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your-phantomfield · 2 months

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NOEL = VERMILLION

I .. II .. III circa 2198 for @nkn0va

Noel has been a romantic all of her life- at least, all of it that she can remember. Her poetry books are filled with references to the butterflies of gentle hand-holding, the warmth of a long walk or a sunset watched together, the feeling of finding a lost part of yourself in way your soulmate says your name.

This sappy, lovestruck side of herself is something she’s a little afraid to show you right away- afraid you’ll laugh at her, afraid it'll gross you out or scare you away. But it’s so integral to who she is, it will color your relationship from day one.

You’ll catch her looking at you all the time with this expression of absolute awe. It's one of the rare times she doesn't even look nervous!

Until she realizes you’ve caught her doing it. Then she absolutely panics, stuttering in her rush to apologize or think of an excuse.

II.

She gets lost in thought, admiring the shape of your hands as you work with something or the melody of your voice and how it's always so comforting to her.

What draws her in most are your eyes. It’s probably one of the most obvious ways you can tell she’s falling for you. Noel struggles with eye contact in general, and early on she does try to avoid your gaze just as much as anyone else- but when you do make eye contact, she’s mesmerized. She can’t look away. Noel is someone who believes you can tell a lot about someone from their eyes, and yours drawn her in like nothing else.

Once the two of you are at a comfortable point in your relationship, she tends to hold eye contact with you a lot. She smiles, clearly happy to see you- sometimes giggling a bit- and then eases into this warm, loving expression as she forgets whatever you were talking about and takes a moment to just soak it all in. Her feelings for you. The feelings your presence gives her.

It’s a sanctuary for her. Your name itself is a synonym for peace.

Which is probably a theme of one of the hundreds of poems she’s written about you.

III.

Noel has been writing poetry about you since she first started falling for you. If you ever found out about the tens of dozens of poems she wrote for you before you even started dating, she’d probably drop dead on the spot.

After you started dating, and after another dozen poems gobbled up her notebook, she bought a special notebook just to write about you and your relationship. She probably splurged for fancy tinted paper, with a cute pattern and a color that reminds her of you. It’s carefully organized, neatly decorated with stickers and some small doodles. It would be a really cute anniversary gift for her to give you one day, but just like before, she’d never have the heart to actually let you see it.

There are a few things she writes that she does share with you, though. On rare, incredibly rare, occasion, like a special birthday or your first anniversary, she decides to give you a poem.

She pours her heart and soul into draft after draft, looking over each one to make sure it’s absolutely perfect… then collapses into tears at the thought of you actually reading it. Back to the drawing board.

IV.

She just can’t force herself to give you her work, no matter how hard she tries. The compromise she makes with herself is to send it to you anonymously. She doesn’t sign it, but the way it shows up on your door, windowsill, or desk on the day of your anniversary gives you a pretty big hint that it’s from her.

It appears alongside pressed flowers from her hometown, smelling of a perfume you might be able to recognize that she’s worn on a few of your dates when she really wanted to impress you.

Noel of course adamantly denies any involvement. She insists that she’s never ever ever ever seen that handwriting before, and that it couldn’t POSSIBLY be from her because her anniversary gift to you is this wonderful picnic she made for you! So she’d never send you a letter! L-l-let alone a l-lo-love p-p- ohhh, just stop asking! Just drop it!!! Please!

You’re pretty familiar with her handwriting when you’re dating her. She may be scared to death at the thought of you seeing her poetry, but she writes letters to you often. This is partially brought on by her romantic nature and her love of all things literary.

You could be living in the same apartment together and she’d still leave you a letter every other week, left on your pillow or in your lunch bag or in the pocket of your coat. It’s something she likes to do when you’ve had a bad day or if you won’t be getting home at the same time.

VI.

But I did mention her personal preferences aren’t the only reason she ends up writing you so much. Chances are the two of you aren’t living together. At this point in her life, her work has to be her number one priority.

She’s a member of the NOL, an elite member of their fighting force no less, and serving directly under the Major Kisaragi. The intensity of her job and the ruthlessness of her superior(s) mean she isn’t exactly swimming in free time. She’s too afraid to even try to ask Jin for days off, positive he would shatter her hopes and somehow find a way to punish you, too, whether or not you’re in the NOL yourself.

If you manage to find yourself serving as a member of the 4th Thaurmaturgist Squadron alongside her, you'll be able to spend more time together. She'd likely end up your commanding officer, considering her rank and her time in the academy at Torifune, but she's a lenient commander in general and there's no way she could ever be strict with you.

VII.

More likely, though, is that Noel and you will not be serving in the same unit, even if you are a member of the NOL. If you're able to live in the same Hierarchical city, she'll make time for you on all her days off, and maybe you'd have a chance to move in together.

Though her work does drag her away some times. This is what leads her to write you so much. She can call you, and she does, but her favorite way to stay in touch with you will always be a heartfelt letter. She tends to get nervous on the phone.

Though somehow that's rarely a problem when talking to you… Actually, she finds herself unable to stop talking when the two of you are on the phone! She'll sit down to call you while she's having dinner and planning to get ready for bed soon, and if you don't keep a careful eye on the clock and stop her, it'll be one in the morning and she'll be falling asleep on call. It's pretty cute, but she really does need to be up in morning, and she has a hard enough time getting out of bed as is!

VIII.

Just how much she has to prioritize her work over you is a huge source of guilt for her. It almost crushes her some days.

Maybe one day, she’ll have the courage to tell you why- about the situation her parents are in, about her adoption, about how important it is that she repay them in this way. They saved her. They loved her. When she had nothing. They have to be her top priority right now, which means the NOL has to be her top priority right now. Even over you. It absolutely breaks her heart.

Because of this debt she feels she has to her family, she never intended to live for herself. Like I said at the start, Noel has always been a romantic, in love with love. But she never thought she’d find love for herself. She views herself as plain at best, annoying to many, and unable to offer much, if anything, to anyone. Yet somehow… you chose her?

She'll never understand why. Every day she's with you, she sees you as more and more incredible. Her low confidence leads her to idolize the people she loves.

She feels she couldn't possibly deserve all the patience you offer her. She's so busy with her job, she can't promise you a future, she can't buy you the kinds of things you deserve, she knows there are prettier and smarter women you could be with.

Yet you stay with her. Through all her failures.

She'll never have the words- and I don't have the words- to express how grateful she is for the way you love her.

#noel vermillion #romantic #x reader #first request done #somehow I ended up writing way more than I meant to...#please no spelling mistakes please no spelling mistakes please no spelling mistakes please #it's too late for me to be proofreading this again I KNOW I'm sleepy

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ivybucky · 3 years

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dog tags and photographs - s.r. x fem!reader

Request from @moonstuffsteve : OK OK BUT CAN I REQUEST A STEVE FIC WHERE READER IS LIKE WASHING HIS UNIFORM AND FINDS A PICTURE OF HER IN THE SUIT AND GETS ALL HAPPY AND LIKE STEALS HIS DOGTAGS AND STEVE THINKS ITS THE CUTEST THING EVER THANK YOU

a/n: this was adorable and just so domestic so thank you Al! I’ve fallen into a nice little writing routine recently and ive been cranking these requests out like they’re NOTHING. as always, thanks for supporting my writing and fics i put out- i really want this blog to turn into something great, but i need to work on it a little bit more.

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author: abby<3

words: 1385

cw: mention of stress, rough mission, domesticity, worry

Y/N smiled to herself as she listened to her boyfriend’s snores echoing through the apartment, something he swore he didn’t do. She had half a mind to record it, but the win wasn’t worth the fight.

She picked his uniform off the ground of the bedroom, shaking off whatever dust she could. His undershirt was thrown across the room next to the bed. She gathered it in her arms before looking towards his sleeping face. His hair had stuck to his forehead, sweat and dirt acting as an adhesive. Her nails picked at it, brushing it away from his face, before laying a sweet kiss to his forehead where his brows were drawn up with whatever dream he was having.

It wasn’t uncommon for her to wash Steve’s uniform. While he was definitely a gentleman, who would never make her do his laundry, Y/N took pride in doing this for him whenever he had a rough mission. He could sleep off the stress while you made sure he woke up to a stress and responsibility-free environment.

She huffed, walking towards the washer, making a mental reminder to set his combat boots out to dry the mud he tried to avoid tracking in. How many pockets does a combat suit need? You don’t see Nat with this many pockets. She knew how Steve was, how he had his own knives, and tools scattered between the fabric of his uniform. Opening every pocket was more of a chore than actually doing the washing, but it was part of the process.

Her hands brushed over soft paper, different from the usual metals that she found from extra bullets to blades. No, this was soft, pliable to her working fingers. She tugged the gently folded piece from his chest pocket. Curiosity grabbed a hold of her, urging her to unfold it and inspect it carefully. It was a photo of the two of them, when they had gone out for her birthday in the last month. He had pulled them to the park, stopping by her favorite store, and then taking a stroll. Y/N had convinced him to take pictures with the self timer on her polaroid, leading to him keeping the photo.

She hadn’t expected him to hold to it like this, folded neatly into the pocket of what he wore whenever he was away from her. She smiled, remembering how he had wrapped his arms around her that day, resting his chin at the juncture of her neck. Happy looked good on him.

She set the photo down in the basket she used to keep his things together, reminding herself to ask about it later. The washer rumbled slightly as the heavy fabric sloshed in the water.

“Sweetheart?” He called through the apartment, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Hi sleepyhead,” she wrapped her arms around his middle. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. Where’s my-”

“In the wash, don’t worry about it.”

“Wait,” his back stiffened in panic. “Is it already running?”

“Baby, I said don’t worry I got everything out of the pockets.”

He paused again, cheeks going a little bit redder. “Everything?”

Y/N only smiled knowingly, reaching up to press a smile to his cheek. “Everything. Now what do you want for dinner?”

He smiled sheepishly, following her into the kitchen.

----

A couple of weeks had gone by and all Y/N felt was guilt. While she knew that she was caring enough in her relationship with Steve, she had sort of underestimated her importance to him. Important enough to carry a physical photograph in his uniform.

And while he obviously had held onto something of her while he was away, Y/N had yet to find something to bring her own self any kind of comfort. Most days spent alone while Steve was on a mission were spent trying to stay busy, to keep her mind off worrying. The missions where he couldn’t communicate were the worst. The only thing to keep her feet on the ground was their apartment. The way his scent lingers on the sheets, the small stack of drawing journals in the corner of their room, the record player sitting in the living room. While they were all things uniquely him, they weren’t close enough, needing to hold more meaning.

He was gone now, hundreds of miles away, doing what he did best - be a hero. Y/N’s knee bounced as she sat back on the couch, waiting for her boyfriend to return. He had sent a message hours ago, saying he was on his way back, saying not to wait up. She knew she would stay away as long as she could though, just to see him when he returned.

She tried to relax, wearing one of his large t-shirts and listening to a soft record as she waited. Time, however, was not kind and only continued to move slowly. With a sigh, she decided to do some chores, any chores that were left, to pass the time. That is when she saw them.

While Steve had amazing leadership skills, he was, in reality, quite forgetful when he wasn’t focused on doing his patriotic deeds. That’s why when Y/N moved to the bathroom to change out the towels and saw Steve’s dog tags on the counter, she paused. Thin metal was smooth through fingers, save for the imprints of his name and service numbers that her thumb ran over gently.

It was bittersweet, honestly - holding the thing that began Steve’s entire career, and not having him there to bring any kind of comfort. She pushed away whatever sadness remained, clutching the chain to her chest as she walked back to the living room. Without thinking too much about it, she slipped the necklace over her head, letting the tags hang just under her sternum.

Suddenly, she had something. Something with much more meaning than a scent, something tangible, something close enough. Her worried adrenaline left her body, and as she settled into the couch, she was able to fall asleep with ease for the first time since he had left.

Steve was almost worried when he entered the quiet apartment. His return was usually met with some kind of fanfare - a tight hug around his neck, a body scan for any injuries, an interrogation of his mental well-being. Tonight though, the apartment remained quiet as he shuffled through the threshold of the front door. His eyes swept over what he could see, finding nothing too out of place. Of course she cleaned. His ears, those genetically modified ears, however, picking up the slight snore, something she swore she didn’t do, of her sleeping form.

His feet carried him to the living room where she laid against the cushions, wrapped in his shirt, clutching his military tags in her hand. His shoulders dropped as he took in the sight, a new kind of relief hitting his body.

He crouched down, a dirty hand gently brushing the hair away from her forehead. “Y/N?”

“Mmm?” she mumbled, brows scrunching at the vibration of his voice. “Steve? You’re home.”

“Yeah, baby,” he smiled. “Want me to carry you to bed?”

Y/N rubbed her eyes as she nodded, tags falling from her fingers. He swept her up in his arms, thanking a god he had strength in his body. Her head rested against his chest, hand trailing over his heart. His mouth pressed a kiss to her forehead, adoring the sight before him.

“You wearing my tags?” he asked softly, not wanting to disturb whatever peace she still held onto.

“‘M sorry. Was missing you.”

“Shh, baby, don’t apologize.” He set her body down in the bed, pulling the sheets up over body. “You look better in them than I do.”

He left her to take a shower, but not before she called out for him, grabby hands sent in his direction. “Steve?”

“I’m coming right back, I just gotta wash off. I’m covered in sweat.”

“Don’t care. C’mere.”

He chuckled, slipping out of his uniform and saddling up next to her under the sheets. He kissed her head again, whispering words of love and comfort as she fell back into her slumber.

He had never been happier to fall asleep in his life.

forever tags: @avengers-do-it-better @maisondumepris @hamiltonwrite12

steve and bucky tags: @fab-notfat @mcueveryday @nanners-the-great @mcubuckyandsteve @captainfile @moonstuffsteve

steve only tags: @patzammit

#steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers x fem!reader #captain america x fem!reader #nomad steve?#i just like to look at him #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fic #steve rogers request #captain america fluff #captain america fic #captain america request #marvel #captain america #steve rogers #chris evans

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bluberrystarboy · 3 years

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Our Love Will Never Die

Pirate! AU

Summary: In which, Princes Jeno and Jaemin are captured by pirates, and just want to escape to live their lives together

Warnings: Heavy Angst, Major Character Death, Minor Character Death, Blood, Swords, Guns, Drowning, Sword fighting, Violence, Very brief mentions of wanting to die

Characters: Prince! Jeno, Prince! Jaemin, Pirate Captain! Taeyong, Pirate Captain! Mark, Pirate Captain! Haechan

Words: 4,668

Playlist Link: https://youtu.be/eOfw5D7yVRU

A/N: Ive been really into the idea of pirates and princes lately, so i wrote some angst! Hope you enjoy ^-^ Please tell me how you like it!

Jeno could only look down, trying to stop the salty ocean water mopped in his hair from falling into his eyes. He rubbed his wrist lightly, the metal shackles chafing and cutting into his skin. He could hear the heavy footsteps trudge down the stairs, but couldn’t bring himself to look up.

Jeno could hear the grin in his voice as the man spoke to him, the evil flowing past his lips, “Up, Your Highness.”

He clenched his fists at the emphasis put on his title as he stood, keeping his head down. He heard the clinking of the metal as the cell door opened, and he was tugged by his wrists, gun pressed to his back as he walked up the stairs and onto the deck. He ignored the stares and cackling sent his way as he walked. He finally looked up as he walked, seeing the grins and whistles and hearing faint, ‘Hello Your Highness’s’ sent his way. Jeno continued to ignore them.

He also ignored the beating of his heart as he was pushed up another set of stairs, to the captain's deck. He watched as the crowd around the captain’s table dispersed, making way for the captain himself to walk forward. He couldn’t understand what he was saying, the pounding in his heart was blocking out his perception of sound. Jeno couldn’t look him in the eyes either, moving to look back down at his feet in misery.

He heard a scowl and a deep, “Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy.”

Jeno looked up at him with dim eyes, hair blowing in the ocean wind. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry with the captain, or even try to fight him.

“Do you know who I am, boy?”

Jeno could only shake his head, shuffling the shackles around his hands a little more.

The captain broke out into a mean grin, tilting his head to the side slightly to meet his eyes, “Well then, why don’t we introduce ourselves?”

Jeno watched as the captain moved away from him, his long coat trailing behind him as he moved to stand on the table, looking over the deck railing to the rest of his crew. He heard his voice ring out through the dark chilled air, a wicked smile on his face, “Who are we, men?”

The voices rang out clear in return, shouting back at him,”The Silver Hydra!”

He watched the captain turn to face him, bowing slightly in mockery as he spoke,” And I, Your Highness, am the captain Taeyong Lee, one-third of the Lee brothers.”

Jeno could feel his heart stuck in his throat. He tried to keep a solemn expression, he really did. But with Captain Taeyong’s smirk, he knew his expression had given him away.

“So, you do know who I am, then?” He asked in a sickly sweet voice.

Jeno didn’t answer him, fear and panic growing in his body. He had heard stories about the Lee brothers.

---------------

The three brothers Lee, captains of the blue sea. Many know who they are, few meet them and live to tell the tale. They were all three happy loving brothers, once. Soon to be rulers of the prestigious kingdom of Apra, a small kingdom but a cheerful one nonetheless.

One night, in the midst of a harsh winter, the three Lee brothers were awoken to the screams and cries of their people, right outside the castle. The oldest brother, Lee Taeyong, ran to fetch his younger brothers and hide them from the harsh reality of the outer walls of the castle. They ran and hid in a small storage closet, just as they heard the palace doors break down. The youngest brother, Lee Donghyuck, shook with fear as he waited for the hundreds of foot steps to pass. The middle brother, ever the adventurer, had decided he wanted to fight them off, defend his kingdom from attack. Mark had ended up getting all three of them caught and captured, being placed on their knees in front of their parents in the throne room of their palace. The king and queen, sitting in shame.

The pirates had told their parents, “You still owe us, for the favor that has gotten you here today.”

The King and Queen had pleaded with them to stop, to give them a chance to fully repay them. The Queen had cried, “Please stop this! What do you want from us?”

The Pirates could only laugh. You see, the king and queen already known what they had wanted, the minute they had started their pillaging through their kingdom.

The Pirates told them, “You know what we want, Your Highnesses. Our payment, in full. Now.”

The King could only bow his head in shame as he turned to look at their three children, eyes full of guilt and sorrow. “We don’t have it.”

The Captain of the Pirate crew could only laugh again, turning towards the three princes, “You don’t? Then I guess the kingdom is ours boys! Take what you want!”

The Queen looked up at them as they started moving, shouting, “Wait!” and as everyone turned to watch, she looked at her husband before speaking again.

“Take them.”

The Pirates could only stand, waiting for confirmation from the King.

The King looked one last time at his three children, before nodding in agreement, “Yes. Take them.”

The three princes could only watch in shock as the Captain moved towards them, a grin as wide as the sea on her face, “You hear that boys? Looks like Mommy and Daddy care more about their throne than you. Even though it is rightfully mine.” She spat, turning back to the King and Queen with a grin. “But this ought to be enough payment, don’t you think?”

The Captain turned to her crew, smiling wider if possible, before speaking in a soft manner, “Tie them up.”

And as the princes were stripped from their home and made prisoner of the Bandits of the Eternal Raid, they left behind the innocent and loving parts of themselves. The parts of themselves that made them weak, as they liked to say now.

It is unclear how they themselves became leaders of their own pirate crews and gained their own ships. Some say they killed the captain of the Eternal Raid and took over her ship, others say they escaped and stole the ships themselves.

One thing is clear; they will never be the princes they once were. And you were lucky to even be alive more than a day once captured on their ship. So while not many have lived to tell the tale of the Lee brothers, everyone knows who they are.

---------------

Jeno knew who they were, what they were capable of. He knew he was in trouble, just by being here. And that caused him to start panicking. He knew Captain Taeyong could see it on his face, too. He decided he should at least make a run for it, maybe he could grab someone's gun to defend himself.

That thought quickly diminished however, when he saw him. His lover, the man he was set to marry. The one person he had loved and cared for more than anything in this world.

Jeno hadn’t seen him in days. He had been trapped in the cell below the ship for four days, little food and water being given to him. Jaemin looked worse. He looked as if he had no food at all for days on end, only having enough to barely keep him alive. He was tied to the post of the back sail of the ship, back pressed against it as he teetered close to the railing. He sucked in a breath as their eyes met, and Jeno watched the tears well up in his eyes as he saw him.

