it of you. I see that now. I never thought…”

That killing him would be as good as killing himself?

“I didn’t know what I was asking of you.”

And then Wei Ying’s arms are wrapping around him, pulling him in close, relentlessly drawing him into the eye of his storm.

Lan Wangji grabs him back immediately, burying his face in his shoulder, so weak, so unable to resist. “Wei Ying,” he says in his garbled, bruised voice.

He is alive, he is alive, he is alive.

“I’m sorry,” Wei Ying says, over and over again. “I’m so sorry.”

Something inside Lan Wangji is cracking wide open, when he thought there was nothing solid left to begin with. Just ruins and shards.

Wei Ying does not stop, words endlessly tumbling. “You must know, you must know, that I cannot live in a world without you in it, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji’s body trembles, the soft roundness of longing he has denied himself for so long struggling to be free, to pour over the sharp edges.

“Stay. Stay. Stay,” he begs.

Slowly, Lan Wangji lifts his hand to the back of Wei Ying’s head, fingers burying in his hair.

He nods.

***

He dreams of it always. Waking sweating and crying, Wei Ying’s name ripping from his ruined throat. The phantom feel of dust in his eyes and blood slick on his hands.

Wei Ying is always there, gathering him close, lips pressing to his cheeks, his forehead, his throat. Arms and legs wrapped around him as he murmurs quietly to him in the dark, his bright heat burning everything else away.

“I love you, Lan Zhan. I love you. I’m here and I will never go where you cannot follow.”

Each time Lan Zhan lets out a shuddering breath, and digs his fingers into Wei Ying’s back, pulling him impossibly close. Focuses on the steady thud of Wei Ying’s heart against his chest.

And chooses life all over again.

.fin.

#the untamed #fic #wangxian #tw: suicide #tw: self harm #AU #this kept wanting to turn into a fifty thousand word epic #but I held firm #still want to write WWX's impression of this LWJ from the other side though

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styleswithaseaview · 3 years

Note

also i'm a hufflepuff, so it'd be cool if you wrote one where y/n is a hufflepuff who is few years younger then cedric and even though y/n doesn't think she's anything out of the ordinary, cedric makes sure she feels welcome and included, maybe showing her the secrets of the common room, or helping her with her studies (like a study date) ??? idk. happy new year, ev!

Not So Ordinary

Cedric Diggory x Hufflepuff!Reader

We meet no ordinary people in our lives.

- C.S. Lewis

taglist : @cedricsbrowncurls @hoe4cedricdiggory

a/n : ok this is kind of shitty but here we are! hope you like it, lovely. sorry it’s a little terrible, i’m very busy atm but i still enjoyed writing it!

Y/N mulled through the first five years of her Hogwarts experience. She was a blurry figure in a yellow robe that was always in the background of group photographs; always standing like she didn't belong, because that's what she believed.

Her interests were seemingly simple, cliché, ordinary, even. She enjoyed charms class a good amount, as well as reading. She did well in school, but was never top of her year. She didn't have one set friend group, or a clique she belonged to. She was just... There.

Frankly, that's all she thought about herself. Other people weren't interested in her, so she wasn't interested in herself.

It's not like she was disliked; she was moderately popular, and had on and off friends. She didn't have that zest for life, though, and her subconscious had a feeling that one day, it would walk into her life.

And it he did; wearing a yellow robe and adorned with all the charm and looks possible.

Cedric Diggory was light in human form. Y/N was looking for something that would make her giddy in anticipation for the day; and without even trying, Cedric gave her that.

He was two years above her, and the most popular guy in Hufflepuff if not his whole year. His charming demeanor and enchanting looks were deadly.

Y/N gazed at him longingly during the few classes she had with him. She knew she'd never have a shot with him - a plain, inexperienced, young Hufflepuff? There was no way in hell.

Until one snowy Sunday afternoon. Hogwarts hallways were absent of any people, it seemed, and in usual fashion, the stairs were being temperamental; Y/N was near screaming as she tried to get to her dormitory.

She paced up and down the staircase, trying to wait until the path led to the Hufflepuff dorms; which in theory, would be an efficient tactic, but she’d been waiting for an opening for close to a half-hour and was starting to go mad. She turned to walk back again, and ran directly into a wall.