Jeno was brought back to reality by a harsh slap across his cheek. He winced slightly and could hear Jaemin’s soft whimper across the deck, turning to look back at the Captain again as he spoke, “You answer someone when they ask you a question, boy. Or are you distracted with our new pet?”

He could feel his anger rising as the words rang through his ears, having to will his mouth to speak before being cut off, “I see. He means something to you.” Jeno watched as Captain Taeyong moved to stand on the table once more, turning towards the post and leaning down to grip onto Jaemin’s chin, forcing him to turn and look at Jeno before he turned his head himself.

He shouted out to his crew, keeping eye contact with Jeno as he did so, “Look at what we have here, mates! A pair of starcrossed lovers! Your love, written across the stars, hm?”

Jeno’s hand was itching to grab a sword or a gun, just something to try and get them free, to get them to safety.

He watches Taeyong squeeze Jaemin’s jaw just a bit harder and he can hear the crew around him laughing and he can’t help the rage flowing throughout his body as he yells at him, “Get your filthy hands off of him!”

He can feel the silence settle across the crowd as the Captain stands, jumping off the table and making his way over to him with a dark glare, sure to make anyone's insides twist up in knots. He stands directly in front of him, his face too close for Jeno’s liking.

With a darkly quiet voice, he speaks directly to Jeno, “What did you say to me, boy?”

Jeno can only swallow his nerves, using the close proximity to his advantage as he reaches for the Captain’s sword while replying, “I said, get your hands off of him.”

As he unsheathes the sword, he stands there with it drawn, ready to use the surprise to his advantage and push it through the Captain's chest. But Taeyong is faster, grabbing one of his men from the side and pulling him in front of him as Jeno pushes the sword through his chest.

Captain Taeyong can only smirk at him, before drawing the sword from the dead crew member and pointing it forward as he drops the man to the side. He moves forward to try and slice Jeno’s side, but he reacts just quick enough to counter him.

Jeno jumps back slightly as more of the crew along with their captain start coming at him, attempting to slice and stab at him. He silently praises his parents for forcing him to take those fencing and sword fighting lessons.

He can feel more and more people start to surround him and he desperately tries to fight for his and his lover's freedom, stabbing and slicing through crew members of the ship. He can see the younger members of the pirate crew cower away, moving to hide behind barrels and things they could find, as not to be forced to join the fight. Jeno’s heart yearns to take them to safety, get them out of the dangerous ocean waters and back to his palace with Jaemin by his side.

He hears a scream from in front of him, and that causes him to snap back to reality, just in time to feel the cool metal of a dirty blade slicing through his side. He knew that scream, that voice. He felt it in his chest, fear and panic settling in as he frantically fought against the crowd coming towards him, trying to get to the table from before, the post with which his lover was tied.

He finally broke through the crowd and for a split second his defense broke, his hand dropping to his side. He watched in horror, all fighting energy leaving his body for mere seconds as Taeyong held his sword in front of Jaemin, both of them standing on the railing of the ship. Taeyong held onto Jaemin by his shirt only, his whole body leaning over the edge with his hands and feet still bound.

Jeno looked up into Jaemin’s eyes, his own full of fear as Jaemin looked back in desperation. He felt his heart beating faster than before as he came back to the reality of the situation, raising his sword to defend his lover once more. He saw the glint of mischief in the captain's eye, and it only fueled his anger and fear.

He swung his sword with fervor, ignoring his shackled hands and trying his hardest to get past all of the pirates to reach his lover. He heard Captain Taeyong’s voice from in front of him, moving his sword around as he spoke.

“You know, boy, I was planning on sparing you both, maybe having you work with my crew or my brothers. I think I might have to change plans now though, to teach you a lesson about respect.”

Jeno’s heartbeat sped up as he tried his hardest to break past the crowd once more, his desperation showing as he fought and fought.

He cried out a sharp, “No!” as he swung his sword more, stabbing through people and pushing to try and get them out of his way.

When he finally pushed past the crowd of men and made his way to the table, it was too late. He was too late. He watched as Taeyong sliced the side of Jaemin’s arm, and as Jeno jumped over the table to reach him, Taeyong let him go.

Jeno screamed, “Jaemin!” as he reached the railing and watched him fall, his hand reaching out for him. He heard and felt the desperation in his voice as Jaemin screamed, reaching out for Jeno with bound hands.

He watched Jaemin hit the water with a splash, before gripping onto the railing, tears welling in his eyes. He felt his heart pounding, knowing that Jaemin was under the water, struggling to get free and swim to the surface. He knew he was struggling to breathe, to stay alive. And it killed him. He kept thinking of ways to get down in the water, to look for him, to save him. But it was no use.

Jeno turned toward the Captain in an angry, pained daze, raising his sword as tears fell from his eyes. He walked towards him, his face hardening as he swung at him, trying to slice and stab him as hard as he could. He screamed with each swing he made, each step he took, “Save him! Save him! Save him now!”

Captain Taeyong kept his devilish smirk on his face as he dodged all the attacks made towards him. Jeno only tried harder, tears starting to cloud his vision as they fell.

Because of his blurred vision, he ended up stabbing a post, but Jeno couldn’t bring himself to care. He fell to his knees in front of Taeyong, tears streaming down his face as he screamed. He screamed for as long as his lungs would allow him to. He didn’t care about the hundreds of crew members watching him or the seemingly never fading smirk on the Captain's face. None of it mattered to him.

It was his fault. He started fighting. Maybe they would’ve survived if he hadn’t said anything. Maybe it could’ve been the other way around.

He could feel the pain in his heart, knowing Jaemin had struggled and died a slow and painful death. All he could feel was pain and grief. He kept his head down as he whispered a small sentence, “Why did you do it?”

Jeno heard the Captain shuffle forward and grab his chin, forcing him to look up at him as he spoke quietly and harshly, “I already told you, Your Highness,” he spoke his title with annoyance, “to teach you about respect. You, of all people, should know about that.”

He walked away to collect his sword out of the post Jeno had stabbed it through, looking at the blade and wiping away a little blood as he kept talking, louder this time, “I’ll offer you this chance one more time. Join my crew or one of my brothers. Seeing your skill now, you could make a great addition.”

Jeno couldn’t wrap his head around what he was saying. Was he seriously asking him to join him, after he just drowned the love of his life? After he took them captive from their kingdom, their lives? He didn’t understand.

He only now remembered the wound in his side, moving to put his hand over the open slice and looking at it, watching the blood flow. He could feel a few presences behind him, forcing him to stand. He looked up at the Captain, a dark, sorrowful look in his eyes as he spoke, “Bring him back.”

Taeyong could only hum in response, egging Jeno on further.

With a scream this time, “Bring him back!”

Taeyong gave him a pointed look, before growling and sheathing his sword.

“You wanna see him again? Fine.” Taeyong turned towards his men, “Boys! Send out a rescue boat!”

He turned to face Jeno again, before yelling, “Bring back the body.”

Jeno didn’t like the way that sentence made him feel. Those words stung. Jeno could feel it in his heart. Body. Jaemin’s body. He had been reduced to just a body rather than a person, a person with a soul, a mind, a spirit, a heart.

Jaemin had meant the world to Jeno. They were planning to marry, to unite their kingdoms as one and rule over their people with a kind heart. Everything had been in place too. They had the wedding planned, rings made for them, crowns ready for the coronation ceremony afterwards.

It was all gone. All a fever dream, an idea, a memory. The love of his life, dead before his eyes.

He hadn’t even registered that he’d been tied to the same post as his lover, kept under the watchful eye of the Captain, as one of the younger sailors tended to his wound. He could only keep his head down, more tears falling as he stood there. He would occasionally look over his shoulder, out to sea to watch the rescue boat.

Jeno isn’t sure how long he stood there and watched them search, but he couldn’t hold back his heavy sobs when he heard a whistle, watching as they pulled something from the ocean depths and rowed back to the ship.

Jeno knew it was Jaemin’s body. He knew what he was going to see. It’s not something he was prepared for.

He watched as the boat was pulled back up, the sailors and the body being pulled out. Taeyong stood at the ledge overlooking the ship, watching as the men carried his lover's body up the deck and laid him on the floor.

Taeyong looked down at Jaemin with a tsk, nudging lightly at his foot before walking over to Jeno. He unsheathed his sword, cutting off the rope that held Jeno against the post as he spoke,”You got what you wanted, kid. Now go look at what you asked for.”

Jeno fell to the ground with a soft thud, before scrambling over to Jaemin’s dead, wet body. He sobbed quietly as he pulled Jaemin’s body in his lap, rocking back and forth in hysteria.

He looked down at him, softly brushing his wet hair away from his face as his tears dripped onto him. He cupped his cheeks gently, caressing them softly as he whispered sweet and broken promises to him, recounting moments shared between them and the lost moments they could’ve had.

Jeno stays like that, crying with Jaemin’s body in his hands until his own body falls still, sleep and exhaustion overtaking him.

---------------

He wakes up the next day, back in the cell he was once in, his shackles removed and replaced with rope. He couldn’t bring himself to care about that fact however, as he looked in the cell across from his own.

Staring back at him, was the dead body of his lover. He didn’t feel the tears well up in his eyes again, instead feelings of guilt and pain washing over him. He could only stare at him, not looking away, even as he hears the door open and footsteps walk down the stairs.

It feels like deja vu to him, those footsteps resounding in his ear. Oh, how he wishes he could do it all over again.

He finds the Captain and two sailors standing in front of him, sharing that same wicked smile from before. He watches as they open the cell door, prepared for a fight but Jeno doesn’t give one, opting to just walk out and follow Taeyong instead. He can hear the door to the other cell opening, but he keeps walking, not wanting to look back at Jaemin any longer.

When he arrived on deck, he looked out into the sea, finding two other pirate ships following closely behind The Silver Hydra's ship. At first, Jeno thought they were under attack, but looking around at the calmness of the other sailors, he relaxed.

Taeyong brought him back up to the Captain’s Deck, taking his place at the wheel as Jeno stood behind him. He could feel two other presences at the table behind him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about figuring out who it was. It wasn’t until one of them spoke, their voice deep and soft, that he turned around.

“Who is this beauty, Yongie? You snagged a real find, didn’t you?”

Taeyong turned back to face him, resting against the wheel, “Even better, he can fight. I wanted to see if either of you wanted him on your crew. He clearly doesn’t wanna work under my command. Not after yesterday.”

He heard the second man hum in response, standing to come circle around Jeno, taking him in.

The Lee Brothers. Jeno figured that must be who they are, who he could be forced to work under. He just looked down under their gazes, not daring to look at the body of his lover leaning against the railing a couple feet away.

The smaller of the two, who he assumed must be Donghyuck, grabbed his chin and forced him to look up, smiling widely at him, with a strange mischief and curiosity in his eyes.

“So you say he’s a good fighter? Let’s see it then.” He spoke, turning back to Taeyong.

Jeno watched as a crew member unsheathed their sword under Taeyong directions, untying his rope bound hands and handing it to him. His limbs felt heavy at the weight of the sword, not having it in him to pick it up and care about fighting for his life.

But then he looked at Jaemin’s body. His beautiful Jaemin, the love of his life, the only person he cared about. And his body was once again filled with rage.

He tensed up, and ignored Captain Donghyuck as he unsheathed his sword, lifting his head and turning to run towards Captain Taeyong instead, finally catching him off guard.

He landed a slice on his arm before Taeyong had unsheathed his sword, giving his brothers a pointed look and telling them to back off. He stood in a fighting stance as Jeno charged at him again, anger filling every fiber of his body as he fought, not caring about the amount of damage that was inflicted upon his body.

He fought back tears as he kept stabbing at Taeyong, finally listening to the words spewing out of his mouth as his anger died down a little.

“You’re mad at me for teaching you a lesson, boy? For killing your lover? You were probably planning on marrying him, weren’t you?”

Jeno only seethed more, fighting harder and ignoring the pain from his previous wounds.

“Newsflash, Little Prince! Not everything works out as planned! Not all love stories have happy endings! And you know what? You and him could’ve been okay if you would’ve stayed put. You killed that boy, not me!”

Jeno yelled at that, using his body strength to pin Taeyong to the short railing of the deck before speaking softly, “At least when I kill you, I’ll have no regrets.”

And Jeno pushed. Taeyong fell over the railing and Jeno watched as tears finally welled up in his eyes, letting the Captain's words settle in his head.

He thought it was over. He really did. But he watched as another Lee, presumably Captain Mark, grabbed onto his brother's hand, hoisting him up and over the railing once more. He then felt hands grab him from behind, and a dark voice spoke in his ear.

“It’s not that easy to kill a Lee, Your Highness.”

He listened as all three of the Lee’s cackled, tears rolling down his face. He turned to look at Jaemin once again, trying to break free of the grip on his body to go to him.

Taeyong hummed lightly beside him, walking over to inspect Jaemin’s body. He kicked at it lightly, before turning around to scowl and glare darkly at Jeno.

“You wanna be with him that badly, don’t you? Fine then.”

He watched as Taeyong motioned for two of his sailors to grab Jaemin’s body and force him into Jeno’s arm. Jeno’s tears cascaded down his cheeks as he felt Jaemin’s head slump against his shoulder, his once warm arms making no motion to hug him again. He felt a rope wrap around him and Jaemin’s body, forcing them together as he was pushed forward and down the stairs by the two sailors, the Lee’s watching from their deck.

Jeno felt the sailors force him onto the plank of wood jutting out from the ship, their swords pointed at him, not allowing him to turn around and walk back.

He gripped onto Jaemin’s body with his life, his heart pained and racing. He didn’t have a choice. He could still see the desperation on Jaemin’s face as he was let go, falling off the side of the ship. He could see the look of fear as he reached out for Jeno, a sharp cry escaping his lips.

He turned to face Taeyong as he spoke, tears still streaming down his face. He made no motion to stop them from falling either.

“Listen here, sailors! Look at how our star-crossed lovers ended up! I know some of you here are hopeful to find yourselves a pretty little thing to call yours, but heed this warning. You are pirates! And pirates don't need love. We just need each other. So I won’t stop you if you look for love! But just remember, you will turn out just like these two. Their love was written in the stars, right?”

Taeyong turned to look at Jeno as he spoke, a dark, evil, and somewhat hurt expression on his face as he spoke.

“Now look at them. Their so-called ‘love’, drowned at sea.”

Jeno sniffled and cried more as Taeyong spoke to him, looked at him. A part of him wasn’t ready to die. A part of him wanted to live, to avenge Jaemin’s death, to go back to their kingdoms to honor him and live on.

But another part of him wanted this. Another part of him felt he deserved it. He had been the one to kill Jaemin. So maybe, he could see him again. They could celebrate their love, both drowned at sea and in the stars.

He heard a few more words spoken and then, Jeno was falling. He looked down at Jaemin’s face one last time, taking in his features and kissing his forehead as he fell, the pain in his heart swelling before he hit the water. He struggled for a while, trying to breathe and break away towards the surface before he gave up, clinging to Jaemin as they both faded into the depths of the ocean.

Now truly, their love was drowned at sea.

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infinites-chaser · 3 years

Text

2/5/21

NEON

1. Teenage bedroom (late night)

2. Lord

3. Planetarium

4. Basketball court

5. Malevolence

prompts by @nosebleedclub can be found here!

i. it’s cold and dark— the new moon and cloudy skies mean only the artificial glow of streetlights filters in, soft and subdued, through the hazy fabric of his curtains. 1:30, reads the clock. he closes his eyes. opens them when dreams won’t come.

it’s often that teenagers like him are lost, this time of night, it’s often that sleep can’t find him.

ii. he doesn’t believe in god, he never has, not since his father first laid his eyes on him, laid hands on his mother, took away his little brother. when he looks to the whorls of stars glued clumsy and hasty to his bedroom ceiling, when he closes his eyes at night, he does not pray to any lord. he worships her smile.

iii. there’s a galaxy swirling in the depths of her clear gaze, constellations that could be drawn in the scattering of freckles across her cheeks that only darken come summer. she dimples. stars collide, stars reform. it’s astronomy planetariums and textbooks could never hope to teach, astronomy only poets and lovers know.

(he’s pulled into her orbit, the weight of his heart nothing against her gravity. her force. his heartbeat accelerates. but he doesn’t fall, he flies.)

iv. physics class blurs past him. most of his classes do. but when the teacher’s droning voice turns to talk of the stars above, the way the planets move, he listens. it makes sense, somehow, though little else in school does. he thinks of it often. of laws of motion. of forces and attraction.

an object in motion will stay in motion, the teacher says.

she moves him. his heart’s restless. it stays restless, no matter what he does.

he drums his fingers on his desk in time with his racing heart, doesn’t stop even when the bully in the seat in front twists around to glare. he ignores the boy, lets his eyes instead follow her across the classroom.

basketball helps, keeps his motion focused, lets it flow. he dribbles the ball. thinks about the ball’s bounce, its steady spring back up after every fall. thinks about how she says she liked the other team’s dunk, the way the last player had looked when he’d scored.

he jumps. he shoots. he scores. he makes sure it’s when she’s watching, he’s rewarded with her bright congratulations! and her grin, a small cosmic wonder.

it feels like flying. like defying gravity.

(when she faints during p.e. he’s by her side. she gives him a band-aid, after, cheeks flushed, dimples showing.

for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, he thinks, and puts the bandage on with an answering smile.)

v. there’s his father’s anger, vicious swirling storm of violence that leaves him broken breathless beaten, curled into a corner wishing for gentle winds and the summer stars. his father’s anger and the cold winter that follows, eyes that look past him, that look through him, murmur you failure, you, that put icy fingers of frost deep into even the warmest corners of his heart. there’s the bullies who corner him atop the roof, knives in hand, telling him to jump, telling him his destiny was always to fall.

he survives the bullies. weathers his father. but when it’s her standing in front of him, his fist curled in a boy’s shirt, her starbright eyes dim with horror, it dawns on him. there are some falls that were always meant to happen. there are some orbits he can’t escape from (this one’s a hole opened up in the pit of his stomach, dark and wide, his snarl reflected in her eyes an inescapable force that pulls him apart, pulls him under). this is his event horizon.

PASTEL

1. Teenage bedroom (soft morning)

2. Dwarf rabbit

3. Seaside memory

4. Embrace

5. Peach juice

v. she likes the juice normally. it’s sweet and light and refreshing, a nectar of the gods, bottled in it is a hundred laughs and smiles, the taste of summers gone by. today, the drink sits heavy on her tongue, choking, cloying artificial sugar that makes her stomach turn.

what’s wrong, her friend asks. it tastes like missed opportunities, she thinks but does not say, it tastes like what-could-have-been turned sour, then sugared over again, far too sweet, it tastes like regret. it tastes like a bloodstained letter from a desperate boy left unopened, like a desperate boy left standing in an empty parking lot, his heart in his hands a star, waiting to fall.

she says, it’s nothing, smiles, and tries not to wince when she sips at her straw again.

iv. they don’t ever hug in their teenage years. they could barely manage the brush of fingers without the hint of a blush. when they meet again, it’s different. gravity, attraction, all the laws of physics bend his path back to her.

he falls back into her orbit like breathing, an inhale, an exhale, and he’s weightless, he’s flying again.

she saves him. he saves her.

when she’s in his arms, he wonders if she sees stars in his eyes, wonders if she thinks there’s a gentle supernova within his every smile. little does he know, she’s wondering the same things, too.

for every action, he nearly remembers, slow and distant, a memory from light-years away, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

iii. once there was an ocean between him and her, waves of years-old misunderstandings come crashing down through time to separate them. tides rise. tides overflow. there is truth to be had on both sides, she thinks, in the flood of feelings that follows. there is a peace to be found when the tide goes out again, an understanding when they stand beside each other, hand-in-hand, back to the storm-swept past, looking to the starlit seashore of their future.

call it what you will. call it love.

ii. she curls against him, her head on his chest, hair fanned out in ripples of starless sky. they’re universe enough, two celestial things settled into comfortable orbit: some nights she circles him, some nights it’s her. his moon. her jupiter. he’s mapped an infinite number of constellations from her dimples down the small of her back and lower. she’s traced comets and meteors across the scars on his torso, discovered nebulas high on his cheekbones, made them burn bright red under her touch.

still, they turn their eyes skyward, to galaxies beyond. a world within their arms, a world without.he points out the constellations, draws out the shape of their mythological namesakes with one outstretched hand. over here, a legendary hunter, he says. there, a lyre.

here, a goddess, he says, and his eyes are on hers. she blushes. in the flush of her cheeks, he imagines new stars are born. (fusion, fission. love as something stronger than a nuclear reaction.)

tell me about the different types of stars, she says instead of a reply. he nods, pulls her closer, recites facts slow and soft he learned for her years ago: dwarfs, giants, all their different colors. she giggles at dwarf; she always does, asks if she’s a dwarf, a dwarf bunny. he laughs, pokes her nose, says, weren’t you listening, that’s not a kind of star—

his voice gentles to silence. she cranes her neck to look up at the stars in his bright eyes, the planets, the worlds.

maybe we’re binary stars, he says at last. you and i.

i. it’s warm and bright— rays of dawn drift light and dreamy through her open window painting long panes of her rumpled blankets the gold of the morning’s sunshine. he murmurs words, soft, loving, unintelligible, against the crown of her head. she smiles an i love you and a good morning into his chest, presses a kiss to his heart, and snuggles closer. his hand finds hers beneath shared sheets. their fingers tangle. they take their waking slow, their hearts beating as one, a secret language, a morse code of lovers, spelling out the words you are found. you are home.

#val writes #mlqc #but also not #i based this off of characters and i think the fandom can easily guess which but also i'd like to think it stands on its own #was kinda just messing around with this bc i rly liked the prompts aklsjfd but it was rly fun hhhnngh hopefully someone appreciates me #trying to wax poetic #nosebleed club

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letterstomilen · 3 years

Text

the death of rex lapis (hopefully)

Zhongli, Vampire Alternative Universe (warning: this is mainly expositional bc ive had fun playing around w the idea of how zhongli would be if he was a vampire so idk where this’ll go! there is some childe/zhongli but not much!! anyways happy birthday zhongli i love you :) Zhongli does not make a good vampire.

Immortality is meant to make you smart.

But what people forget is that you don’t live that long because of wits. Immortality does not mean you are capable; it means that you were foolish enough to get bitten and didn’t think much of it later.

He wasn’t clever when he was held by Guizhong, who smiled sweetly at him as she looked at him, her hair brushing against his skin and cold hands curling the ends of his hair. And certainly not sharp when he failed to notice that her heart wasn’t beating and she seemed to look more at his neck— ”You have a very fine neck,” she informed him when he asked, and he nodded, assuming that it was one of those things sculptors just happened to notice—than his eyes for the majority of the night.

Whether it was out of guilt or disinterest, he doesn’t know. Zhongli would like to think that it was out of guilt, because prior to the night, they were friends. And after she bit his neck, she held him in her arms, whispering story after story as he stuck by fever.

The pain was unimaginable. First—there was shock. And then minutes later, while he wondered why the room smelled more like sweat and blood than incense, he realized that he was still held down.

This must be what quarry feels like, he thought then. But now he knows otherwise; prey would never be held so gently and lay there limply if they could help it. He, while being drained every bit of life, was a willing, sitting duck.

That was before the pain, of course. When she finally let go of him to wash her face—he recalls this clearly: her wiping her face, then licking the blood off her hands with the relish of a child on her birthday, before leaving to the bathroom—he laid there paralyzed. It was, he’s discovered, a bit like being drunk.

Only that the alcohol left his insides in unimaginable pain for days on end. He stumbled when he tried to stand; babbled as he struggled to speak. Even now he only remembers brief flashes of it, when he tore the skin on his arm with his newly grown canines, or hours of rejecting food that he could not quite stomach.

In reality, he was a child—a baby, really, if you were being blunt about it. The weeks that followed were horrendous and perhaps it’s a blessing that he spent the majority of them inhibited, the metamorphosis shedding every part of him that he was comfortable with. But as the days went on, the pain gave way to numbness and numbness gave away to strength.

And when he finally regained enough consciousness to form a coherent sentence, he asked Guizhong why she did it. She, with the certainty of somebody that’s lived for longer than he had, answered, “Well, you’ve always been interested in how the world would change after you were gone. Isn’t this now your chance to witness it?”

Fanaticism with history and predictions could only get you so far. To witness it—wasn’t that just a dream? And because he assumed that rocks were eternal and could not erode back then, he nodded in agreement.

It was a mistake.

Six hundred years ago, Zhongli underestimated the length of his lifetime. One day he’d be talking to somebody about their newborn and it would only be a blink later where their newborn was six feet under, hailed for having a long and blessed life. (What made a blessed life? It couldn’t have been the years –he concluded that every year he was more cursed than before.) Relationships were scarce because he forgot that not everybody experienced time the same way he did.

Days, contrary to his belief, were not fleeting seconds but rather twenty-four hours long. They composed of both the night and day, waking and sleeping hours instead of mindless walks that ended with him apologizing profusely before his fangs were embedded deep into somebody’s throat.

Somebody suggested for him to just do it in an alley and leave them there to be found at morning. But that was too disrespectful—uncouth even. He preferred to invite them into his home, graciously taking their coat and ushering them inside to a table filled with food. Venti always commented on how polite he was to the very end, taking extra care to cook food that he knew they liked—“Last meal before execution, huh?” he’d comment. “Very romantic.”—and making them comfortable until the very end.

That’s not how it started of course.

He tried starving himself at first—much to Osial’s amusement. On a night out, where Zhongli was more attuned to the heat and beating hearts of the people around him than the delicacies laid out, Osial took it a step further by passing him a cup with a thick, maroon liquid that sloshed around in it.

It smelled finer than the silk flowers that littered the gardens, and when he took the cup, he felt one step closer to the damnation Guizhong always spoke of. The worst part was that it didn’t churn his stomach—instinctually, he felt more delighted than he ever felt, a smile cracking his worn face as he inspected the goblet. Only when did he take note of Osial’s smug expression, the glint in his eyes that reminded him of an elusive professor, and the way he watched him carefully the way a parent would watch a child take its first steps, did he hesitate.

It wasn’t benign; it was as if he expected him to trip and fall over after attempting to take his first steps, taking pleasure in both the failure and success. Because both would end with Zhongli crossing the line one way or another, wouldn’t it? And there was nothing more enjoyable than sadism to somebody that’s seen it all already.

Right now he is fighting a losing battle. But he would rather starve than lose it here, so he hands the cup back to him, feeling a little more of his willpower crack.

Animal blood, by all accounts, is disgusting. It’s oily and sometimes he’d get sick, ending the night more ravenous than ever as if his skin were tightening around itself. You couldn’t just drink it—especially if you didn’t know where the animal has been. First you had to kill it neatly—a quick breaking of the neck would suffice, as strangulations were often drawn out—and then you had to clean it.

There was something almost humane in the process. Countless butchers have done it before, so he felt comfortable doing it himself.

It was only when he sunk his teeth into the carcass that he felt more like a vulture than anything else. The blood only staved off his hunger for short periods, so it was more of a painkiller than a sufficient meal.

And Osial found the whole thing to be hilarious.

“How unfortunate. If only Guizhong didn’t choose somebody that insisted on drinking animal blood, then it’d be more enjoyable. You know—if you open your mouth a little wider, you’ll look a bit more like the starving beast you are.” Then he dipped a finger in the cup and licked it as if it were chocolate, sweet and rich.

“Yes… Perhaps I should move onto better things. Do you think vampire blood is like wine? Or would age spoil its taste? I imagine that to a starving beast, there would be no difference—no matter how rotten your blood is, it’s still blood after all.”

Osial laughed and spit the blood out. “Well, you’re not wrong. This animal blood may be disgusting, but to you, what’s the difference?”

He wore his cruelty like a well-fitting suit, the creases shaped like ill-natured grins. Zhongli wondered if that will be him hundreds of years from now, but maybe Osial was always this unpleasant. Guizhong spoke of him the way somebody would talk about their ill-tempered cousin—sure, he’s awful to be around but he’s been a part of the family for so long already.

At the very least, he can provide a good meal. The question will always be for who, and his appetite is insatiable concerning all matters. Some vampires preferred a more barbaric approach of finding somebody, killing them, and then throwing the body away. Others—like Osial—treated it more like a game, drawing it out.

Sometimes he’d target entire families and call it a “feast” inviting others to join him. They were gruesome affairs that ended with many drunk on blood for weeks at a time, and even though he never went to them, he always heard about them.

Directly from Osial of course. Who seems intent on highlighting every small detail, every bloody death or desperate guest that was less than willing in the end but, Osial would say with delight, weren’t they all? As a matter of fact—and here was when he’d bring Guizhong into it, dragging her out of her room with her blueprints and models—Zhongli was very willing, wasn’t he?

“Up until he realized that he had to drink blood,” he’d say, as if he finally reached the punchline for a joke—then Osial would throw his head back with laughter.

And it’s not as if he hadn’t before. Sometimes, if he hurt himself, he would’ve licked the blood. But that tasted metallic—it was nothing like the delicacies that other vampires would set out, naming the meals by age, defining trait (sexual activity, lifestyle, etc.), and gender.

It took him fifty years for his willpower to break down. And he did it in front of Barbatos, who simply watched as he drank, not speaking of the way Zhongli drunkenly rambled for hours on end nor the way blood trickled down his neck and stained his clothing.

The deaths after that were easier. It was almost disappointing how he managed to replicate what Guizhong did with such ease. When he set the serviette over their chest before sinking his teeth into their jugular, he felt just like her.

Only when did he clean them up before burying them did he truly feel at rest. At the time it felt like appropriate compensation—a substitute for the promise he failed to keep for himself. The whole ordeal of washing the blood out of their matted hair and drying it out as he laid them down alleviated the sense of unease.

Guizhong would often watch him while he did it, pointing out certain anatomical features as she did. Her hands would trace over their veins, pressing down on the blue as she spoke. Osial joined them once, but he was so perturbed by the attention Zhongli dedicated to the process that he left immediately.

That was centuries ago.

He, sometime down the line, traded in these rituals for slaughter and abandoned that for mimicking the human lifestyle.

Barbatos would say that it’s been badly done, of course.

“You make the worst human,” he once said, as he watched Zhongli struggle to stomach garlic bread that he offered him.

Which could be why he’s now cornered by a vampire hunter.

The Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is often frequented by vampires all around Teyvat—there are rumors of blood dealings with underground groups but the Milileth has never investigated it—and Zhongli, with no danger signals, happens to be one of them.

It doesn’t help that he works there too. The irony that all these years later he never quite rid himself of dealing with dead bodies isn’t lost on him.

And he did hear about the Fatui, because word about people hunting vampires travels fast in a country as busy as Liyue.

“Sir,” the vampire hunter informs him kindly, “you do know that this is a hub for vampires, right?”

The voice isn’t what shocks Zhongli. Neither is the maroon mask that’s hanging by the side of his head—one told to be notorious among only the most vicious of hunters—or the thin outlines of weapons in his clothes.

It’s his eyes. They’re a bright blue, usually associated with the sea on bright days, but they’re more akin to the vampires that Zhongli has seen before with the wild glint in his eyes. It’s jarring with the smile that he adopts as he asks, and he imagines opening his mouth to a pair of fangs.

He knows that he won’t find them though. If the rumors he hears are any indications, the Fatui are above recruiting any vampires that’ll threaten their operation.

“Ah. Yes. I do. I’m the consultant here, you see,” he explains politely.

And shouldn’t that be an indication that he’s a vampire? Hu Tao is notorious for her strange tastes. And he must know of the deals she makes with underground groups, the money and blood that’s traded between them.

“Oh!” the hunter’s expression brightens as he clasps his hands together. “I heard about you! I got to say—when they told me that the consultant was knowledgeable on all things Rex Lapis, I was expecting an old man.”

He doesn’t wait to explain who Rex Lapis is. This, of course, is a given seeing that Rex Lapis has become a household name, infamous for his butchery of both vampires and humans alike. But a hundred years later, Zhongli hoped, people would forget about him—or maybe get rid of the fanaticism in their voices when they spoke about him.

It’s quite discomforting, really.

“Well, I am old.”

He laughs, “Yeah, yeah. You hardly look older than me. Call me Childe—I was hoping that you could, ah, answer a few questions I have on Rex Lapis. The 77th Master said that you’d be available and more than willing. She.. actually, here you go!”

Zhongli takes the paper he offers him, which says If you ask him anything, he’d be more than willing to spend the rest of the day answering it! in her rough cursive that he’s grown to dislike. Of course—the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not beneath fraternizing with vampires or the Fatui.

But he prefers this much more than the vampires that stare at him as they struggle to place him in their ancient hierarchy. And this does work in his favor, he thinks. A vampire hunter wants to know more about him, Rex Lapis—wouldn’t this aid him in finally meeting his end?

So he politely smiles and gives him back the note, not missing how warm Childe’s skin is in comparison to his own. It’s been years since he’s touched a human without the intention of killing them, hasn’t it?

More than suitable then.

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

#this is completely self indulgent my bad #osial #guizhong #zhongli #genshin impact #vampire zhongli

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xteenwolfwritingsx · 4 years

Text

You Know Better - Part 36 - Recover

-gif source unkown-

Story Description: Peter and the reader develop a slow relationship.

Part Description: You wake up in the hospital.

Warnings/Labels: Medical mumbo jumbo. Tooth-decaying sweetness.

Approx. Word Count:

A/N: Final part before the epilogue (which I plan to have out this month!!) Again, not a medical professional. I know nothing of medical mumbo-jumbo and the only “research” I’ve done is watch House and Grey’s Anatomy. So bear with me.

Story Masterpost

Everything is hazy and bright when your eyes blink open. You’re staring at very bright, white lights covering an entire ceiling and laying on a firm, unforgiving mattress. The sheets are scratchy. Your throat is dry and there’s something shoved inside of it. You cough, trying to get it out, but it doesn’t work.

You start to panic, unable to breathe with this thing blocking your airway. You keep trying to cough, to breathe, as machines start beeping around you. You lift your hands to pull at whatever is in your mouth, but you find your wrists encased in restraints, only able to lift them a few inches. Tears fill your eyes at the fear and the sensation of having something scratching inside of your throat.

“She’s awake!” a man yells. “Someone get Melissa!” There’s a hand on your arm and your vision clears enough to see Derek leaning over you. “It’s okay. Calm down,” he tries to soothe. There’s a worry in his eyes that he tries to hide that only makes you panic even more in your haze.

You ball your hands into fists and pull at your restraints as hard as your weakened body allows. They don’t budge though and every sound you attempt to make; words, screams, anything, is blocked by the tube in your mouth. Derek’s hand wraps around yours and squeezes.

Melissa runs in, hands immediately coming to your mouth. She unclips the device and starts to pull. The tube down your throat comes out too slowly for your liking and you cough violently, trying to simultaneously expel it and ease the scratchiness it leaves behind.

You’re still coughing, trying to catch your breath when Peter runs into the room, clear panic across his face. Derek releases your hand reluctantly and steps back, allowing Peter to sweep in, taking his place. His hands instantly go to work on the restraint around one of your wrists.

“Peter,” Melissa warns, pausing her motions of adjusting the machines next to your bed to make the frantic beeping stop. He gives her a short glare.

“She’s coherent this time,” he scolds, continuing to release the straps. Once finished, he takes hold of your hand in both of his and you find yourself clinging to him. “And I’ve got her.” His words are as firm as his grip and you finally start to feel yourself relax, let your heartrate come down. His eyes meet yours and they soften. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, warming the cold skin. “I’ve got her,” he repeats quietly, the words meant for you this time.

“What,” you try to speak, but your voice croaks and your throat burns in pain. Derek’s already handing Peter a cup of water with a straw for you to drink from. Melissa presses a button on the bed and the head of it starts to rise, slowly sitting you up. When you’re at a fairly upright angle, Peter holds the cup in front of you.

The water tastes good, but feels both soothing and painful as you swallow it. It’s very clearly the first liquid you’ve had in days. Which means you’ve been knocked out for at least that long. As you drink, you look closely at everyone. Derek’s stubble has grown out a little. There’s three long, faded scratches along Melissa’s right cheek. Peter looks tired and his clothes look crumpled, worn. You rub your legs together and judging by their scratchiness, it’s been at least a week since you shaved last.

“You’re going to be a little weak,” Melissa tells you gently as she works on the restraints on your other wrist. “Just go slow.” You clear your throat just to test your voice and it still hurts, but not enough to stop you.

“What happened?” It’s hoarse and low, but understandable.

“You’ve been out for almost twelve days,” Melissa says. “The poison really did a number on you. You’ve been on a ventilator for a couple of days now.”

“You woke up last week,” Derek tells you, coming to stand at the foot of the bed so that he can see you clearly. “But you weren’t exactly…” he pauses and his eyes involuntarily dart to Melissa’s face. She looks down, allowing her hair to curtain over her cheek and the scratches.

“Did I do that?” Guilt floods you, but she smiles gently and gives your hand a friendly squeeze.

“It’s okay. You weren’t lucid.” Her voice is kind and honest, holds no trace of blame. The woman was too damn nice. You squeeze her hand back and are about to apologize anyways when Peter speaks.

“You’ve got one hell of a right hook too.” His voice is more jovial, even if it is a little forced. “Wonder who taught you that.” You never thought in a hundred years that his condescending smirk would bring you such comfort, but by god it does. He rubs his jaw in mock pain and throws you a subtle wink. “Think I can still feel the bruise.” You let go of him and smack the back of your hand against his stomach. The motion takes more energy than you expected, but everyone gives a little smile.

“You probably deserved it,” you tease, hating how scratchy your voice sounds. You clear your throat and readjust yourself on the bed, incidentally tugging at your IV and various life-monitoring devices that make you look like a puppet with all their wires. You give up with a sigh and contend to being uncomfortable.

“We can go over all the details later, but you’re going to be okay.” Melissa moves some of wires for you and lifts your bed up a little more.

“Everyone else?” Anyone not in this room could be dead, after all.

“Everyone is okay.” Derek calms your fears quickly, easily seeing the worry rise up in your face. “Kayla is dead and we got the Cerberus back where it belongs.”

“And how exactly would you know if everyone’s alright?” Melissa quips, a smile on her face. She turns her eyes to you. “Neither of them have left this hospital since they brought you in here. The entire world could be devolved into chaos and they wouldn’t have a clue.” Both Hales shoot her half-hearted glares.

“Someone would have called,” Peter joke dryly. You bite back a smile of your own and reach for his hand again, redirecting his attention to you. It felt good to touch him.

“Well why don’t you go find out?” She puts her hands on the bed railing and straightens out, shifting strictly into Mom/Nurse-Taking-No-Shit mode. “She needs her rest and we’re going to need to run some tests just to be safe. So out you go.” She nods towards the door, but as expected, neither of them move without looking to you first.

“It’s okay,” you assure them, shooing them with one of your hands. “Go take showers. You both stink,” you tease. You can tell they’re still reluctant, but Derek nods his head and files out first. Peter pauses, reaching out to gently stroke his hand along your jaw before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on your forehead.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises.

After Peter leaves, Melissa turns to you, having previously turned away to give you some semblance of privacy. She smiles sweetly, but there’s a teasing glint in her eye. You raise your eyebrows at her, silently asking what it was.

“You know,” she starts slowly, jotting down some notes on your chart. “I went on a date with him once. Sort of.” Suddenly you feel a little embarrassed.

“I…forgot about that,” you admit. She laughs a little bit.

“Most people do. Even I forget sometimes.” Grabbing a blood pressure cuff off the wall, she motions for your arm. “He had this gentleman air around him. Like he was the type of guy to always get the door for you and ask permission before he kisses you.” You scoff a little and she gives you a knowing look. “That was all a façade obviously. He’s not that kind of guy at all.” The inherently negativity of the statement brings the instinct to defend his character onto the tip on your tongue, but she continues without giving you the chance. “He is, however, the kind of guy to carry a bloody, barely breathing woman into the hospital and sit in the waiting room, also bloody, for 32 hours before he can see her again. He’s the kind of guy to stay with said women at all hours of the day and hold her hand and talk to her, plead with her to be okay because he needs her, when he thinks no one can hear.” Her eyes are trained on the blood pressure gauge as the cuff squeezes your arm uncomfortably, but you’re sure she can still notice the blush that comes to your pale face. “May not be the chivalrous gentleman he pretended to be, but it’s pretty clear that man would do anything for someone he loves.” You’re very grateful it’s just your blood pressure she’s checking and not your pulse because the way your heart just skipped around in your chest would certainly raise some red medical flags.