Or so she thought.

“Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't see you.” a voice said. Y/N jumped. Not a wall. Not a wall, in fact, but Cedric Diggory.

“Oh, shit, ” she muttered, blush creeping onto her cheeks. After a moment, she was able to stammer out, “Sorry, pardon my language. Ugh. I'm so sorry, Cedric, I can't figure out for the life of me how to work these damn staircases, ” Cedric seemed amused, letting out a small laugh before he caught himself.

“Sorry, I'm not- I'm not laughing at you, I'm just- sorry. I'm not used to people swearing around me.” He said, running a hand through his hair.

“Oh?” Y/N said, cocking her head. He nodded. She smiled.

“Guess I'll have to get used to it, then.” He said quietly, looking into Y/N’s eyes. She looked confused, wondering if he knew who he was talking to. Her?

“Anyways, ” Cedric started, “the trick with these is to actually just stop moving altogether. If you just kind of, ” he motioned to his still body in the middle of the steps, “stand there, it gives up, essentially.”

“Like this?” Y/N said, standing next to him and mimicking his posture. He grinned, nodding.

“Exactly.”

The stairs ceased their movement, finding their path up to the dormitories.

“Merlin, you're right!!” Y/N said excitedly, bounding up the stairs and turning to face him as he walked up behind her. “I mean- not that I'm surprised.”

Cedric let out a dry laugh. “You’re Y/N, right?" He said, holding out his hand.

“Y-yes, how did you know that?” Y/N said as she shook his hand carefully. It seemed to fit perfectly around hers.

“Oh, I don't know. I must've heard Sprout say it, ” he shook his head.

“Hm, ” Y/N said, blushing. He knew her?

———

For a few weeks after their first meeting, they had short conversations in the halls and Cedric told Y/N about the secrets of Hogwarts he’d learnt in the past year's. Y/N gazed at him in awe as he told her all about the common room’s hidden passageways that led to the kitchen; he was incredible.

“You know, I could introduce you to some of my friends. I think you'd like them, and they'd absolutely adore you.” Cedric said one night as they sat across from each other on the plush yellow couch of the common room.

“Me? Wh- you'd do that?”

“Of course, lo- Y/N.” Cedric said, grinning.

“Why- they wouldn't like me. You're so...” she looked down at her hands. “Popular. Theyre not going to be remotely interested in underclassman that tags along with you like a lame little puppy.” Y/N frowned.

“Y/N, you can't possibly think of yourself like that. Are you serious?” Cedric said, furrowing his brows. Y/N felt tears brimming in her eyes, but didn't know why. Cedric moved closer to her on the couch as she started to silently cry. What if’s raced in her mind. Was Cedric doing it as a dare? Bringing her around, showing her to his friends so they could get a laugh? No, he wouldn't do that, she thought, but she desperately scoured her mind for an inkling of reasoning behind his unbridled kindness.

“Hey, hey. Y/N. Look at me.” Cedric said. Y/N reluctantly looked into his grey eyes, expecting to be met with ridicule. Instead, he wiped a tear off her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear gently. “This probably isn't the right time to say this, but... Y/N, I’m in love with you. I have been for over a year. I overheard Sprout talking to you last year, and... I just... Can't keep myself away from you. You enchant me, and when I first bumped into you in those halls, I took the chance to show you around to spend time with you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you.”

“Ced- Are you feeling alright?” Y/N stopped crying, a look of concern crossing her face. She put the back of her hand to the brunette’s forehead. “Did someone give you a love potion or something? Bloody hell, ” she said, shaking her head.

“N-no? Not exactly the response I was going for, gotta say.” Cedric mumbled.

“You're serious?” Y/N said, shock setting in.

“I wouldn't lie to you, love.”

“Ced, I- Merlin. I've been in love with you since I first saw you. That sounds cheesy as hell, but it's true. Are you actually serious? Like, you're in your right mind?”

“Yes, Y/N. Was I not obvious enough?”

“I mean- I thought it was just you being nice, ”

“No, darling, it's me being entranced by you,” he said.

Y/N bit her lip. “So what now? I mean I guess if we both felt it we've been on, what, ten unofficial dates?” She giggled, biting her lip.