“Oh I don’t think… I mean he’s just being…” you fumble for words, but nothing sounds right. The smile she gives you is endearing and she gives you a small wink as she un-velcros the cuff.

“It must be a Hale thing,” she teases. “Derek also happened to be staining a chair with blood in our waiting room for quite a while.”

“They better pay for those chairs,” you tell her, causing her to laugh.

“Don’t worry about it.” She closes up your chart and gives your hand a pat. “I’ll have someone in to draw some blood in a minute, but after that, you should get some rest.” You had to admit, your body feels weak and your eyes want to do nothing more than close for a while.

“Thank you,” you tell her just before she leaves the room.

---

When your eyes blink open, you can tell it’s nighttime. All the lights are dimmed down in your room. The blinds over the windows you hadn’t noticed before are drawn, but it’s obvious there’s no sunlight trying to filter in behind them. Your bed is slightly reclined back, but all it takes is a lift of your head to see Peter sitting in a chair across the room, an open book in his hands. He’s got new clothes on, much less rumbled than before.

“Reading in the dark is bad for your eyes,” you manage to croak out. He looks up swiftly and smiles at you.

“So I’ve been told.” He snaps the book closed and leaves it on the chair behind him when he gets up, coming to stand next to you. He grabs the water off the table besides you and once again, holds it up for you to drink from the straw resting on the lip. “How are you feeling?” he asks gently after you manage to contain a sputter of a cough.

“Sore. Groggy. Weak. But better than when I first woke up.” An honest answer. Lying wouldn’t do you any good with him.

“You had us worried for a while there.” His hand comes to the top of your head, thumb stroking gently along your forehead. It’s comforting and almost makes you want to go back to sleep.

“You should have told me about the poison.” You can’t resist the urge to scold him lightly. “Locking me up with Argent of all people?” A look of regret briefly breaks through his features.

“I know.” The words surprise you. You hadn’t expected him to actually agree with you. “I didn’t have a better plan though and I just…” He sighs heavily, eyes looking away from you. “I was afraid,” he admits slowly. He doesn’t like saying it, even rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to… I couldn’t…”

“Come here,” you whisper, cutting him off and drawing his eyes back to you. You reach your hand out towards him and he only hesitates for a moment before leaning down close to you. You bring your hand to his cheek, his jawline prickling the bottom of your palm with too-long stubble. Your hold on his face is gentle and timid, but he leans into it, almost like he craved your touch. You brush your thumb over his cheekbone and he closes his eyes. “I can’t lose you either.”

He doesn’t need to say it. You don’t expect him to. Words are an unneeded obligation after everything that’s happened. Romance. Connection. Love. People will call it, label it, whatever they see fit, but you don’t need to. In this moment, it’s clear you and Peter both know you’re on the same page, whatever that might be. That’s all that matters.

He leans down enough to press his lips to yours in a soft, sweet kiss. It’s not out of passion or lust, but of a need to be touching you, to be intimate on a deeper level and to feel you solidly, real and alive. You cling to him, one hand on his cheek and the other fisting the torso of his shirt. It lasts longer than it probably should and when he finally pulls away, you’re blinking away tears.

Everything is okay.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For coming back for me.”

“I’ll always come back for you,” he says softly, pulling away a little further. You wonder briefly, if the heart skipping thing will ever stop around him. His eyes brighten a little and his face lightens. “Don’t want to waste a good student.” You bite your lip to hold back a soft laugh while letting your hands come down from him, allowing him to straighten back up with a grin. “You should get your rest,” he tells you, offering you the water once more. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

He gives your hand a squeeze before returning to his chair and opening up his book. You watch him for just a few moments, admiring everything about him and being simply amazed at how things have turned out. Your eyes drift shut and you slip into sleep with the lightest smile on your face.

Everything is perfect.

#peter hale story #peter hale #peter hale imagine #teen wolf #teen wolf imagine

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umamunandar · 4 years

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Review #4: The Illuminae Files (4.8/5)

So by this point, you should be familiar to my taste in movies and books. I mean with the lack of romance and teen fiction you see and the excessive amount of fantasy and sci-fi reviews I’ve written, you might realise that I have a thing for dystopian, sci-fi, and apocalyptic stuff.

If you’re also a dystopian geek like me, then you must have heard of Illuminae, the novel written by Amie Faufman and Jay Kristoff, which then got illustrated by Marie Lu, author of Warcross and Legend for the second book, Gemina. You might’ve heard of it’s great story, or maybe, like me, you were first introduced to its unique writing format

and i mean very unique format. (Every part I just showed belongs completely to Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff, of course I’m just out here throwing these pages to you so you know what I’m talking about)

Most books get very famous quickly because the themes they offer in the books, how great the storyline is. Some are popular only because the author that wrote it has a reputation for writing super famous and the readers just want to read more of their works.

But a book famous for its writing format is unheard of for me. Illuminae was the first what, novel (?) that succeeded in telling the readers a story about the destruction of a colony, and a galactic adventure just from files they retrieved from the computers used by the characters for data processing, storage, communication, and everything else you can do with a computer by the year 2575.

The year is 2575, and two rival mega-corporations are at war over a planet that’s a little more than an ice-covered speck. Now, with enemy fire raining down on them, exes Kady and Ezra—who are barely even talking to each other—are forced to escape on the evacuating fleet.

But their problems are just the beginning. The fleet’s AI has gone crazy, a deadly plague has broken out on one of the ships, and nobody in charge will say what’s really going on.

As Kady hacks into a tangled web of data to find the truth, it’s clear only one person can help her: the ex boyfriend she swore she’d never speak to again.

First, let me start with a short recap of my own.

29th of January, 2575, Kady Grant had broken up with her boyfriend, Ezra Mason. But later that day, her planet’s mining company’s rival company decided that it was a great day to attack the planet (Kerenza IV) and its inhabitants. Kady and Ezra managed to escape to two of the three ships used to transport and evacuate the Kerenza refugees. Ezra was taken to the Alexander, as he was badly injured, and Kady was taken to the Hypatia, a science vessel that happened to be orbiting Kerenza during the attack. The last ship was the Copernicus.

Everyone on board were tested to see their potential, since the fleet were understaffed. Ezra passed as a pilot, and Kady, bless her genius mind, decided that it was best to not show he full potential during the test. Not receiving the role of anything, she befriended a CommTech from the Hypatia, and became a hacker, determined to just find out what’s going on. Nobody who knew the truth would tell anyone the truth and Kady was only eager to find out.

The story was told by emails, chat boxes, documents, security camera footage, even information from the Alexander’s AI, which was pretty much messed up due to the attack at Kerenza, but was still functioning enough to tell a story, nevertheless. The second book got an illustrator, Marie Lu, the same person who wrote Warcross and Legend, and the content source didn’t just come from computers anymore. By Gemina, the information that led readers through the story was also gained from Hanna Donnelly—the story’s female lead’s personal journal, hand drawn, not soft copy from a computer.

Personally, Illuminae was the first story that brought me to loving sci-fi slash dystopian slash apocalyptic novels. I was always a fantasy geek, thanks to Harry Potter and Wildwood. Kingdoms, princesses in pretty dresses, or magic, they were always closer to me than spaceships, AI, and intergalactic war, but Illuminae completely changed my mind. I was even surprised when I found myself buying a handful of dystopian novels during a book fair the other day. They were just really fun to read.

Oh but you know what else is fun? Guessing which cuss word the characters in the books used. Sure, the story was told through files, which means some were formal documents like reports and formal emails, but remember that there are also chat boxes and the informal emails sent from one refugee to the other as a form of communication to ask how they were doing and whatnot. Cussing and slang were used constantly in the book, but because they were compiled and as I quote, ‘sent’ as a formal file, the cursing had to be censored and blocked. It was still fun to guess the words they used anyway.

Writing this review, I had already read Gemina, and Obsidio was being shipped to my house, so yes, I really love this trilogy.

I’d love to get into more depth about the two books, but since nearly every page is filled with action, I can’t really write a spoiler-free review with it so let’s get to the positive points and negative points of the book,

Pros:

The book, as we all know and as I have mentioned for the fifth time now is formatted like emails, chat boxes, documents, and literally every other thing you can extract from a computer by the year 2575. Despite all three books being thicker than 500 pages, some of the pages aren’t even full pages, and you can read them in under one minute, even for a slow reader. Some examples:

Countdown pages

Those pages when something dramatic happens, like the description of missiles travelling through the space between two ships

In Gemina (and possibly Obsidio), some pages from Hanna Donnelly’s personal journal were incorporated in the files, the second Illuminae Files. But unlike Kady who prefers writing (or typing) her thoughts and securing them with a handful of layers of security and passwords, Hanna draws hers, and they didn’t take that long to read either.

‘The pattern is always the same’

‘White light’

And everything else

I know Illuminae was my first ever sci-fi dystopian novel, but I’ve consulted a few people on the matter, and I found out that the story the series offered is a good one on its own, even without the dramatic effect. So yes, one of the pros is that it actually offers a good story. You never know what’s going to happen next. It’s like say, you just got over a dramatic point in one of the books, and suddenly the document in the next page is a bloody medical report that tells you something is up.

Another plus point would be how the events in the books are so well described, despite there being no actual description done in the books except for those surveillance camera transcripts. We don’t even know Kady and Ezra’s specific physical appearances, just the fact that Kady has pink hair and Ezra is a pretty much a teen fiction novel average golden boy, unlike Hanna and Nik who’s illustrations we see from again, Hanna’s journal in Gemina.

Cons:

We should all put this fact in consideration, that the book is not meant to tell a story from a formal standpoint. Like I said, cussing is used in nearly every page of the book, though it’s censored. Mildly explicit jokes and references were also used in the book, though no actual harm is done. Then again, I’m not against this or anything, in fact, it brings an essence to the story, but some people (*cough* boomers*cough*) might not be comfortable with it.

Personally, I’m not fond of thick books. Four hundred pages is a workload for me. I was suffering throughout the Order of the Phoenix. Don’t like thick books? Illuminae isn’t for you. All three books had like, five hundred or so pages. I know I said it was told through a less boring format for a novel, and the story is good, but you still have to read. It’s a relief I made it through both Illuminae and Gemina, there’s a possibility I might drop Obsidio and leave it to rot before reaching the three-hundredth page. Though, there is a solution to this. You can buy the audiobook instead. I heard they did a good job with it, with great casts too.

Aaand, I think that’s about it. There’s really not much I can say about the story without giving away spoilers, and since I’m dedicated to make this a spoiler-free blog, I think it’s best you buy the book if you’re interested in the story of Kady, Ezra, Hanna, Nik, and two more characters I’m not supposed to tell you about because it’s technically a spoiler (?) from Obsidio.

I’m open for any discussion too! Just, don’t tell me anything about Obsidio just yet, I’m expecting the copy this week.

#illuminae #gemina #obsidio #the illuminae files #kady grant #ezra mason #hanna donnelly #nik malikov #book review #spoiler free book review #books #reads

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espytalks · 4 years

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ive been drawing for quite a while. and looking through my old art, i found ive been drawing online for a whole flippin decade. wow.

so here’s 10 drawings ive done over the last 10 years, with commentary. it’s a long one, though, so be careful.

2010:

I had to dig through my deviantart for these first two. This pikachu is the first thing i ever posted online! i remember drawing this in ms paint with a mouse. i remember being very proud of this, and in a way, i still think it’s cute. it has a “drawing my kid done that i hung on a fridge’ vibe.

i didn’t do much around this time. i barely knew how the internet worked, and i mainly read instead of drawing. i did some pokemon sprite edits though, for some reason. i remember really liking doing that.

2011:

i’m pretty sure i drew this mew in gimp. also with a mouse, because i had no idea tablets existed. ive always been super into pokemon, and around this time i think i was watching a lot of mickey mouse cartoons? it’d explain the weird style.

i’m impressed with the shading, though. i did the best with what i knew, and what i could figure out on my own. not pictured is the hundreds of mickey sketches i did around this time, or the self insert oc i made lol.

2012: oh no it’s pony time. i spent about 5 years drawing primarily these things. kinda wish i hadn’t in hindsight, but ah well.

i had this program on my ds that i could draw and post my art on, and i was using it a lot around this time. a lot of my art has this sketchy look to it, because of that. i remember i had quite a few followers on it, or at least i think i did. i dunno if that website still exists, or if anyone even uses it anymore.

but anyways, this drawing is super cute. ya can’t go wrong with a sleeping pone. i forgot the cutie mark, tho. i always forget minor important details like that. either that or i drew her as a filly. can’t remember.

2013: yeah, i think this as vent art? can’t remember, but i drew it on that same program. i put a lot of effort into the perspective. this was based on my room at the time, btw.

2014: i believe this was for a new artist’s training grounds on eqd. i must’ve had a tablet by now, cause i can see tapering in the lineart. it was a big deal for me, and it sucks that i can’t remember what the first ting i drew with it was. i think it was some sketches.

but you can definitely see some improvement by now. i was really getting used to drawing this one thing. but a lot of people following me seemed to like my art back then. it was called cute, and expressive and cartoony.

i think this was around the time i was at my best, as far as notes and interaction goes.

2015: *megalovania intensifies*

i was super into undertale at the time. and 2014-15 was when i started to try and draw other things aside from ponies. you cal tell my poses and anatomy is mega awkward and kinda bad here, but this was a major improvement for me.

2016: i was a fan of steven universe since it first aired, but i very rarely drew fanart for it. but as i was getting more comfortable with drawing peole, i got more ambitious with the characters i tried to draw.

i also from around this point on tried to get better at traditional art. and i think this was the first inktober i tried, but i don’t think it was the first i finished.

i really liked this drawing. and i may or may not have a wip redraw of this going on right now. wish me luck!

2017: KNOOOOOXXXXX I LOVE YOU, YOU PRECIOUS BOI

this is my favorite drawing. i peaked here and i will never be as good and pure as this single icon i did. it’s purple, he’s happy, it’s PASTEL AND SPARKES!!!!

i also got super into bendy and the ink machine this year, which sparked a renewed interest in trying to improve in drawing, and also led me to create my favorite oc ever.

i think i improved a lot around this time. my shapes and anatomy became cleaner and more consistent. on a technical level, i think this is where i started getting really good as an artist.

2018: i don’t think i improved a lot this year. i honestly feel like ive stagnated since then, and depression hasn’t helped.

it’s a tough choice between this and the hollow knight drawing for best drawing of the year, but this is my personal favorite. sorry, mm, but mickey will always win out in my opinion. i know ya liked the other one though, and it’s also really good.

i like how this turned out, and i’m so glad it’s got the most notes of anything else ive drawn. it’s pretty, and i love the style. this is how i wish i drew all the time.

2019: and finally we have this.

i don’t care how poorly this did. i was proud of myself for doing this. it’s cute and pretty and i like it. I created a vague story where she’s a little astronomer who’s like, caged for some reason, but now she’s free.

in hindsight, i think i coulda done a lot better, but i still like it. it’s one of my favorites that ive done this year. i wish i drew more this year, but the last few months ive been super depressed. it’s been hard to want to draw anything, and i feel so uncreative and mediocre.

i’m hoping next year i’ll be better, and i’ll have stuff in my personal life more sorted out, and i won’t feel as bad.

this was nice, though. i’m glad i looked through my old art. maybe i’ll figure out what i’m missing, and get back on track. and maybe i’ll finish these wips i have going on lol. we’ll see.

happy new year, everyone. and may this next decade be even better for us all as creators, and as people.

#espy talks

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slut-for-fandoms · 5 years

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Paint me yours (kth x reader) PART 1

Pairings: Artist!Taehyung x reader

Genre: smut, fluff, angst (in the following chapters)

Summary: You are an art college student who struggles with finances. Until one day, on an exhibition of the arising artist Kim Taehyung, when the same boy offers you a job as his model. Would it be just a simple job or would it complicate your life in ways you have never thought it would?

Warnings: none in this one (perhaps my bad writing and lots of mistakes?)

A/N: So here is the first chapter. I really don’t know what to think about it as i haven’t written anything in more than a year (so sorry guys but now I am back, yey) I really do hope you like it and please let me know what you think and whether you would like to be tagged in the series ♥ Enjoy

Euphoria. Excitement. Happiness. Exaltation. A complete symphony of colors and emotions. Blue, purple, violet, azure - blended in such a way that glues you to the masterpiece. At places it seems unfinished, raw, as though the creator has been in a hurry. But at the same time it is so detailed that you wonder how long it took him to create it. It represents a woman, or to be more precise, a young girl. Long hair composed with ochre, amber, honey and a hint of gold, covers half of her pale face. Her lips are the perfect combination of red, cheery, wine and auburn. An orderly chaos of colors.

While everything seems just as raw painting, the most capturing features are the eyes. They are so detailed and express the condition of the girl. The sparks that make her look tangible grabs you on a roller coaster of thoughts and feelings and somehow makes you even experience the same state. I move to the next painting.

Sadness. Affliction. Pain. Torment. The contrast between the used shades is much deeper. Pale yet dark. The more I look at it, the more it captivates me. All of the creations I saw were beyond amazing, complete masterpieces but this one… This one is different. One look and I got this strange feeling in my guts when we anticipate something bad, something that might hurt us.

The background is composed of dark shades, while the girl is sculpted of the pale range of colors. Again, the most detailed parts are the eyes. You get the feeling as if a soul was trapped inside the drawn girl that shows how much she suffers. The more you contemplate, the more you assume that the darkness around her represents the cruel world, while the bright yet shaded colors shows how fragile and broken she is. Is it from the world? What destroyed her? Who made her look like a shattered vase which parts are no longer going to form its beautiful shape?

Holding my glass of champagne I took some steps back and sat on the settee opposite the painting. Thanks god it wasn’t that low as they use to be in other galleries. I crossed my legs which caused the hem of my black dress to roll up slightly. As an art student, I tend to visit many exhibitions in order to get inspiration, gain knowledge of the new and unorthodox styles and improve mine. I can’t say I am complaining as we are given free access to any kind of such events. This is beyond amazing as now I am contemplating the art of one of the rising artists – Kim Taehyung. Honestly, I have never seen him but the critics consider him the new Van Gogh and now I understand why.

When I came I was so uneven about it, all the people here were rich and classy and I, a broken student with a cheap dress borrowed from her friend, had no place here. Everything was out of my league and I felt like garbage disfiguring this place.

“You seem really immersed into the picture.”, someone chucked, bringing me out of my thoughts. I looked up and saw man in golden suit and two glasses of champagne in his hands. His smile was so bright, genuine, that it made me blush slightly, “May I?”, he titled his head towards the settee as if asking if it was free.

“Ye- yeah, of course”, I stuttered and put a lock of fallen hair behind my ear.

His smile grew bigger and he took the free seat next to me.

“Here.”, he gave me one of the glasses. I looked up at him confused, “I saw that you have already finished yours so…”, I looked at my glass which was empty. I might have stayed there for a way longer time that I have thought. I left the glass on the floor next to the settee.

“Thank you.”, I gave him a smile, although inside I was feeling embarrassed, “Very fond of you.”, I said after taking the offered glass.

“Well, I just wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I have left such a beautiful lady sitting here by her side. The champagne was just an excuse to approach you.”, I bit my lip and tried to hide myself due to the blush that crept on my face.

“You are even more appealing when blushing.”, okay, I have never believed I could become so red but here I am.

“Please, stop.”, I stuttered through the smile that just grew bigger on my face.

“Why?”, he tilted his head and asked me with that sweet smirk still placed on his face, his eyes never leaving my figure, “you don’t like honest people?”, as a response I chuckled and tried to gain my dignity and look at him. Why was I such a blushing mess around this… stranger…a handsome stranger?

“It is just that you are the first one to approach me this evening.”, a slight feeling of sadness made my stomach turn as I recall the events, pardon, the lack of them from this night. I started playing with my hands as something as pity overwhelmed me.

“Well-”, his deep baritone voice made me look at him. This time he was facing the painting in front of us which gave me the opportunity to survey him. Soft pink lips, sweet roundy nose, medium long light eyelashes. Skin in the color of bronze and a golden suit that make him look like a god. Aristocratic hands with long fingers, adorned with rings. The way he is holding the glass gives you the thoughts that a prince is sitting oppose you, “It is their lose.”, he states after locking his eyes with mine. And then I’m completely lost. They are just like the sad girls’ in the paintings – full of emotions. I see the same spark that leads directly to his soul. It captivates you. There is love, care, tenderness that make my heart skips a beat. But also you can spot something wild and intriguing. An abyss of feelings kept locked deep inside.