“I say we make them official. There's no rules, right?”

“Right.”

“So, Y/N, would you do me the honor of being my girlfriend?” he said, holding her hands in his.

“Yes, yes!” she said, an excited grin on her face. He kissed her hands gently, looking into her eyes. Her breath hitched in her throat, unable to say anything.

“Can I kiss you?” he said, eyes flicking down to her lips. She nodded, blushing as she met him halfway in a soft kiss. He pulled her closer by her waist, and the kiss got more passionate as the two moved rythymically.

He pulled away, planting gentle kisses on her jawline and down to her neck until he found the spot that made her suppress a moan. She was wrapped around his little finger, absolutely entranced by the boy before her.

She wasn't ordinary to him. She was an embodiment of light and love in his eyes, and being together caused the other’s light to consume each other in blissful harmony. They gave each other the zest for life they'd been searching for.

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sasorikigai · 2 years

Note

[ what a rush ] ( for Hitman AU, likely after a prolonged fight :^) )

the intimacy of hands. || @sonxflight || accepting

[ what a rush ] – for the long long overdue kiss to end, only for the sender to rest their head on the receiver’s, and comment “do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?”

💥 || Hanzo Hasashi finds himself dying thousands of deaths everyday; sometimes Hanzo can hear Harumi and Satoshi’s haunted voices and find himself in front of the furious passing train. When it is his face, grinning like a demonic child, wandering in the back of his head, brings ferrous stench of sanguine blood in his mouth. So many times, his memory would play the villain in his little hideout by the shinkansen station, ready to drawn the pulverized house filled with shrapnel of firearm with brutal cruelty of human flesh splattered and bone fragments littered like fallen snow. Such barbaric, inerasable memory remains blue and gray-faced, an animated corpse of sorts. Through Hanzo Hasashi’s eyes were as alive as anything, those coals of his burnt heart and soul centered in a cold, frigid flame rattling and throbbing as the indestructible fuse of his entirety burns with such heated retribution of conflagrations tearing asunder anyone and anything that stands opposite his side.

The efficient fluidity of his finessed appendages are wild and devouring in their sheer force and deadly precision, as though night’s pieces did not stick and scatter as shadows would. The seasoned hitman is a specter darting; half-alive and half-not, as if possessed by fierce and zealous dedication in order to seek vengeance. How his tongue still speaks of the masquerade of blossomed crimson roses, petals dipped in nectar, as poetic spillages of sweet nothings would caress and tickle his beloved’s ears.

The rose would perpetually suffer, being rendered naught from the thorns and up, bleeding its crimson beauty with thick rivulets of red drops as it would wither and desiccate with passing construct of time. However, even amidst the destructive wreckage threatening to tear through his mortal body, Hanzo Hasashi feels like the feverous irreversibility of spring’s blossom. How his wistful, melancholic smile would reflect Ryou Sakai’s proverbial sun, as fissured cracks seemingly impervious would widen and disintegrate as effulgent radiance of his beloved’s warmth melts the bitter, obstinate cold of his heart and soul that had been consuming him.

His own clashing, impassioned kiss bestowed towards his beloved quenches the sweeping inferno heat licking the expanse of his chiseled, broad form, lest the end is as bright and delicate as the familiar petals as the bruised lips and traces of metallic tang coalesce in the atmosphere. How they seem to be pressed between the pages of his favorite book, others all scattered and burned as gripped violence relinquishes with the slow unravelment of their intimacy. The carnal sensation twists and twirls inside him, as breathlessness crawls up his lungs and tightens up his throat. How his dearest heart, lest filled with a wound that would never heal, would burn ablaze without elegiac breaths, emptying his marrows of everything that would drain him and befall him towards sinking nadir of depression. Hanzo Hasashi feels excruciatingly solid and supple concurrently, as the spiked adrenaline of the intense, enervating battle soon would plunge, and exhaustion would settle into his slick, heavy form.

“It’s as if every fucking kiss seems to transform parts of you into me, and vice versa. For you would make your way into every infinitely small crack and crevice and will reside there forever. So many parts of me are you, and whenever I leave you, I hope to leave pieces of me in you,” his own blood may seep on his tongue, potent enough that Ryou Sakai would taste it, but amidst this precipice of moribund darkness, they had been given precious moment where the permeating of electricity rushing through his veins. “You of all people know that I would just like to love you and be with you; inside of you, around you, in all conceivable and inconceivable places. I would like to be where you are, weeping in the gardens of hope instead of fallen from grace as I become fucking tattered and broken, never again to raise myself back up.” 💥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au)#✗ there is a bullet for everyone (assassin/hitman verse)#✗ epitome of sunlight (ryou sakai || sonxflight)#(hanryou)#(I can't fuckin wait to watch Bullet Train and JW4 just to get more into this verse)#(and the badasses who are just so tender and soft around one another)#sonxflight

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mandalorewhore · 3 years

Text

Recovery

Gif by @antietum

PART 2 OF MOMENTS IN-BETWEEN

Rating: PG

Word Count: 1.5k AO3 link

Content: light angst, fluff, bonding, found family, developing feelings for grogu, din is introspective

Summary: Soft moments between Din and Grogu that the audience does not get to see In-between episodes, scenes, and seasons.

A/N: pour one out for kuiil

***

The child has been asleep for hours. At least twenty-four hours to be exact, not that Din is counting. No, Din is definitely not counting.

The nagging worry that itches in the back of his mind must be a leftover injury from his experience with the Mudhorn. No other reason. It must’ve crept up on him, unnoticed under the exhaustion in Din’s bones. He is having trouble keeping his hands still at the moment, an unusual reaction for the bounty hunter. I must be concussed, Din thinks crossly, I shouldn’t be this distracted.

Still, whenever Din gives in and checks on the sleeping child, he finds that his hand is immediately steadier, remaining that way until his anxiety works itself back up to a peaking point.

Kuiil works alongside Din, a fantastic partner not just for his mechanic knowledge, but because he stays silent nearly the entire time. The only exchanges that pass between Mandalorian and Ugnaught are on the topic of repairs. A tool passed here, an assisting hand there. He doesn’t press. Falling into a routine is easy, which makes Kuiil’s glances stand out all the more when Din checks on the bassinet for the third time in the hour. To his credit, Kuiil says nothing about this anxious habit, silently holding up sheets of metal for the Mandalorian to weld in place.

Privately, Kuiil believes that this will not be the last time he sees the Child and Mandalorian together.

Repairs wrap up quickly with Kuiils help and the Razor Crest is ready for travel within a day. Din thanks him graciously for the assistance, wishing there were more he could offer the Ugnaught despite Kuiil’s refusal to take a single credit as payment. Din is grateful for more than the repairs, but he cannot find a way to put the feeling into words. He was ready to give up the second the Jawas knocked him out and escaped in their towering Sandcrawler with the stolen parts. It was only Kuiil’s encouragement that allowed Din to power through the obstacle, gathering every piece back from the scavengers. In a way, Din wants to apologize to the Ugnaught for his shortness. But in the end, he is a man of few words, and Kuiil is not concerned over Din’s actions.

Kuiil calls out from his seat on the Blurrg. “May the child survive and bring you a handsome reward!”

Din nods his farewell, silently watching for a moment as the Ugnaught and Blurrg slowly traverse back through the cracked desert hills of Arvala-7, before he turns and shuts the ramp behind him.

With the ship in order, Din continues on his mission to hand over the asset, settling in the worn leather pilot seat with a sigh. The starship’s engine rumbles to life with a satisfying roar, blasting into the atmosphere with more power than the Crest previously possessed. Din smiles under his helmet, wishing now more than ever that Kuiil would’ve accepted payment for the help. His ship is flying more efficiently than before after the Ugnaughts skillful ministrations. However, that nagging feeling won't leave him, his happiness over the Crest stained by a persistent itch at the back of his mind.

A thought keeps coming back to Din as he pilots the Crest into orbit, one that confuses the Mandalorian. Something about Arvala-7 feels… unfinished. Deep down, Din knows he will see Kuiil again but he cannot pinpoint why he knows this.