He took a sip of his champagne which caught my attention and made me break the eye contact. How could such a simple action as drinking makes me wanna grab the brushes and paint this gorgeous creature on the canvas?

“I can’t say I am complaining of that.”, I followed his movements and took a taste of my drink, “They seem like they are here only for talking. All of them are just chit-chatting and just at times spare a glance at the paintings. It – It just looks like a gathering of the rich and bitchy class.”, suddenly he burst into laughing. Oh that sound… It was like a soft melody for my years I could listen to all day. It was so infectious and addicting.

“What?”, I asked confused but with a smile plastered on my face.

“I couldn’t have said it more correctly. I’ve met everybody in the gallery and yet you are the only one contemplating the works.”

“Isn’t that what we are supposed to do on an exhibition? But apart from that, these paintings, these masterpieces…”, I took a breath like looking at the sad girl opposite me, “they are captivating. There is life in them, there is soul. Undoubtedly the artist is one of the best I’ve ever come across. Many have the ability to draw, few have the talent to create a masterpiece, something that makes you stop and think. And these here, they indeed convey more than a hundred words.”

“And where do you think that comes from?”, he asks me in that deep voice of his. I turn my attention back on him to see the man already looking at me with a stern expression showing nothing.

“The ability to make a painting live?”, he nodded his head in agreement, “Pain.”

“Pain?”

“Pain. It is always the pain. Why do you think the greatest artists are those who have suffered the most? Sadness, sorrow, ache, agony… they are different than the other feelings. When something good happens to you, you are happy for a short moment. Usually those moments tends to be forgotten way easier than the moments that our soul was in pain. It is just that the affliction we bottle inside us ruins us in the end. The knots in our stomach, the suffocating feeling in our chest… they are tormenting us and we all need a way to express them somehow, to try to get them out of us. And the answer is always the art. It doesn’t matter whether it would be with a brush or a pen in our hands, if we are going to compose a poem, song or just draw something. We just want the pain away. For its tight fist around our hearts to weaken, for its dark thoughts to leave us at peace at night, for the tears to stop rolling down and choke us.”, I paused in order to take a sip of my champagne, feeling his eyes following my movements, “That is one of the reasons why I like this one so much.”, I continued pointing at the work before us, “It look as if not only the model had been sad, but also the artist.”, when I turned around he had a sad smile on his face. For a moment I saw the abyss – full of sorrow and regret, pain and affliction.

“You can’t be more right.”, and once again, as he looked up, the door to his soul closed with that stern expression, “That is why I don’t know whether I like this work or not.”

“It recalls a bad event?”

“It recalls the day I painted her.”

My eyes were so wide that surely they were going to pop out of my head. I opened my mouth, then close it, then opened it again. I was so shocked that I could say nothing.

“I still remember how heartbroken she was.”

“You- you are the artist?”, my voice raised an octave higher and I cursed myself.

“Surprised?”, he asked smiling at my shocked expression.

“You just caught me off guard.”

And then the rest of the night kind of slips my mind. I don’t really know how long we’d been talking through various topics. Whatever felt like hours had only been half an hour once I saw the watch on my hand.

“Unfortunately, as a host, I need to make a speech. It was nice to meet you -”

“(Y/N)!”, answering I took his hand as he helped me get up from the settee.

“(Y/N).”, he said tasting my name and I could not miss the way his tongue rolled and the deep voice that sent shivers down my spine, “A beautiful name for a way more gorgeous girl.”

“Why are you trying to make my blush so hard?”, I asked trying to hide my face.

“I don’t know. I just like it.”, he shrugged with a smile, “Can I ask you something, (Y/N)?”, is it just me or he just lowered his voice on purpose while saying my name.

“O-Of course.”, out of nervousness I started playing with my own hands which only made his smirk grow bigger.

“Would you like to be my model, darling?”

460 notes · View notes

clockworkrobotic · 5 years

Text

OOOOUUUGGGH H HERE IT IS

Thanks everyone for your patience while I took three times longer than intended <3

final word count 5234 ;;

I’m planning to write more but this ended up so absurdly long that I’m splitting it up. It’s a wild dumpster fire of headcanons and canon canons, ive tried to avoid exposition but if something doesnt make sense shoot me an ask lol

sort of vaguely around the end of BL1. Rowdy teenage calypsos. Dramatic backstory. Go

“Do it again.”

He sits cross-legged, facing her, watching intently. Tyreen scans the grass for another flower and finds one, a small purple thing that’s braved the blistering Pandoran heat to spring up from the rare lush patch they’ve settled into this afternoon. Her brow furrows with concentration as she touches it and searches for the not-quite-uncomfortable breathless feeling that precedes what she’s about to do. In honesty, she’s not entirely sure what she does to trigger it, but if she focuses hard enough, it seems to happen eventually.

Sure enough, after a few seconds, it’s wilting against her hand, the colour draining to a dull brown as the petals dry and shrivel and crumble to dust. Her chest feels hollow and then it doesn’t, her arm is tingling slightly as the pleasant warmth travels up and leaves her markings glowing a faint blue, and she feels content and floaty for a moment.

Troy is watching in awe, and he reaches out suddenly and grabs her arm.

“These are getting bigger,” he tells her certainly, inspecting her tattoos, “they didn’t go around your hand the other day. D’you think they’ll keep growing?”

Tyreen pulls back and looks at the ground. She doesn’t want to tell him that she feels them, at night, a scratching needling feeling drawing patterns down her body, and that as pretty as they are she doesn’t really want any more of them, they might make her face look weird. She also doesn’t want to tell him that he’s right.

“So cool…” He trails off, and Tyreen enjoys the quiet envy in his voice.

“I wish I could do other stuff,” she confesses. Troy shrugs.

“Maybe you can. But you haven’t found it out yet.” He pulls up another flower and hands it to her. “Do it again.”

* * *

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Dunno,” Tyreen answers honestly, “I’m fine, though, really.”

She feels more than fine. It’s the only use she’s managed to put her powers to - as long as there’s something small and alive nearby, she can draw its energy in place of food. Some days she’s been getting by just running her hands through the grass. When she thinks about it, she can’t even remember what being hungry feels like.

The past few weeks have been a blur of trudging through the arid desert and scavenging abandoned camps and just trying to stay away from trouble. They had learnt early on to avoid active settlements - the local bandits didn’t take too kindly to thieves - but rummaging around in waste and ruin yielded little in terms of rations. Tyreen had pocketed herself a neat little pistol that she (thankfully) hadn’t had to use yet and Troy had secured some kind of baton that looked as though it might have once doubled as a taser, but other than that, resources are scarce. At least this way she can make sure he’s getting something close to enough to eat.

“You should still eat something, Ty. This can’t be good for you.”

“I’m not sure living in the desert is good for anyone.” Tyreen pulls her jacket up over her shoulders to shield herself from the heat. Little as she might physically need it, she’d kill for a cold drink right about now. Beer. She isn’t even sure what beer tastes like, but she’s parsed that it’s a noble option on hot days, and under the blistering sun came now to consider it some kind of ambrosia.

Troy’s footsteps stop behind her and she turns wearily to look at him. He’s shielding his eyes and squinting into the distance.

“I think there’s a town up ahead. Let’s move.”

* * *

“It’s no use, Troy,” Tyreen groans, trying to hide how pissed off she’s really getting. Not that she doesn’t appreciate his enthusiasm, but there’s only so much she can put up with. She starts to pull her jacket back on.

“No, no, c’mon, just - one more try,” Troy pleads, darting forward to grab her wrists, “You heard the guy in the bar back there. He reckons you’re a Siren. There’s - there’s so much more you could lea-”

“Most powerful being in the universe were his exact words, Troy.” She slouches a few exasperated feet away and slumps onto a rock cluster. “Killing plants is a far cry from that.”

Troy runs a hand through his hair and sits himself on the ground in front of her. “It’s not killing plants, Ty, it’s - some kind of energy thing, like you can - steal life force or something -”

“Troy,” Tyreen cuts him off firmly, then pinches the bridge of her nose and softens her tone, “I know you want to believe there’s more to this but - I think this might be it.” He’s watching her in earnest, but she can see the light die behind his eyes a little, and it hurts. “You heard him, too. Sirens are dangerously powerful, from birth, he seemed to think they’re killing their parents and levelling bandit camps before they can walk. Do you - don’t you think, if I could do anything like that, we would’ve found out by now?” She tries to offer a small smile. It looks more like a grimace. Troy opens his mouth to say something, and she cuts across him again. “I’m sorry, Troy. It’s a fairy tale. We’re stuck on the same shitty planet as everyone else.”

Troy’s mouth is pressed into a grim line and he looks away from her. Tyreen gets up and offers him a hand. “Come on. It’s getting dark. I can start us a fire, at least.”

* * *

They come for her that night.

Tyreen is jolted awake by a hand over her mouth, and finds herself face to face with a masked marauder. Even with the ventilator covering the majority of his face, she can tell who it is.

“Hello, little Siren,” he croons, and the grin in his voice is sickening. She shrieks, one hand going for his face, the other scrabbling above her head for her pistol, kicking and howling muffled under his thick glove, trying to make enough noise to wake Troy up. The marauder is bigger than her by a lot, pinning her easily to the floor, and to her panic she can see two others advancing behind him.

“Never seen one in real life,” one of them comments, stepping over and kicking her gun out of reach, “Is she dangerous?”

“Nah, they told me everything,” says the one holding her down, and shifts to press his knee into her abdomen. Tyreen feels tears springing into her eyes. “She can’t do shit, least, not yet, anyway. Reckon we can fix that, though.”

Tyreen twists beneath him and makes another lunge for the pistol. It catches her assailant off guard, and she manages to choke out a breathless “TRO--” before he regains his hold on her, hand twisting in her hair and slamming her face hard against the ground. She can taste blood.

Several hands seize her arms and haul her to her feet, and there’s one covering her mouth again. She kicks frantically at them, feet slipping against the dusty earth floor.

“Come on, sweetheart,” is the rasped attempt at sweetness against her ear, “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” And with that they’re dragging her from the shack, impervious to her muffled pleas and the tears streaming down her face.

Through her panic and probable concussion, she tries to find some clarity, to find that little breathless inkling she feels with the plants. It’s a long shot, she’s never managed anything more complex than a small cactus before, but maybe Troy is right, she can do it, she just needs to -

CRACK

The hand around her mouth goes limp and after a couple of beats, she feels the weight drop behind her. The other two let go of her arms, instinctively leaping away from whatever has just felled their comrade, and for one absurd moment she thinks that she’s managed something incredible.

“TYREEN!” Troy grabs her arm and pulls her behind him. He’s holding a thick piece of wood that looks like it might’ve been Tyreen’s height to begin with, but now hinged almost completely in two, bearing thick, vicious splinters where it had collided with the marauder’s head.

The other two have drawn their guns, but Troy is faster. Even at 16 he towers over them, wasteland-formed muscles knocking down both attackers in one swing of his makeshift weapon. There’s a loud BANG that jolts Tyreen unpleasantly back into reality and she dives for the dead marauder, seizing his gun from its holster and realising too late that she’s never done this before.

Troy has one of the men pinned to the ground, and the other is taking aim again. Tyreen doesn’t think, just points and shoots, aiming as far from her brother as she can get away with, fighting the resistance of the trigger until she lands a solid hit. Silhouetted by the light of Elpis, she sees him go down, his fingers twitching as his weapon falls from his grip. Her heart is racing, vision blurred by tears and adrenaline, but she can’t risk him getting up. She can hear the panicked pleas choked beneath Troy’s fingers to her left as she shoots her attacker between the eyes.

* * *

“Can’t sleep?”

“Nah.”

Tyreen sits on the mottled grass and watches the sun rise. Troy seats himself next to her, legs crossed like he used to when they were kids. Tyreen fidgets with the sleeves of her shirt.

“You can’t wear this, Ty, it’s a hundred degrees out,” Troy says, picking at the worn cotton. Tyreen pulls them further over her hands.

“I don’t want anyone to see them.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, and the pair of them sit in silence and watch the orange sunlight wash over camps and communes as far as the horizon.

“We have to go,” Tyreen says eventually. Troy glances over his shoulder to where the bodies of the three marauders are still lying. It’s only been a few hours, but in the heat the flies are already buzzing lazily around the corpses, and a swarm of rakk are beginning to circle overhead.

“Don’t you want to get some rest first? Nobody’s going to find us up here for a while.”

Tyreen shakes her head and lets the silence fall for a little while longer, punctuated by the occasional shriek from above.

“I’ve never killed anyone before.”

“Me neither.”

They both ponder the absurdity of the situation. Pandora isn’t renowned for its peaceful living, its occupants consisting mostly of violent bandits, escaped convicts, and the mutated casualties of Dahl’s mining operations. Yet they’d managed to avoid confrontation up until now, and it had dragged them screaming from their cabin in the dead of night. Terrified as she’d been, Tyreen wonders why she isn’t feeling more, well, anything - she’s just taken a life, and she feels as indifferent to it as if she’d walked away from a bar fight.

“They deserved it,” Troy says suddenly, as if reading her mind. His voice is flat and stony, “They were going to hurt you.”

Tyreen looks up at him. His expression is cold, and there’s something different about him, like a vengeful spark in his eye. She sighs and leans her head against his shoulder (well, arm) and then pulls away abruptly.

“Troy, you’re bleeding!”

Troy snaps out of his reverie and glances down, noting the deep indent in his bicep where a bullet must have skimmed past him.

“Has that been open this whole time? Damn it, that’s hours old, we have to get that cleaned up-”

“Calm down, Ty, it’s just a gra-”

“It’ll get infected, Troy, you could lose your arm.”

“It’s fine, leave it-”

“Let me help you.” She’s standing now, furious tears pricking her eyes. Troy doesn’t say anything. She storms inside to get the med kit.

* * *

They play it safe and don’t stop until they’re a couple of towns over. Despite the sparse population news had a habit of travelling fast here, and Tyreen is keen not to become the focal point of a planet-wide manhunt. She stays small, keeps her arms covered despite the sun, though thankfully they appear to be moving north and it’s getting a little cooler.

Troy keeps an anxious eye on her. She’s growing skittish, recoiling inward whenever anyone passes too close, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. She refuses to use her powers any more and at night she insists on sleeping next to him, terrified of what might happen if they get raided again and she can’t wake him up in time.

They’re sitting in a tavern one lazy afternoon when a conversation the next table over makes Tyreen freeze up. Troy hears it too; they’re talking about a local faction of the Crimson Lance, and the word Siren hangs heavy in the air. Tyreen cringes inwardly and looks up at Troy with pleading eyes, desperate to get as far away from this conversation as physically possible. Troy shushes her, trying to tell her without words that they can leave in a moment, but what they’re hearing could be important - Commandant Steele is old news at this point, but it sounds like they think there’s another Siren in the area. Tyreen pulls nervously at her sleeves. They can’t be talking about her, surely - she hasn’t said a word to anyone since they arrived. Low profile isn’t the word.

Tyreen gets up suddenly, upsetting their glasses, no longer resigning to sit and listen. She grabs Troy with a shaking hand and all-but drags him out of the bar.

* * *

Tyreen sleeps restlessly, tossing and turning uncomfortably, too hot and too cold at the same time, her brother’s protective hold the only thing preventing her from falling out of bed. She swears the ground is shaking like they’re resting over a tremorous fault line, yet the room and its contents remain still and Troy sleeps undisturbed. There’s a nagging urge telling her to head outside and look for… something, like a magnetic pull calling her out into the darkness, but she vehemently fights it, fear outweighing abject curiosity. When she finally drifts off, the sun is rising, spilling in through the frayed curtains, and she’s curled up in Troy’s arms, safe as she’ll ever be.

* * *

“Ty.”

Tyreen barely hears him. Her head feels like it’s full of radio static, has done since she woke up somewhere around 3pm. She’s focussing on just walking straight forward, though she’s not sure she’s doing a particularly good or convincing job of it.

“Tyreen,” Troy insists, grabbing her arm and forcing her to stop.

“Wuh,” is all she can manage, her hazy state making the sudden halt feel vaguely like whiplash. She presses her eyes shut and rubs her temples.

“Ty, look.” Troy is pointing behind her. Tyreen turns around and waits for her head to stop spinning.

“What ammi lookin’ at?” She mumbles after several seconds of attempting to decipher the blur that is her vision.

“Are you alright?” Her brother sounds incredibly worried and incredibly far away. She aware of his hand on her back, although she’s not sure that is her back, it feels thrice removed, as if she’s watching through someone else’s eyes and thinking with someone else’s brain.

“M fine. J’st dizzy. Water,” she manages, and fumbles around for her hipflask. The motion is disoriented, almost drunken, but she finds it and struggles with the cap for far too long. Troy takes it off her and opens it. “What’s am I lookin’ at?” She says again.

“Ty, you’re leaving footprints.”

“So? S’a desert.”

“In the grass.”

Tyreen blinks several times and tries to focus on what’s in front of her. It takes what feels like minutes before she can see clearly enough, and when she can, she’s not convinced she isn’t hallucinating.

As far back as she can see, as far as they’ve walked - which is not the sandy wasteland she’d been picturing in front of her for the past couple of miles, but more of a, admittedly ill-attended, pasture - there’s a set of footprints leading up to where she’s standing. Where she’s set foot, the grass has wilted away beneath her, leaving dead foliage and dry earth in its place. Tyreen looks down to where she’s standing now, and sees it; around her, the verdure wavers and leans in, towards her, pulled taut by some invisible force, before drying up and shrivelling to straw. It seems to slow as the circle around her grows, but it’s happening alright.

“This is bad... issnt it.”

“It’s…” Troy’s tone does not match hers. He seemed elated. “Ty, it’s incredible. I’ve never seen you keep this up for so long!”

“Mm?”

“You’re getting stronger, I told you, you just need to practise-”

“Troy…”

“- We can find somewhere safe next time we stop, you can try it on something larger, like, an animal or something-”

“Troy, I’m n- not -”

He’s still talking, but his words are blurring together into one excited stream of noise. Tyreen feels a drop in the pit of her stomach, like the ground has just fallen away with her still attached to it. She tries to feel for the hipflask he’s still holding.

“Troy I’m going to throw up,” She manages, surprisingly coherent, and her brother catches her as she blacks out.

* * *

Troy is holding a cold cloth to her face when she comes around. She’s lying on his jacket, but the ground beneath is hard and uneven, and the fabric pulls uncomfortably against her as she moves to sit up.

Troy breathes a hefty sigh of relief and against his better judgement, gathers her into a tight hug.

“Oh my god, I was so scared, Ty, I thought I’d lost you,” he mumbles brokenly into her shoulder.

Tyreen pats his chest gently. “’M fine. Can I have some space?”

Troy gives her one last squeeze and lets go. His face is wrought with worry, and she can tell he’s been crying. She opens her mouth to say something, and he shoves her hipflask into it.

“Drink. It’s been hours.”

She complies gratefully. He’s right, she’s completely parched, and the flask is empty in seconds. The awful fuzziness from earlier still isn’t quite gone, but she can see clearly again, and Troy doesn’t sound like he’s half a mile away when he talks. Tyreen takes a few deep breaths and scopes out the room.

It’s not a room. They appear to be in a cave of sorts, the grey walls dotted with condensation that’s slowly crawling down the walls and keeping the air comfortably cool and refreshing. Up ahead, the entrance opens out to a deep blue sky dotted with bright constellations and a full, luminous moon.

Troy is watching her. “I’m sorry, it’s not great, but it’s the only place I could find without anything…” He trails off, and she sees his jaw flex as it does when he’s nervous. “...Alive.”

Tyreen blinks at him, at a loss. He doesn’t elaborate. She draws her legs up to her chest and rests her head on her arms.

“It’s a good thing you’re wearing long sleeves, anyway.”

It’s then that she sees it. His shirt is torn - no, burnt, the edges frayed and blackened, pulling away to reveal an angry mess of red, blistering skin dragging down from his shoulder.

“Oh my god…” she murmurs, reaching out to touch him. He flinches.

“You, um,” Troy laughs uneasily, trying to lighten the mood and failing, “You were a bit grabby.”