Din feels like he could learn from the Ugnaught. Kuiil offered more insight than Din usually accepts from outsiders, most people who encounter him are too scared to say a word. Conversations are rare for Din, so the way Kuiil spoke to him was… enlightening. The Blurrgs were a deadly obstacle until Kuiil taught him to tame and ride them, the Razor Crest was destroyed until Kuiil suggested he trade with the Jawas, the repairs were impossible until Kuiil proved him wrong.

But the child… Kuiil did not try to convince Din that he needed to do anything with the child. But the Mandalorian did not miss the way Kuiil hoped for the child’s survival, twice he remarked on the topic. Despite his parting words, he did not seem like he was speaking of Din’s reward. There was something else implied under the Ugnaughts well wishes. For someone so forward with communication -a tone rarely used around any Mandalorian- there was a mystery in his choice of words...

A mystery Din doesn’t care to figure out at the moment. The ship is repaired and he will return the asset shortly. End of story.

But the baby-the asset is still knocked out cold, curled up in the bassinet, and breathing shallowly. Its small body is still under the glow of the console lights, even as Din shakes the edge of the pram. Din’s eyes linger on the sleeping child, quick, shallow breaths rising in its chest are the only signs of life. It’s so small, it’s depth of breath should be normal for something of that size, it has to be, right? He does not want to return the quarry cold, the pram holding nothing more than a corpse. A bassinet should never double as a casket. The client assured Din that he knows bounty hunting is a complicated profession, but Din has never heard of anyone returning a cold bounty who died protecting their captor.

A bounty has never saved his life, either.

Din shakes these thoughts away. Didn’t he tell himself he wouldn’t bother to analyze any of this shit? He should focus on navigating the ship back to Nevarro, the multiple encounters with other bounty hunters have set him back far enough. Traveling sub-light leaves the ship too vulnerable even without being followed.

Din is directing the Crest to the nearest hyperspace route when he hears a sound behind him. A soft babbling from the baby sends a wave of elation through his chest, Din wants to whip around and check on the kid the second he hears it stir. But he holds himself back, instead turning his head ever so slightly to curiously to peer at the small face out of the corner of his visor. The heat-scanning filter on his helmet tells him the child’s heart is steadily pumping blood throughout its body, a sign of good health surely. Feeling calmer than he has at any point in the past week, Din throws the ship into hyperspace, on route to land on Nevarro within a day.

But even while Din’s eyes are fixed on the transparisteel windows of the cockpit, his mind is 2 feet behind him with the child. It’s quiet, small coos occasionally bubble up from its little bed but there is no sign of it trying to explore the cockpit. The light of hyperspace is streaking across the cockpit, bathing the small space in a ghostly glow that compliments the console lights pulsing softly under his gloves. All this light sensory feedback bounces off the silence of hyperspace, creating a rhythm that lulls him. Typically, Din would take this time to meditate, calming his body’s nervous system after being in a prolonged heightened state while tracking. But as he takes the usual measured breaths he realizes his mind is still halfway in that anxious area, unable to come down for unknown reasons. It’s the child, it has to be. Quarries don’t typically accompany him in the cockpit for long, carbonite is the safest place to store them on the journey between planets.

He isn’t worried per se, at least not for his own safety around the baby. The usual bounty may take up his focus due to the danger that comes with housing a criminal. But Din can’t keep his mind off the child, it’s choice to save his life and the innate trust it shows to the Mandalorian. Little thing doesn’t know he is the enemy. It may be too young to sense what is going on, or perhaps it is just smart enough to guess that Din saved it’s life when IG-11 turned his blaster to the baby. He hopes it isn’t attached to him because of that.

There is a tugging sensation on Din’s shoulders.

Whipping around, Din locks his eyes on the asset, expecting some sort of resistance from it at last. But it’s just… Chewing on his cape? It swiftly drops the edge of the fabric from its mouth, jaw open in fear in reaction to Din’s sudden movement. Moisture pools at the edges of its eyelids, black eyes glossing over with tears as it shudders silently with a sob.

Din’s heart twists inexplicably. A sickening feeling permeates his stomach as he watches the tears spill over its cheeks. Reaching out quickly with his cape, Din dabs away tears with swift movements, not wanting to linger on the child's face. The baby is still shrunken in on itself in a pitiful way, but its ears have perked up at Din’s gentle action, even if it lasted for less than a few seconds. With the child quieted and face dry, Din turns jerkily to face the windows again, surveying hyperspace.

This time he doesn’t react to the soft tugging on his cape.

#the mandalorian #grogu #fluff fic #star wars #the mandalorian fic #star wars fic #fluff #family fluff #baby yoda #bonding #mandalorian fic #found family #pedro pascal #din djarin #din and grogu

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nciwch · 3 years

Text

Conversations...

We are in deep, deep snow, almost mid-thigh deep for some of the youngest. They are sledding and sliding down a huge snow bank. The youngest starts whimpering as she walks towards me, “The snow is hurting my leg”, she says. I kneel down in the snow next to her and together we scrape aside some snow so that we have a flattish surface to sit on, without completely sinking into the snow. We make ourselves comfortable and she pulls off her boot. I see that it is filled with snow. We empty it out, I help her pull off her sock, squeeze it dry and help her pull it back on. Then we get her boot on. She gets up with a bounce and is back on her feet, singing out a thank you. Me…not so much. I make some ineffective and hopeless maneuvers with my body, trying to get to my feet. I notice the 3 year old is standing and watching me curiously. Her furrowed brow tells me she is either concerned or confused. She comes a couple of steps closer, bends a bit and asks, “You don’t know how to stand up, Ms. Deepa?” I am hot and flustered and more than a little embarrassed and I say, “Of course I know how to stand up but I am finding it challenging to do that right now.” “So are you strated right now?” she asks. “YES! YES! I AM FRUSTRATED RIGHT NOW!” I say a little testily. She semi-squats in front of me, “I see you are stuck, Ms. Deepa. I’m here to help you okay? But you have to work on it yourself first, okay?.” I look up at her, a little taken aback, as the words sound oddly familiar. But she is deadly earnest. “I’ll help you with my words, okay?” Then she gives me a set of directions that sound like TWISTER moves. “You put one hand behind you, okay? Then you push your body up, uh-huh like that …”– she affirms as I try to follow her directions. “Okay, almost done Ms Deepa…oh no, that’s okay...” she commiserates as I collapse back down. “One more time okay?” And this time, she offers me her tiny hand to help pull my Amazonian (in comparison to her) self. Somehow, and I think because of her hand, I manage to get to my feet. “Yaaayy…you did it Ms Deepa,” she smiles clapping her mittened hands. “Your brain just learned something new.” I was so overcome…I could barely whisper out a thank you. It’s a good thing tears don’t freeze on your face.

_____________________________________________________

I am observing two senior students completing their work, making a booklet on the parts of a volcano. They are talking about their struggles with the stapler. “This is a very challenging stapler,” says the younger one who is almost 6. “Yes, ' confirms the older one. "I tried 3 times and each time it staples the book backside front.” “You mean upside down?” asks his work partner. “No, the back is in the front,” demonstrates the 6 1/2 year old, removing the staples yet again. A moment of silence. I contemplate the staples strewn on the rug and when a pair of knees gets really close, I put out to the universe in a conversational tone, “Perhaps staples are best in a corner of the rug so no one steps on them. That could be quite painful.” Instantly the bait is taken as the younger one exclaims, “Ooohhh, I am going to move the staples to the corner of the rug. I don’t want to step on any staples. That would hurt super bad. “ The older one asks suddenly, “Ms. Deepa, do you remember long ago when xxx stapled his finger?” I nodded and said with a slight shudder, “Oh yes, I will never forget that.” More stapling and assembling goes on while the three of us are no doubt recalling a very dramatic moment almost 2 years ago when a child decided to figure out if he could attach a piece of paper to his finger so he could make a flag on his finger. “I wonder where xxx is now,” I muse about that novel experimenter. “I have not seen him for so long.” Says the older one, “Well I just saw him. He came to my house some days ago. We played for a long time. I shared my toys and puzzles with him.” “Oh, how nice! How is he? Which school does he go to now, do you know?” I ask. The gracious host tips his head a little to the side as he ponders my question for a moment and then, “Actually, Ms Deepa, I don’t think he is going to any school. I think he is working from home.”