Tyreen can only stare. She can barely remember anything before she passed out, only a static headache, and footprints, and Troy catching her, and now…

Now her brother is recoiling from her touch, on instinct, like a frightened animal, and he looks as though someone has raked at his chest with a hot poker.

“Troy,” she says slowly, “What’s going on?”

Troy runs a hand through his hair and looks at the ground. His shoulders are hunched, making it hard to see the scars she’s left on him, but she knows they’re there now, and she can’t take her eyes off them.

“I don’t know,” Troy answers honestly, after what feels like forever, “But I think those bandits were right.” Tyreen flinches at the memory. “I think I was right.” Troy looks up under his hair and offers her a half smile. Tyreen feels like her heart is in her throat, too anxious to smile back. “You can do more than kill plants.”

* * *

Tyreen is glowing.

Whatever cover the long sleeves offered her before is lost now. Through the tired grey of her shirt the markings weave a prominent blue around her arm. She wonders if they will actually burn through eventually.

She walks a few paces behind her brother, hopeful that his hulking presence will shield her from view, or at least deter any would-be attackers.

She wears gloves now, although she’s not sure it’s doing much. Foliage still wilts as she brushes past it, and it’s getting worse. She can’t control it. Her heart is hammering in her chest and she can’t sleep, so buzzed constantly that she can’t get a moment’s rest. The static headache is coming back.

They’re back to raiding bandit camps, reluctant to risk running into any enthusiasts in towns, but it’s taking a toll on the both of them. Troy still needs to eat, and as they venture further into the tundra the camps grow populous and more secure. Few are abandoned and they’re more complex, civilised almost, rickety shacks climbing multiple levels up cliff faces, connected by makeshift stairs and ladders that can barely hold Troy’s weight.

After a few close calls, they decide Tyreen should sit out the raids. Night is a lost cause, her luminous tattoos making her a walking target as they try to stealth through the camps, and during the day her vision blurs and vertigo hits her in waves.

She resolves to sit outside the camp, standing guard, although there’s not much she can do if disaster strikes. At least Troy can find her easily in the dark. She learns quickly not to mention the growing collection of marks and scars he’s amassing with each trip.

“I think we should turn back,” she says one night, as they’re huddling together under blankets, deep in the safety of a cave. Tyreen can barely feel the cold but her brother is shivering (much as he tries to hide it) and she’s giving off enough body heat for the both of them.

“We can’t.” Troy’s jaw is clenched.

“We were safer in the desert. There’s too many people here.” Troy shakes his head. “Troy, come on, we can’t stay here. You’re going to freeze to death.”

“I’m fine,” Troy mumbles, breath rising in a mist before him, “Have to keep you safe.”

“Troy…”

Her brother presses his eyes shut and shakes his head again. “It’s better for you… here.” He draws in a shivering breath. “Nothing… to hurt you.”

Tyreen knows exactly what he’s talking about, and he’s right. As they wander deeper into the frozen wasteland the greenery is dwindling, giving her body less to draw on, the headaches becoming tolerable background noise as opposed to the constant, nauseating buzz when she was brushing through the foliage a few miles back.

She wants to tell him to leave, that she’ll be fine here on her own; but she knows that’s a lie, and he’d never abandon her anyway. Troy is the only thing keeping both of them alive, and it’s killing him.

She looks up at him, in time to see his head drooping as he drifts into an uneasy sleep, resting against her shoulder. She’s managed not to burn him since that fateful night in the nexus, but she also hasn’t managed to do anything else. For a few days Troy had insisted that she try channelling the energy she’s built up, convinced that that’s what had hurt him, but after several frustrating, failed attempts, Tyreen was starting to think they’d both imagined it. Maybe she hadn’t burnt him, just clawed at him a whole lot, enough to draw blood. That must have been it.

She wishes she could sleep. Instead, the best she can do is curl up close to her brother and keep him warm until the morning sunlight seeps in through the windows of their makeshift home.

* * *

Tyreen is sitting in the snow a few hundred feet outside of Troy’s latest charge when she hears him screaming. The sound reverberates within her, shaking her to her core, raw and visceral and unmistakably him. She’s on her feet before she can stop herself.

He’s done this before… don’t get involved… it’s too dangerous… She stops trying to convince herself. She’s never heard that sound from him before. He needs her.

Nobody looks at her when she bursts into the camp. They’re too busy huddling, watching, jeering at something she can’t see up ahead. The ground is spattered, warm and wet and soft with blood, so much blood. They’re at least a hundred yards away and the vicious spray reaches as far as where she’s standing.

Tyreen feels as though she’s wading through water as she approaches the spectacle. She can’t move fast enough, terrified of what she’s going to see, but desperate to see it. The buzzing headache is creeping an icy path behind her eyes and obscuring her vision, her heart pounding so hard and so fast her chest hurts and she can’t breathe, her blood races like molten metal through her veins and she can see out of the corner of her eye the vibrant blue radiating from her, the only visual she can place as the static pulls a cloudy veil over her sight.

She isn’t sure if the crowd parts for her, or if she pushes through them. The taunting subsides for a moment as her presence is noted, and then starts back up again, wordless yelling and mockery coming from all sides. Who is she? She shouldn’t be here.

Tyreen doesn’t need to see clearly to know what she’s looking at. Her brother is slumped motionless before her, propped half-upright against something, his form through her murky vision painted merciless red, red, red. She can make out her hands in front of her as she reaches out to him, her palms coming away from his torso hot and damp. Her mouth forms silent words, begging him to wake up, fingers drawing thick red lines along his face.

“This is heartwarmin’, truly.” The voice comes from all around her, barely audible through the haze of shock. Tyreen gets unsteadily to her feet. The world tilts sideways. “But you can’t be here, darlin’.”

Tyreen half-staggers around to face the speaker. He’s a blurry mess of colour and motion, and he’s pointing something hefty and probably dangerous at her. “You got ten seconds to leave, or you’re joinin’ him.”

What happens next, Tyreen will later justify as self-defence. It’s a lie. She’s never wanted to hurt someone so badly. She wants him dead.

The figure takes a step towards her, and Tyreen moves, hand outstretched. She thinks she hears his shotgun go off as she connects with his throat. Something surges within her, rippling through her body and charging the air around her with a terrifying electricity. Her vision goes white.

Tyreen comes around to chaos. Her clothes cling to her uncomfortably, and she’s vaguely aware of screaming and raucous movement all around her. She looks down at her hands.

She’s covered in blood. It’s coating her arms, her body, drying against her face, plastering her hair against her forehead. Through the vibrant red, her tattoos glow faintly, the light dying peacefully against her skin. The headache is gone.

Heart in her throat, Tyreen reluctantly surveys the area around her and nearly passes out. The bandit who threatened her is gone, replaced by a violent spattering of blood and viscera. An amalgam of decimated organs and what might be clothing is dotted around, hanging from various buildings and structures, painting a few unfortunate nearby bandits caught in the splash zone. Only the gun remains intact, lying in the midst of the gore, seemingly untouched by any of it. It’s almost comical.

“Don’t touch me,” she says shakily, aware of one particularly brave or foolish bandit cocking his gun off to the side. He doesn’t need to be told twice. Tyreen casts a sweeping glance around her, and the remaining spectators scatter.

“Tyreen…”

“Troy! Oh my god!” Tyreen spins around and all-but throws herself at her brother. The colour is drained from his face, his skin cold and clammy, but he’s alive.

She pulls away suddenly, remembering what has just transpired. “Oh, fuck, oh my god, I didn’t-”

“That was... awesome,” Troy manages. He smirks weakly, hand reaching up to grasp her shoulder. Hand…

“Troy, your arm!”

Troy follows her gaze to bleeding crater where his arm used to be. It’s been blown completely from the socket.

“Huh,” he mumbles. He moves to touch the wound, and Tyreen grabs his wrist. “That’s not good, is it.”

“Can you walk?”

“Th... think so.” Troy attempts to push himself up with his remaining hand. “No.”

“I- I don’t know what to do.” Panic settles solidly in her throat as the magnitude of the situation dawns on her. “Troy, y - you need a doctor.”

“Yeah…” Troy trails off, his eyes starting to drift closed.

“No, no, god, don’t go to sleep, Troy-!” Tyreen taps his face firmly, hands shaking. He doesn’t respond. “Stay awake, please, wake up, oh my god - HELP!” She scopes the camp frantically. “SOMEONE HELP ME!” There must be something, someone who knows what to do, a settlement out here couldn’t last this long without medicine…

There. She can make out the crudely-drawn Aesculepion hammered into the ground a few hundred feet off.

“I’m gonna be back soon, okay?” She presses her forehead to her brother’s, fighting tears. “I’m getting help.”

She draws herself to her full height and takes a deep breath. Picks up the discarded shotgun with bloodied hands and marches towards the medical tent.

* * *

Troy’s hand twitches lightly against hers. Tyreen springs to attention, the most she’s moved in two days.

“Hey,” she greets him softly as his eyes flutter open, “Don’t move too much. You’re in safe hands.”

Regardless, Troy awkwardly tries to push himself upright, knocked off balance by the missing appendage. Tyreen pushes him gently back to lie down.

“You need to rest. Doctor’s orders.” She shoots a smile over to the far corner, where the medic is cowering, terrified. “Isn’t that right?”

“You’re not glowing,” Troy murmurs, his voice cracking slightly from the anaesthesia. He moves over like he wants to touch her. “I can’t feel my arm, Ty.”

Tyreen brushes the hair from his face and smiles tenderly. “We can fix that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Troy squeezes her hand weakly, too worn out to inquire any further. He mumbles something incoherent and sinks back into the mattress. Tyreen pulls the worn blankets over him, feeling real relief for the first time.

It’s refreshing. Liberating. Nobody’s out to get them here, far contrary - the commune dwellers have proven quite eager to help her. For once in her life, they don’t have to run.

#borderlands #the calypso twins #Troy calypso #Tyreen calypso #gratuitous self indulgence #real talk i had a blast writing this i hope yall enjoy reading it #more to come!! like comment and subscribe!!#it's 6am i should go to bed #ive gotta go to college in like two hours lmao

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writeanapocalae · 5 years

Text

Invited In

There was a ring to the old rotary phone, drawing Julian from their midday lounging. They had been reading over the plans to a new building, in the center of the city, with a major network or paths and tunnels underground. It was a decent plan, though there was not much of a use for it, not now that they were no longer hiding in the shadows in any way other than the literal. Still, the building was from Simone Grisbaw, and they had been friends for much of her adult life so they’d promised to give it some consideration.

They answered the phone, sliding the plans onto the coffee table next to the copper tea tray. “Yes?”

“There’s a gentleman at the door for you,” Gehr informed.

“I’m not seeing anyone,” Julian reminded him. The butler was old and bent but they had been hiring the same family for their butling for generations and Gehr hadn’t been very lucky in continuing the line. Julian would have to search for someone else soon. He shouldn’t have forgotten such an important and long standing thing as how Julian never accepted visitors.

“I’m afraid he isn’t amenable to such a suggestion. He’s quite persistent.”

A roll to the eyes as Julian sighed. “Fine, show him in.”

It was only a few moments before Gehr entered the room, ushering in a man in all black behind him. The man was wearing a cloak, which he tore off and handed to Gehr with much less respect than he should have given, dressed either for a club or a certain type of event that Julian would never find themself. His hair was short and black and he was wearing long earrings that hung long and connected. His eyes were red and the sclera black, black tears tracking down his handsome face.

“You said there was a gentleman at the door?” Julian groaned, planting their feet on the ground and their elbows on their knees, glaring up at the old vampire. “This is a scoundrel and a menace, not a gentleman.”

“He stated that it was quiet important.” Gehr pressed.

“Yeah,” Ulris grinned, flashing his fangs, “I knew if I sent you a message you would’t get it, do you even have a cellphone?”

Julian just gave him a look and then directed his gaze to the rotary phone.

“You know, I get the aesthetic and all that, but puhleeze get with the times, it’s the twenty first century and you’re still acting like it’s the eighteen hundreds.”

“I liked the eighteen hundreds.”

Ulris dropped into a squat in front of Julian, bringing their faces close together. He waved at Gehr, making the butler shrug and leave, giving them the privacy for this extremely important conversation that Ulris demanded that they have.

“I’m throwing a party in five days,” Ulris explained, “and you’re coming.”

Julian dramatically lay back, on their back, staring at the ceiling. “No.”

“I knew you would say no, but too bad.”

“You can’t force me to go to a party.”

Ulris pushed forward with a grimace on his face. His teeth, his fangs, were drawn. He smelled like old blood, rot, and rigor mortis. “I can force you and I’m willing to. Come on, there will be a buffet.”

“I can’t,” Julian ignored his demands and threats. “Not in my condition.”

Ulris chewed on his tongue, lolling his head as he grabbed his combat boot and let his whole body swing like that of a drunk. “You always say that. If you let your condition hold you back you’ll stay in this house until it rots away. You’re just lazy.”

Julian glared at him then and Ulris smiled. It may have been that Ulris just wanted to get to him, in which case he had succeeded.

“Come on.” Ulris’ expression softened, as did his tone. “You can bring Fredrick with you.”

Fredrick was an IV drip stand, which was currently holding a pint of Meria Castellian, B positive. The tube went under the lavender of Julian’s jacket and the lace of their shirt, into the crook of their elbow. It was necessary. It was better than starving and then filling just to wait until one was empty once more.

“What if I say no?” Julian argued.

“You already did,” Ulris replied. “And, if you don’t show up, I will have to make a second party. This one would take place here, in your lovely ‘villa’. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Julian shuddered. They weren’t much for entertaining. They weren’t much for any of the things that Ulris was proposing.

“You have so much space!” Ulris continued, “There’s a pool around here somewhere, I’m sure. We could fill it with fresh blood, strip down to nothing at all, and swim in the moonlight! We could drain a few bitches dry! There’s enough land around that we could hide the bodies until no one remembers they even had bones!”

“I despise you,” Julian groaned, “You are the least admirable of men, you do realize this?”

“Your insults are as old fashioned as the rest of you, it’s really boring.”

Julian pouted. Ulris always got his way. It was as disgusting as it was expected.

“I’ll make an appearance, but no more,” Julian gave in.

Ulris’ smile was like a pocket knife. “Perfect. That’s all I ask.”

tag list: @soul-write

#vampire #my writing #julian #ulris #The Thrall Incident

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scarletrebel · 5 years

Note

⭐star⭐ waffle at me about your favourite lines youve written

ohhh friend you have opened a pandoras box and i hope you are ready also thank you aha

so i started…….. picking some lines and made the Executive Decision to just do one fic because i was planning on doing a couple from a handful of fics but turns out im far too prone to waffling about this kind of stuff because i love picking things apart and figuring out why they work because i love fuckign words and the things they evoke and stuff so yeah this is just some fave lines from most recent fic, requital.

this was part of a ‘directors cut’ writer thing and if anyone has any more prompts, feel more than free to send them my way!

Requital, Chp. 1:

His honesty, wrapped tightly underneath a chivalrous act; a throwaway comment to soften the exposure of such a question, draws her closer.

She kisses him, and hopes that even though the motion is countless in the amount of times they’ve come together, that the answer is plain enough. A claim, she hears her own words in her head, tasting the tobacco of his morning cigarette on her tongue, the warmth of the pull at his hands on her hips.

so whilst i cant say this section was directly inspired by the ecdysis book, what i can say is that there is definitely some influence going on here, in particular these two lines from the page ‘synesthesia’:

“Wu Ming is a bonfire in the darkness, and she crawls toward his warmth.”

“Wu Ming leaves his questions by the wayside as he is drawn inexorably into the gravity well of her desperate honesty.”

and thats not something i realised until i was writing the final draft, and im pretty pleased with myself considering not only is requital going to examine some of the similarities between avia and drifter, but also the fact that ecdysis is probably my favourite book. i mean…… ‘drawn inexorably into the gravity well of her desperate honesty’ what the FUCK KIND OF LINE its gorgeous i cant deal with it or this book or this page or how desperately gorgeous the tragedy of drifter and orins relationship is

also…… look. im a hopeless romantic. always have been, probs always will be, so when i say avia and rook are soulmates i mean it in the cheesiest way possible. right before this is rook feeling a bit self-conscious about the whole awoken engaging thing, and theres no way avia can actually put into words how irrevocably in love she is with rook. so she kisses him, and hopes beyond hope that she can put those feelings into motions if not words. i also enjoy the small bit of possessiveness that came out of her too, because the whole ‘claim’ thing with the awoken was there since the first draft but this section came in the final edit, she thinks of it so casually but when she goes on to say that she’d actually duel anyone who came between them i…….. would not put it past her to be 100% down to do that.

rook isnt a bonfire in the darkness, he’s an anchor in the deep, a solid tether when the sea becomes a storm.

(ayyy where the FUCK WAS THAT WHEN I WAS WRITING THIS)

Requital Chp. 2:

Here’s the thing, if you’ve gone through the trouble of decrypting this (a fortified certain-eyes-only encryption that took me a couple of hundred years to perfect, thank you very much), it at least means you’re interested, so hear me out.

i like this line a lot, for a few reasons. drifter knows avia well enough at this point to be well acquainted with her temper and lack of time for dealing with his nonsense. it’s the first flick of the coin between the two of them, drifter laying the proverbial gauntlet down and at the end of the day, its up to her whether or not she picks it up.

and she does, avia asks levi to decrypt it, and the first thing she sees is drifter acknowledging that shes done so and asking her to at least hear him out. he’s kind of caught her out, and she can respect that even if thats not at the forefront of her mind. avia also has her own brand of curiosity when it comes to people like the drifter, so this is kind of the first inkling of that. and it also (i hope) makes you wonder if drifter is aware of that curiosity that she has, if he sent the message decrypted on purpose to get her interested.

She smiles at the note, throws her legs over the bed and stretches around a yawn. Five minutes later, Levi puts her in her armour.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stick around?” The Ghost asks. “We don’t have anything urgent to do. There’s breakfast here.”

Avia hums, considering. She moves into the kitchen, glances over the fridge, the cupboards. She looks then onto the sofa, the sprawled pillows, untidy blankets. Suddenly the armour on her body feels heavy, out of place, like the metal has no right being somewhere like this.

“No. I’m not hungry, let’s go.”

“Okay,” Levi says in that tone of voice that lets her know they aren’t buying it. “Should we walk, or transmat?”

Avia notices the balcony door is still open. She walks over and closes it, the streets barely alive as one or two civilians walk to and fro, glancing idly at each other as they pass. “Transmat.”

avia immediately makes an comment about being all domestic with rook in chapter 1. its just not something that suits her in her own mind, and that line (even though i havent waffled about it bc dear god theres too much here already) was something i immediately knew i wanted if i was going to write a day of domestic bliss with her and her fiance, because i knew it’d be a hard thing for her to just get on with like a normal person aha.

so, we get this part in chapter 2. the domestic bliss is over, and what avia knows best, what shes always known best, is a set of armour and getting back to work. however this part of herself contradicts that which she’s experienced for the past day, and especially the line ‘Suddenly the armour on her body feels heavy, out of place, like the metal has no right being somewhere like this.’ i put in to really reinforce that idea. its not the metal that feels out of place in this scene, its the person in the metal. and her eagerness to transmat straight to the tower rather than walk through the peaceful city streets shows her tendency to run from such thoughts.

this part came really naturally, actually. its a small snapshot into a bigger struggle avia has with herself (especially given the dreaming city, the reef, petra and now potentially going back to the worst part of the shore with drifter) of where she belongs, and more importantly, if she deserves to belong. which is why levi talks to her in that tone because they know what shes doing, theyve seen it so many times before – avia in a scenario that resembles something normal and running from it with no one around to stop her, because in her subconscious she doesnt believe she deserves it.

“Ada-1, I believe, has fully settled into the Tower. She becomes more and more tolerable of the Guardians by the day. And with the discovery of Niobe labs, her mood has been favourable.”

i had no idea how fun scarlet was to write until i got to this part. she almost has her own language, really. writing ‘im really proud of ada because i spent all morning with her and she was only snippy with like two guardians and shes been really uplifted and im really happy for her since they found niobe labs’ in scarlets own ‘okay but heres the relevant information’ way of explaining things is a challenge but FUN. like, really fun??

because scarlet wouldnt be mentioning adas mood if she didnt care, ya know? and its not that she cant say that longer thing about being proud and stuff, its just that she doesnt see the sense in it and its not important information. like, if avia and eden were to spend a dedicated amount of time whittling her down she would absolutely say ‘i am so proud of ada and also i wanna smooch her face how do i do that as an exo’ but its just not a thing for her. but part of the reason why ada and scarlet being together was an idea that i had was because i imagine that line of thinking probably suits ada.