___________________________

I open the door for the three year old one morning. “Good morning,” I say. “How are you on this cold day?” “Madeline can’t be in school today, Ms Deepa,” she states flatly. Her distress is clearly evident in her screwed up eyes and the frown over her mask. “Oh, my…” I say, playing for time while my mind races through the names of all her immediate relatives. I come up blank. I look mutely at her 5 year old brother just behind her. He just shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. “Why can’t Madeline be at school today?” I ask. “She has to go to the doctor. She’s sick,” the 3 year old replies. “Oh, what part of her body is sick?” She points to her belly. “Stomach ache?” I ask. “No – appendix.” I do a double take. “Oh my…that sounds painful. What does that mean?” “Appendix is when it hurts and hurts and the doctor and the nurse has to do a surgery right here,” she says dramatically clutching her belly. “I see…so where is she now?” I ask. “She is in her bed, she’s in her room… the room is in her house.” I am still trying to figure out who this appendix stricken Madeline is and so I probe almost nonchalantly, “And where is her house?” “In the Madeline book.” ......GOT IT!

_________________________________________________

It's a cloudy winter day and the snow is falling steadily. It's lunchtime in the Peacekeeper Sunflower Classroom. To the gentle and soft strains of a piano instrumental, the children are singing their "Thank you Song" before they begin their lunch. There is of course, always, always the one voice that rises above all others and they belt out the words as the others murmur them in their role of supporting vocals. Today the main vocalist is a 4 1/2 year old :

We thank you, we do

We thank you we do

We thank you for your kindness

We thank you we do.

Thank you for the food WE MEET

Thank you for the friends WE EAT

Help us all to not forget quietness, kindness and respect

Thank you thank you this we say

Thank you for this lovely day!

Then this person nods their head slightly at what they see as their adoring public and graciously says "Thank you. BONE appetit. Now you may eat." I decided I would correct the words on another day....best let them bask in their glory today!!

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It’s lunchtime on another day in the Peacekeeper Sunflower classroom, the lights have been turned off; the room is lit by only the bright sunlight streaming through the large windows; there’s soft music playing – today it is traditional Japanese instrumental music. The first few minutes have been filled with the sounds of opening lunch boxes, surveying what is in them and then as the children start eating, slowly but surely, conversations begin. I am working at the kitchen counter, writing down some observations and behind me, I hear a conversation between a 4 year old sitting (as required, about 6ft away) across from a garrulous 3 year old. “What’s that?” asks the 3 year old. The older child says, “It’s a cut-up egg.” “I don’t like cut-up eggs,” says the 3 year old. “You like them when they are not cut up?” asks the 4 year old. “I like them when they are dead so they can’t move,“ clarifies the younger one. “All eggs are dead, they are non-living,” comes the defining response. A moment’s silence then the older one says in an almost conversational tone, “Do you know some people eat frogs?” “What?!” exclaims the 3 year old. “FROGS? How can you even catch them?” “You have to wait till they are not moving and you can only eat them if they are bull-frogs. My mom says it tastes just like chicken.” The 3 year old has stood up in her astonishment, and is chewing on her sweet pepper, almost unaware of what she is doing. “What about moving penguins?” she asks. The 4 year old expert on nutrition doesn’t miss a beat, “You can’t eat moving penguins. And if you have to wait for them to stop moving, you can freeze.” The 3 year old contemplates this answer and concludes, “I like mangoes.”

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I am observing a student working on a matching work – where they match pictures of the whole fruit to pictures of the fruit cut-up. The 4 1/2-year old finishes the work and is returning the cards to the basket. They look up at me and state, “Ms Deepa, I cannot eat strawberries.” “Why not?” I ask. “I have a histamine for them.” “What does that mean?” I ask. “That means,” they explain, articulating each word clearly for an obviously ignorant adult, “That means if I have strawberries, I have to go to the Doctor’s office, they have to give me a poke, they have to put a band aid on it and then I get a Popsicle.” “Oh,” I say, “so that’s not a problem, then. It can't be so bad. You are getting a Popsicle at the end, right?” There is a pause as they search for the right words to answer and then they say, “It’s not the most efficient way to get a Popsicle, Ms Deepa.”

#Montessori #Nature's Classroom.#conversations #pure joy

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