“It was at Ada’s request. I had more knowledge of the area in its current state, and felt more comfortable talking to Ikora and her Hidden agents than Ada did…”

supportive exo girlfriends. that is all. man ive gotta write more about these two

“Hmm,” Ada wears a concerned stare masked behind a formal rigidity that Avia knows her Warlock teammate best for.

if im being honest, i just really enjoy this line. i imagine its hard for exos to show concern, esp a character like ada and my girl scarlet, so avia has spent a lot of time dissecting certain facial cues and yeah im proud of how this description came out aha

…as if she hadn’t spent the past few months clipping sidelong comments and threatening him when his Gambit veered out of the realm of her control.

avia is a control freak. plain and simple, and i wanted to make that as obvious as possible considering this sentence is only a few away from avia choosing to go and talk to drifter.

there’s a certain amount of ‘i need to understand this thing that i have limited knowledge on so i can predict/control/plan for it in the future’ in how avia views drifter in general, its a kind-of warlock way of thinking about things but the big difference is avias need for control in these situations is a) selfish and b) only applies to things that she knows she has a good chance of understanding/taming. shes not going around learning about the hive because she has a good understanding that thats a cosmic threat that can only be defended against until it comes. drifter on the other hand is on her doorstep.

i also really loved the contradiction in putting ‘gambit’ and ‘control’ next to each other in a sentence, i kinda hoped it showed how conflicted avia is about going and talking to drifter, and maybe even how naive it is of her to think that it could turn out okay.

She was incensed, maybe, at the way he spoke to Ada, needed to go and stomp the idea out of his head but he got her talking, like he does

i like this line bc its avia acknowledging that she knows how shes viewed. she knows everyone sees her as a hot-head, she knows her anger veers away from her sometimes and whilst she’s gotten better at getting a handle on it, it’s still an aspect of her that people who dont know her well enough find it hard to get past.

i also enjoy how new people to this fic/avia in general might not know that this is a big part of her? so she’s trying to use it as an excuse, ‘well no one can blame me if i say i got really mad because thats what i do’ and it (hopefully) tells new people about that aspect of her character without having to show the worst part of it, the convo with ada being an introduction to it i guess – especially since the past few scenes have seen her a lot softer than im used to writing aha.

“Dammit,” she mutters under her breath. And walks towards the Drifter before she can make a better decision

fun fact – this line was originally ‘and walks down the corridor before she can make a better decision.’

i changed it because i wanted to make it more obvious that avia is making a conscious decision to choose drifter, that she’s walking towards a path that she knows is not a good idea. it provides foreshadowing for the allegiance quest and referring to him as ‘The Drifter’ cements it as an idea that she’s walking towards and not necessarily a person.

#ask thing #thanks buddy!!!#this was really fun #im such a fucking nerd someone put me in the bin honestly ahahaha #jadeisadork.txt

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mimik-u · 6 years

Text

Flower Child (Chapter 2)

Summary:

Garnet, Pearl, Amethyst, Greg, Yellow, and Blue—they've all lost someone. Lovers and daughters and friends and family, and that's not a wound you easily come back from.

If at all.

But this isn't an 'if at all' kind of story.

It's a story about a sickly, little kid named Steven and his ever-growing surrogate family. Human AU.

A/N:

Happy Stevenbomb Week, guys! Here's to hoping we all survive it because, oh, my God, it looks intense.

P.S. Thank you for the love you've shown to this fic so far! It's meant a lot to me. c:

P.S.P.S. At the bottom of this chapter, I've included a quick sketch of human Blue. She's... frazzled 'n sad. Someone give her a hug.

AO3 Link

Trying to keep his dying son from bothering a crying, old lady in a bathrobe had absolutely not been on Greg Universe’s to-do list today… but here he was anyway, a torn witness to his kid extending his nearly deadened arm towards a woman who sure looked like she needed it. The little flower from Rose’s bouquet passed between their hands, and a tentative smile drew itself across the woman’s wrinkled mouth, and there was something stiff and sad in that very smile that suggested it was not a regular habit for her.

That Steven, in all of three minutes, had drawn it out of her.

Because of course he had.

He was Steven, and every person he met was a friend he just hadn’t gotten to know quite yet.

All of Greg’s protestations died in his throat, and he could not help but lean back and consider—not for the first time and certainly not for the last—how lucky he was to be this beautiful boy’s dad.

His fourteen-year-old was dying, and he didn’t hold that against the world in the way any other sane person probably would have. Heck, if Greg was dying (and he didn’t have the responsibility of raising a child), he’d be on the next plane to the Bahamas, ready to achieve Nirvana by listening to Nirvana as he danced topless in the moonlight with the locals.

Steven was dying, and all he thought to do was give.

Where was the logic in that?

The reason?

How could he be so wise, so patient and understanding and good to be so young?

It didn’t make sense to Greg, and because it didn’t make sense, he was all the more amazed to watch his kid at work, charming this older lady who told them—in a quiet voice that lilted lyrically in a soft Irish accent—that her name was Blue.

“Blue,” Steven mused, tilting his head thoughtfully. He was sitting with her on the steps now, an adjustment Greg noticed with no small relief. Neither he nor the others had been able to get him to rest all day long. It was a special occasion, by golly, and all he wanted to do was go. “I like that. It’s a very pretty name.”

She smiled again; it was a strange, little gesture caught between parentheses, and it almost looked young in a face that was otherwise very old.

Two smiles in five minutes.

Stu-ball was on a roll.

“You said you were visiting your mother?” Blue prodded tentatively, and her expression sobered once more, like a stretched rubber band recoiling into its natural state. She had a tall face and big, half-moon eyes, and so the sadness in them was undisguised, as though her entire physiognomy was intent on communicating the uncommunicable inside of her.

“Yeah, today was her birthday!” Steven started out strong, but at the end, his gaze flitted downwards and his voice relieved itself of its excitement. A drain unplugged. “Her grave is just a little ways down from here. That’s when I saw you.”

“And nearly scared us half to death when you ran away,” Greg muttered under his breath, leveling a playful eyebrow at his son, and his son, ever the good sport, parried back with an abashed grin.

“Ahhhh… yeah, sorry about that, Dad.”

Pearl had been monologuing about Rose—grand, sweeping gestures, occasional glares at Greg, and all—when they had noticed that Steven was slipping away, slipping towards a pink gazebo where a figure clothed in blue was collapsed at its entrance.

Greg had followed and the others had stayed because they all thought this was a Rose thing, or a kidney thing, or a I-just-can’t-listen-to-Pearl-any-longer thing, but they had underestimated him.

At the very least, they didn’t come close to estimating that extraordinary heart of his.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Blue murmured heavily. “You’re so young to be without a mother.”

“Thank you… and I’m sorry for your loss,” Steven replied, looking behind him into the gazebo. He moved his weak arm backwards to trace his fingers along the edges of the grave, drawing Blue’s steady, questioning gaze. Greg intuited that she was curious about the bruised limb but was ultimately too polite to ask, which was a nice change of pace from constantly being harangued by strangers who thought his child was being bullied.

“You’re older,” he continued, and his too-old-to-be-so-young gaze shifted, his dark eyes boring intently into hers, “but that shouldn’t make losing someone you love any less hard.”

The effect was immediate.

It was almost as though the air was sucked out of nature, as though time had stopped in the middle of life.

Blue froze, all but an ice statue if it weren’t for her half-moon eyes slowly widening as she comprehended the words Steven had just spoken to her with an easiness that could have only come from a child.

He was fourteen, and he didn’t know any better—knew that he’d say something nice but didn’t know the power of his own statement.

How it was a sentiment that every adult wanted to hear but rarely had the chance to, because adults were supposed to be infallible.

Adults had responsibilities.

Pick up what pieces you can, and then move on. You have better things to do.

He breached something with those words.

A longheld taboo.

A grieving heart.

He opened a floodgate.

And one tear and then another and another streamed down Blue’s long face.

Because it was exactly what she needed.

Greg turned away quickly so Steven wouldn’t see him wipe at his eyes, wouldn’t see the snot threatening to dribble down his nose.

Because even though it’d been fourteen years since Rose died, he needed the reminder, too.

“When’d you get so wise, champ?” Greg eventually got out, his voice a hundred emotions thick. He sniffed once, flashed a watery grin that wobbled at the edges, and threw pretense out of the window. He was crying; there wasn’t any shame in that.

“I guess I get it from you,” Steven shrugged, clearly embarrassed. “And Garnet and Amethyst and Pearl.”

But no—no he hadn’t.

Greg and his three surrogate moms could teach him a lot of things about this world and what it meant to live in it, but goodness? Innate and true?

That wasn’t something that could come prepackaged.

“Thank you, Steven,” Blue whispered, and she placed her tall hand atop of his. Her touch was light, gentle, careful—a mother’s touch if Greg knew any better. Steven’s bruised veins stood out next to her pale skin. “I’ve wanted to hear those words for a very long time now.”

“Your hand is cold,” Steven remarked in return, but when the older lady moved to withdraw it, he shook his head with a laugh, wriggling his thumb from under her palm and onto the edge of her hand to stay her touch. “But that’s okay. That just means you have a warm heart.”

Another smile, a wide one that lifted the corners of Blue’s melancholy eyes.

And somehow, it was this one that made Greg realize that their family was about to expand once more.

Which was hilarious because they had all agreed to stop after Peridot.

Well, Peridot had agreed that they should stop after Peridot.

After a few more minutes of talking and collecting themselves and finding a tentative kind of peace under the bright June sun, Greg told Steven that he should probably bring the Gems over. Pearl was nearly beside herself with curiosity; even from a distance, he could see that her hand was balanced over her eyes in an attempt to spy on them more efficiently. Amethyst was obviously making fun of Pearl, and Garnet was just unabashedly staring at them impassively from under the cool shade of her sunglasses. (Whether she would dropkick Blue or invite her dinner was to be determined.)

Steven walked off in their direction, his short arms swinging at his sides, and Greg watched long enough to see Pearl wrap him into a lanky hug.

But then he turned back to Blue because he knew what was waiting for him there—a question. It had been perched on her lips ever since Steven had first extended the little flower to her, and now, alone with Greg, it took wings and flew.

“His arm… what happened to it?”

“That’d be…” he started immediately and then stopped just as quickly, because even though he’d been fielding this question for months upon months now, it never got any easier to swallow. He tilted his head skywards and tried to dissipate the searing pain seizing through his chest and his throat and his eyes, but these aches wouldn’t go away either. “That’d be all the IVs—oh, and the growth hormone injections.”

He tried to laugh, but the sound was strangled in his mouth.

“Can’t forget those.”

But he was stalling, and he didn’t have the time to be doing so. Steven would be back any minute, and even though he tried to hide it, tried to push down his emotions for the sake of everyone else in the room, his son hated this talk, hated being known for his disease or even as a disease. Some people grasped it better than others.

“He’s in the end stages of renal failure,” Greg said hoarsely. “Dialysis three to four times a week, and he’s been on the transplant waiting list for almost eight months now.”

His arm was just a byproduct of everything else that was screwed up with his little body, and it was one of the few things Steven couldn’t tuck away on the inside.

The older lady in the bathrobe bowed her head, her messy braid falling across her shoulder, and the beginnings of tears falling onto her lap. One hand gently cradled the pink blossom his son had given her, and the other reached backwards into the gazebo, trembling fingers feeling for something… maybe even someone… Greg could not see.

“Do you…” she faltered, and he had to strain to hear her voice. He drew closer without even realizing he was doing it, compelled into the atmosphere of grief she so consumptively embodied. His heart wrenched to look at her. It was stupid and absurd, but he felt as though he was looking into a mirror of his own despair—what it truly was and not what it appeared to be. “Do you feel as though he is being wrenched away from you? You were given this precious, little life to love and to cherish, and he’s being taken from you right before your very eyes?”

She was too specific in describing the feeling.

The aching hole in his chest.

The fear that was trying to fill it.

He knew without even knowing that the dead person in the gazebo was Blue’s own child.

“All the time,” he whispered. “And it’s so hard sometimes, you know, dealing with that feeling.”

But Blue shook her head and looked up at him; even though her eyes were still glazed with tears, they had acquired a steely edge to them that cut.

“It’s hard all the time.”

And he could do nothing but accept the truth of her statement.

He brought the bottom of his t-shirt to his face and tried to wipe away the carnage, but when most of it was on the inside, there wasn’t really anything he could do.

“I didn’t get your name,” Blue murmured after a long moment of silence.

A sudden change of conversation, but he didn’t have to struggle too hard to figure out why. Steven and the Gems were approaching. He heard their footsteps crunching through the grass.

“Greg Universe,” he offered with a semblance of a smile, and he moved a little to the right so he could block her body from view as she dried her own tears. “Nice to meet ya.”

“I’m Blue Dia—” But she was cut short by a voice that was louder than its speaker thought it to be.

“Why is homegirl wearing a bathrobe? It’s, like, the middle of the day.”

“Hush, Amethyst,” Pearl hissed, all exasperation and huff. “Don’t be so rude. You’re wearing jeans with holes in them.”

“It’s a fashion statement, P!”

“It’s a wasteful use of fabric!”

“Well, aren’t you a buzz—”

“We’re back!” Steven yelled, his voice thankfully triumphing over their bickering. Greg turned to greet them and found everything as it should be between the little quartet: Garnet holding Steven’s hand, and Pearl and Amethyst at each other’s throats. (They all loved each other.)

“Blue, these are old friends of Steven’s mom,” he quickly explained because the older lady seemed bewildered, and even a little overwhelmed, by this sudden influx of people. He had a sneaking suspicion that she didn’t, well, get out all too often if the bathrobe was anything to judge by. “They’ve helped me raise him.”

“Aw, to be fair,” Garnet said amiably, tipping her shades in greeting, “Steven has raised us just as much. I’m Garnet. Pleasure.”

Amethyst took a long enough break from poking an increasingly annoyed Pearl to introduce herself.

“Yo, I’m Amethyst.”

“And I’m Pearl,” Pearl indicated with a sweet (if dramatic) curtsy. “Thank you for humoring our little Steven.”

“Oh… it wasn’t any trouble.” Blue looked up at Steven warmly. “Steven is a special boy.”

“Shucks,” Steven grinned. “You’ve only known me for what? Like, fifteen minutes?”

“Ah, but it’s been more than enough time for me to ascertain that I was very lucky to have been found by you.”

“Finders keepers!”

“I wouldn’t necessarily mind that,” she hummed playfully before deferring to Greg. “I live in Empire City, and if you live close by, I would love for Steven to visit sometime… if that’s okay with you. At any rate, I’d like to keep in touch.”

“Well, I’d like that,” Steven supplied cheerfully, and it was so darn cute; he looked like a little cherub with his cheeks puffed up in a smile.

“That’d be fine with me,” Greg chuckled. “You two should exchange numbers.”

Steven nodded in approval and pulled out his phone, fingers poised above the keyboard, mouth already open to ask for Blue’s number, but Greg cut in one last time, affecting a casual tone that wasn’t quite casual.

“Empire City’d be really good for us, too” he told her, but he was staring at Steven, wanting to gauge his reaction. “That’s where Steven has to do his treatments.”

And maybe it was a little underhanded, but Steven had to know that Blue knew.

That there was no point in hiding his condition.

Because he’d tried that a couple of times, and it always ended badly for him, always ended in him getting hurt by someone who couldn’t understand.

A slight frown tugged at Steven’s lips, and he could feel Pearl’s irritated glare drilling at him from his side.

She was a firm installation in Camp-Hide-All-Of-Your-Feelings-Away, too, but that hadn’t worked out well for her either.

“Name and number, Blue,” Steven said, a fraction less perky than he had been before, but he recovered quickly because of course he did. He was Steven. He put on a good show and a smile.

Pearl was gonna give him hell tonight, but Greg could give it right back.

It wasn’t healthy for Steven to keep everything locked away inside, and that was the call he made as a father.

Blue enunciated her number slowly and added her name as an afterthought.

“My last name is Diamond. Blue Diamond.”

And it was name that sent shivers down his spine.

Oh, God, Greg thought.

In the periphery of his vision, he met the Gems’ equally stunned faces. Garnet’s hands were clenched into fists. Pearl’s were splayed indelicately o

#steven universe #blue diamond #steven quartz universe #garnet #amethyst #pearl #greg universe #reginianwrites #flower child

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dumbledearme · 6 years

Text

chapter thirty-five—return to the sea

read Child of Land and Sea here

Act IV — To Stop The Tide

Part X — Your hocus-pocus isn't tough enough and your mumbo-jumbo doesn't measure up.

The room was small, but Andy sat as far away from the others as humanly possible. The gladiator fight had somewhat broken her spirit. Usually, she didn't feel bad about killing monsters, but just the thought that it was for entertainment, that people were amused, it made her feel sick.

Anthony didn't try to comfort her. He seemed thankful she didn't want to be close to him which saddened her even more. He kept his mind on Luke. "Something was wrong with him," he kept saying. "He was acting so strange."

"He looked pretty pleased to me," she answered. "It was a nice day torturing heroes."

"No. There was something wrong with him. He looked... scared. I know him. He wanted to tell me something."

"Probably wanted to invite you to stay and watch him kill me. He has a great sense of humor."

"Whatever, Andy," he said and looked at Rachel. "Which way now?"

Rachel didn't respond right away; she'd become quieter since the arena. "We'll follow the path," she said. "The brightness on the floor."

"You mean the brightness that led us straight into a trap?" Anthony asked.

"Just leave her alone, Anthony," Andy told him. "She's doing the best she can."

"Right," he said getting up. "Since you girls don't seem to need me, I'll take a walk." And he marched off into the shadows.

Andy rolled her eyes. "Something is wrong," she said, "but with him! Like this place isn't horrible enough. I don't know how much longer I can take."

"I think he's afraid," Rachel declared.

"Afraid of what?"

"You're gonna think I'm crazy," she said softly, "but I think he's afraid of you."

Andy blinked. "Of me? Why would he be afraid of me?"

Rachel shrugged like she thought that was something Andy should find out by herself. "You were right to bring me here," she said. "I can see the path. I can't explain it, but it's really clear." She pointed toward the other end of the room, into the darkness. "The workshop is that way. The heart of the maze. We're very close now. I don't know why the path led through that arena. I... I'm sorry you had to do that. I saw your face when... I thought you were going to die."

"I'm usually about to die," Andy told her. "That wasn't the bad part."

Rachel studied her face. "Do you do this all the time? Fight monsters? Save the world? Don't you ever get to do normal stuff?"

"I don't even know what normal is anymore," Andy admitted. And then something occurred to her. "Hey. How about your family? Won't they be concerned?"

Rachel's face turned bright red. "Oh... they're just... Not likely, you know? I could be gone a week and they'd never notice. I'm really tired, Andy. I'll sleep for a while, okay?" And she curled up, using her backpack as pillow.

A few minutes later, Anthony returned. "I'll take first watch," he said. "You should sleep."

Without arguing, Andy lay down, feeling miserable.

She woke up with Anthony shaking her shoulder. "Andy, wake up! Earthquake!" Sure enough, the room was rumbling. The three of them grabbed their things and ran. Hundred tons of marble was crashing down behind them, but they kept moving. The earthquake only stopped when they reached a stainless steel hallway.

"This way," Rachel said, beginning to run. "We're close!" They arrived at a set of metal double doors. Inscribed in the steel, at eye level, was a large blue Greek delta. "We're here," Rachel announced. "Daedalus's workshop."

Anthony pressed the symbol and the doors hissed open. Together, they walked inside. What shocked Andy the most was the daylight – the blazing sun coming through giant windows. The workshop was like an artist's studio.

"Di immortales," Anthony muttered. He ran to the nearest easel and looked at the sketch. "He's a genius. Look at the curves on this building!"

"And an artist," Rachel said in amazement. "These wings are amazing!"

The wings looked exactly like the ones Andy had seen in her dreams, so much so that Andy couldn't bare to look at them. She walked to the window and stared at the view. "Where are we?"

"Colorado Springs," a voice said behind them. "The Garden of the Gods." Standing on the spiral staircase above them, with his weapon drawn, was Quintus.

"You!" Anthony said. "What... Where is Daedalus?"

Quintus smiled faintly. "Trust me, boy. You don't want to meet him." He walked pass them and stood beside Andy by the window. "The view always changes," he told her. "Everyday is something new."

"It's an illusion?" she asked.

"No," Rachel answered for him. "It's real. We're really in Colorado."

Quintus regarded her. "You have clear vision. I knew a girl like you once. Another princess who came to grief."

"Oh my gods," Andy breathed out. Now that he was so close, she could see clearly too. "You're Daedalus," she accused. "I've seen... You're an automaton. You made yourself a new body."

"That's not possible," Anthony whispered.

Quintus glanced at him. "You know what Quintus means?"

"The fifth, in Latin."

"Yes. My fifth body."

"You found a way to transfer your animus into a machine?" Anthony asked. He sounded extremely disgusted. "That's not natural."

"It's still me," Daedalus said. "Our mother makes sure I never forget that." He tugged back the collar of his shirt. At the base of his neck was the mark Andy had seen before.

"A murderer's brand," Anthony said.

"For your nephew, Perdix," Andy guessed. "The boy you pushed off the tower."

Daedalus's face darkened. "I did not push him. I-"

"Let him die."

Daedalus gazed out the windows. "I regret what I did, Andy. I was angry and bitter. But I cannot take it back, and Athena never lets me forget. As Perdix died, she turned him into a small bird – a partridge. She branded the bird's shape on my neck as a reminder. No matter what body I take, the brand remains."

"Why did you come to camp?" Andy asked.

"To see if your camp was worth saving. Luke gave me one story. I preferred to come to my own conclusions."

"So you have talked to Luke."

"Several times. He is quite persuasive."

"Well, whatever he said, he lied," Anthony said to Andy's surprise. "You can't let Luke through the maze!"

"The maze is no longer mine to control. I created it, yes. In fact, it is tied to my life force. But I have allowed it to live and grow on its own. That is the price I paid for privacy."

"Privacy from what?"

"The gods," he said. "And death. I have been alive for two millennia, hiding from death."

"How can you hide from Hades?" Andy asked.

"A clever man can do almost anything. The gods don't see everything. I have buried myself very deep. Only my greatest enemy has kept after me, and even him I have thwarted."

"Minos?"

Daedalus nodded. "He hunts for me relentlessly. Now that he is a judge of the dead, he would like nothing better for me to come before him so he can punish me for my crimes. After the daughters of Cocalus killed him, Minos' ghost began torturing me in my dreams. He promised that he would hunt me down. I did the only thing I could. I retreated from the world completely. I descended into my Labyrinth. I decided this would be my ultimate accomplishment: I would cheat death."

"And you did," Anthony marveled, "for two thousand years."

A loud bark echoed and Mrs O'Leary appeared. "There she is," Daedalus said. "My only companion all these long lonely years."

"You let her save me," Andy said.

"Of course I did, Andy," he replied. "You have a good heart. And I knew Mrs O'Leary liked you. I wanted to help you. I felt guilty..."

"Guilty about what?"

"That your quest would be in vain."

"What?" Anthony said. "But you can still help us. You have to! Give us Ariadne's string so Luke can't get it."

"I told Luke that he needed the eyes of a mortal girl, but then again, who would love him enough to come down here? He was so focused on the idea of a magical item. He can't understand that love is the best guide, that love sees all. And, of course, the string works. Though it isn't as good as your mortal friend here."

"Where is it?" Anthony asked.

"With Luke," Daedalus said sadly. "I'm sorry. You are several hours too late."

With a chill, Andy realized why Luke had been in such a good mood. Anthony's face was turning a bright shade of green. He seemed about to puke.

"Kronos promised me freedom," Daedalus said. "Once Hades is overthrown, he will set me over the Underworld. I will reclaim my son Icarus. I will make things right with poor young Perdix. I will see Minos's soul cast into Tartarus, where it cannot bother me again. And I will no longer have to run from death."

"That's your brilliant idea?" Anthony growled. "You're going to let Luke destroy our camp, kill hundreds of demigods, and then attack Olympus? You're going to bring down the entire world so you can get what you want?"

"Your cause is doomed. I saw that as soon as I began to work at your camp. There is no way you can hold back the might of Kronos. I'm doing what I must. I'm sorry."

Anthony violently pushed over an easel. Architectural drawings scattered across the floor. "I respected you. You were my hero! You... You built amazing things. You solved problems. Children of Athena are supposed to be wise, not just clever. Maybe you are just a machine. You should have died two thousand years ago." Although he was clearly on the edge, he didn't raise his voice once. Andy was impressed by his self-control.

Daedalus looked down. "You should go warn your camp."

Suddenly, the doors of the workshop burst open and Nico was pushed inside. Then Kelli and two Laistrygonians marched in behind him, followed by the ghost of Minos. He fixed his gaze on Daedalus. "There you are, my old friend."

Daedalus's jaw clenched. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Luke sent his regards," Kelli said, repeating what one of the princesses had said before killing Minos. "He thought you might like to see your old employer."

"This was not part of our agreement," Daedalus said.

"No, indeed," Kelli agreed. "But we already have what we want from you, and we have other agreements to honor. Minos required something else from us, in order to turn over this fine young demigod. He'll be quite useful. And all Minos asked in return was your head, old man."

Daedalus paled. "Treachery."

"Nico," Andy called. "Are you okay?"

He nodded morosely. "I'm sorry. Minos said you were in danger. He said you needed... my help."

"You wanted to help me?"

"I was tricked," he said.

Andy glared at Kelli. "Where's Luke? Why isn't he here?"

The she-demon smiled. "Luke is busy. He is preparing for the assault. But don't you worry. We have more friends on the way."

Then all hell broke loose.

Anthony stabbed the empousa in the stomach and with an awful screech, Kelli dissolved into yellow vapor. Minos called other spirits and Nico tried to stop him.

"You do not control me, fool," Minos said. "I've been controlling you!"

"I am the son of Hades," Nico insisted. "Be gone! All of you."

Minos laughed. "You have no power over me. I am the lord of spirits! The ghost king!"

"No." Nico said, this time very softly, in such a threateningly way that Minos stepped away from him. "I am." And with unimaginable power, he somehow made a crack on the ground and Minos and the other spirits were sucked into the void.

Rachel grabbed the nearest chair and threw it at the windows that broke into a million pieces all around them. Andy breathed in. She focused on the water below.

"Brace yourselves!" she warned. And then she shouted, letting her power take over. Not a minute later, water erupted into the workshop. Andy tried her best to control it. She made the water grab her friends and get them out of there, returning to the sea. She stayed behind and trapped the monsters into balls of water and pressed them until they exploded.

Then everything stopped. Andy was in the destroyed workshop with Daedalus coughing in the corner. She glanced at him one last time. The inventor was cut in a hundred places and bleeding golden oil instead of blood.

Andy turned her back at him and threw herself out of the window into the ocean.

They were all wet and extremely upset.

"The workshop moved," Anthony said looking up to Daedalus's hill. "And there's no telling where."

"How do we get back in there?" Andy asked.

"Maybe we can't. The empousa said there were others coming. If they found Daedalus and killed him... he said his life force was tied to the Labyrinth. The whole thing might've been destroyed."

"He isn't dead," Nico said with certainty.

"How do you know?" Andy asked.

"I know when people die," he said giving her a glance that made clear he hadn't completely forgiven her yet.

"We need to get into town," Anthony decided and the others agreed.

Rachel found another entrance to the Labyrinth easily. The dirt tunnels turned to stone, but Rachel had no trouble guiding them. To Andy's surprise, Anthony and Rachel started up a conversation as they walked. Turned out Rachel knew something about architecture from studying art.

Andy took the chance to focus on Nico. "Thank you for coming after us," she said.

Nico's eyes narrowed. "I wanted to see Daedalus," he said but it sounded more like an excuse. "Minos was right. He should die. Nobody should be able to avoid death that long. It's not natural."

"You were after him," Andy guessed. "A soul for a soul. You were gonna trade him for your sister."

"It hasn't been easy," he admitted weakly. "Having only the dead for company. Knowing that I'll never be accepted by the living. Only the dead respect me, and they only do that out of fear."

"You could be accepted," Andy told him. "You could have friends at camp. If you want."

He stared at her. "Do you really believe that?"

Before Andy could answer, everybody stopped. There was a dark tunnel to their right. Wind was coming, as if an exit was near, and it brought the smell of eucalyptus.

"There's something evil down that tunnel," Rachel said.

"And the smell of death," Nico added.

"Luke's entrance," Anthony guessed. "The one to Mount Othrys." Unable to stop herself, Andy started forward, but Anthony held her arm. "Don't."

"He could be right there," she said. "Or Kronos. We need to see what they're doing."

Anthony hesitated. "Then we go together."

"No," Andy said. "I'll go. You guys stay. They can't have Nico or Rachel. You stay here with them. I'm just going to check it out. I promise."

With a miserable expression, Anthony handed her the Yankees cap. "Be quick about it."

It was like a stab to her back seeing Ethan Nakamura there with a bunch of telkhine. "At least we salvaged the blade," one of the monsters said. "The master will still reward us."

"Great," said Ethan. "Now, if you're done with me, I-"

"No, half-blood," another one said. "You must help us make the presentation."

The weapon was a scythe – a six-foot-long blade curved like a crescent moon. It was the weapon of Kronos, the one he had used to slice up his father, Ouranos.

"We must sanctify it in blood," a telkhine said. "Then you, half-blood, shall help present it when the lord awakes."

Andy dashed into a main hall and found the sarcophagus. Luke wasn't there. No guards. No nothing. It was too easy. Andy stood over the coffin. Her hand touched the lid. With a single move, she pushed back the golden lid and it fell to the floor. She lifted her sword, ready to strike, but when she looked inside, she didn't comprehend what she was seeing.

Luke was in there. Eyes closed, skin pale.

Then the voices of the telkhines were behind her. "What has happened?" one of the demons asked.

"Careful," the other one warned. "Perhaps he stirs. We must present the gifts now. Immediately."

They shuffled forward and knelt, holding up the scythe. "My lord," one said. "Your symbol of power is remade."

Silence.

"He requires the half-blood first," the other one said.

Ethan stepped back. "What do you mean?"

"Don't be a coward! He does not require your death. Only your allegiance. Pledge him your service. Renounce the gods. That is all."

Andy took off the cap. "No! Ethan, don't!"

"Trespasser!" The telkhines bared their teeth.

"Ethan," she pleaded. "Don't listen to them. Help me destroy it!"

"I told you not to spare me, Jackson," Ethan said sadly. "'An eye for an eye.' You ever heard that saying? I've learned what it means the hard way. When I discovered my godly parent. I am the child of Nemesis, Goddess of Revenge. And this is what I was made to do." He turned toward the dais. "I renounce the gods! What have they ever done for me? I will see them destroyed. I will serve Kronos."

The building rumbled. The coffin began to shimmer. Luke sat bolt upright. His eyes opened but they were no longer blue – they were golden. He leaped out of the coffin and looked at Andy. "This body has been well prepared. Don't you think so, Andy Jackson?"

She stared at him open-mouthed.

Kronos laughed. "He feared you, you know," the Titan said. "His jealousy and hatred have been powerful tools. It has kept him obedient. For that I thank you."

Ethan collapsed in terror. The telkhines trembled. Then Andy lunged at the thing that used to be Luke, thrusting her blade straight at his chest, but his skin deflected the blow like he was made of pure steel. He looked at her with amusement. Then he flicked his hand and she flew across the room.

Andy slammed against a pillar. She struggled to her feet. "What have you done to Luke?"

"He serves me wit his whole being, as I require. The difference between us is he feared you, Andy Jackson, and I do not."

That's when she ran. Time slowed down around her; the power of Kronos was slowing her down. Then Rachel called her name. Something flew past Andy and a blue plastic hairbrush hit Kronos in the eye.

Andy limbs were free and she ran straight into Rachel, Nico and Anthony, who were standing in the entry hall, their eyes wide with dismay.

"Luke?" Anthony called. "What-" Andy grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him after her. She ran as fast as she could, straight out of the fortress. They plunged into the Labyrinth and kept running, the howl of the Titan Lord shaking the entire world behind them.

#andromeda #andy jackson #child of land and sea #fanfic #genderbend #dfcrosas #to stop the tide #andong #anthony chase

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marvelousbirthdays · 7 years

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Happy Birthday, comedycentralmh!

October 20 - "Don't you dare touch him!" WinterShieldShock for @comedycentralmh

Written by @kathryn-claire-oconnor

Darcy could think of about a hundred different ways she would’ve liked to meet her boyfriend’s boyfriend for only the second time. This was none of those ways.

A Wakandan doctor was fidgeting nervously near the panel of monitors for Sergeant Barnes’ cryo unit, her eyes constantly scanning as she did her best not to miss a thing. Darcy didn’t blame her; from what she’d heard from Steve and Bucky’s doctors, there was no part of cryo that wasn’t painful. Waking up, in particular, could apparently go wrong in a myriad of ways.

So waking him up now was definitely not ideal, but they didn’t appear to have a choice. Even this underground level of the hospital was being evacuated around them, and James Buchanan Barnes was going to have to come too. But waking him up was definitely safer for him than trusting his entire cryo unit to stay stable en route, considering their current circumstances.

There was a great crash from the level above them, and both Darcy and the doctor winced.

The main thrust of the battle was definitely coming in closer.

Darcy wished Steve had stayed behind with her here. Selfish, probably, and a pretty bad distribution of labor, so to speak, but still… Captain America was her boyfriend, and Bucky’s too, actually, so, really, this should’ve doubly taken priority.

Steve hadn’t agreed.

He’d thought a familiar face would be good for Bucky to see, yes, but he’d thought Darcy should be that face. Even though Darcy had only met Bucky once before. Even though she knew for a fact that Steve’s was a very nice face to wake up to.

Darcy had told Steve both of those things as he suited up, but Steve had smiled softly – not able to work up a chuckle with the worry swimming in both pairs of eyes – and promised, “You’ll both be fine with one another. I’m sure he’ll remember you. When he wakes up, just tell him Steve sent you.”

So saying, he had given her a quick kiss and an “I love you” before he pulled down his cowl and ran out, following Sam and Scott into the fight for the palace grounds – and the ex-Avengers.

Darcy clutched her taser a little tighter at her side just thinking about what would happen if the ex-Avengers were beaten today. She peered at the panel monitoring Bucky, even if she didn’t know what to make of the recordings at the moment. Given time and a state of mind, she could’ve figured it out with relative ease. Right now she just wanted to know when they could start to move.

“He’s waking up,” the doctor said. “It should be just a couple of minutes now.”

“Go—”

A fierce slamming at their door cut Darcy off, and the eyes of both women blew wide as they turned in that direction. Taking a step back from her monitors, the doctor glanced towards the other door – practically a cellar door to the basement meant to be a quick escape route to the outdoors if it was needed. It was needed now.

“If he’s nearly ready to go,” Darcy said, moving closer to the doc to speak under the noise of what she was pretty sure was a battering ram being taken to the opposite door. “You can go, and I’ll stay here with him.”

“I shouldn’t.” The doc swallowed, looked towards the last of her colleagues who were taking the exit route as they spoke.

“What needs to be done for him once he’s fully conscious?”

The doctor was still shaking her head in an unspoken refusal to leave. “Unhooking the IV, blood pressure cuff, feeding tube – all the tubes and attachments left – and undoing the binds that are keeping him upright and immobile.”

“I can do that.” At least, she was pretty sure she could. The feeding tube was the only thing that gave her pause as she glanced at all the wires and tubes surrounding Barnes. “He’s my assignment from Captain Rogers himself. You can go; I need to stay with him.”

“No.”

The battering ram struck again, and the bottom hinges on the door bent and creaked dangerously.

“Now!” Darcy insisted, pushing the other woman towards the exit.

The doctor went out one door as a couple of soldiers busted through the other and came in, guns already drawn. Darcy hid her taser in the pocket of her hoodie – underneath which Steve had already ensured that she was wearing a bulletproof vest – as one of the men approached her, and the other headed towards Bucky.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” she snapped at the second soldier.

“Believe me, dorogoy, he’s used to me by now. We were friends once upon a time.”

The man’s voice was thick with a Russian accent, and a chill seeped into her bones as she realized these two, at least, had come not for any of the ex-Avengers, but for Bucky in particular. For their zimniy soldat. Oh, hell no!

She moved quickly, taking her taser out – they’d deemed her so small a threat that they hadn’t asked her to show her hands, and she hadn’t done them the favor – and tasing the soldier closest to her. The next thing she knew, the second soldier was flying across the room with a grunt of pain.

“Real old friends indeed, doll.”

The voice was creaky as an old man’s as Darcy whipped around to face Bucky, her taser still poised to strike. He’d broken through his restraints, and ripped his IV out in the process, and now he was leaning down to undo the restraints around his ankles. He tilted to an odd angle instead, and Darcy rushed forward to help him.

“Hey, slow down, okay? The doc who just left is gonna kill me if you don’t.”

Bucky shook his head, obviously still trying to shake off the effects of his stay in cryo. “We have to move. I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know gunfire when I hear it, and it sounds awfully close to me.”

“Russia is apparently attacking Wakanda, with American backing if I had my guess, in order to get to the ex-Avengers – Steve, Sam, Scott, Clint, and company.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, drawing in a deep breath. “That’s fun.” He shook his head as if to clear it, but only succeeded in making himself look dizzier. “Where’s Steve?”

Darcy pointed out the cellar-like exit. “With his guys.”

Bucky nodded resolutely, taking a second turn at attempting to undo his ankle restraints. Knowing full well what he meant to do once free, Darcy slapped his hands away and finished the job herself. “Good grief, take a breath, dude.”

Buck shook his head, but stood up straight to let Darcy deal with the restraints. “Serum means antistatic wears off quick.”

“Not that q—”

An odd slurping sound, a gag, and a grunt of pain, and Darcy looked up with wide, horrified eyes as she realized that he had just ripped out his own feeding tube. “James Barnes!”

“Darcy Lewis?” he belligerently shot back.

There was a clatter from the outside door, and Darcy spun around, standing up straight with taser in hand. Bucky somehow managed to land free and standing in front of her; she wasn’t sure how she felt about that… but he let him stay put as Steve crashed into the room shield-first.

“Everybody okay in here?” Steve asked, standing as he looked between Bucky and Darcy.

Bucky deflated so much that Darcy put her hands up as if she meant to hold him up if something went wrong. “We were,” she replied a little sternly. “Until someone, Steven, decided to blast in here and give us both heart attacks. Does no one respect a good, solid door anymore?”

“Not today.” Despite his glib words, Steve looked genuinely apologetic as he said, “Sorry for scaring you, sweetheart.”

“For the record,” Bucky said faintly. “I don’t think I can have heart attacks. Serum, you know.”

“You’ve mentioned it,” Darcy answered, getting irritated with him. He was being an awful patient!

A hailstorm of bullets ricocheted off of the metal hallway, forcibly reminding Darcy that, as much as she hated it, he had his reasons for trying to shake it off so quickly.

Steve swallowed, handing Bucky the one thing that he’d brought down that didn’t fit his usual uniform. A sniper rifle. Both men turned as if to march straight into the bullet-laden hallway, and Darcy impulsively grabbed one of each of their arms.

“What is it?” Steve asked her.

“Just come back to me, okay?” she requested, the same thing she at least thought every time he suited up and marched into yet another battle.

Steve’s expression softened, and, using his hand not holding his shield to cup the base of her skull, he kissed her. “Always, doll.”

Darcy made herself smile at the promise, made herself release the men.

“What about me? Don’t I get a kiss?”

Darcy turned to Bucky, confusion drawing her eyebrows together as she said in disbelief, “You barely know me!”

“Yeah, but I know Steve loves you, and that’s good enough for me to want to love you, too. At least… that’s the way it was last time Steve and I were really able to be together.”

1940’s. Bucky, Steve… and Peggy Carter. Oh… Darcy studied both open, anticipating faces before her. Boy, oh boy.

Her first instinct was a resounding “yes,” and she was pretty sure they all knew it, but what she said was a much more sensible, “Yeah, okay,” and gave him a quick peck of a kiss before adding the sensible part: “I’d happily be willing to discuss that with you two once we all get out of this. Good enough?”

Bucky smiled grimly, and already Darcy could tell he was preparing to step out into the active fight. “Perfect.”

“Go out the other door, Darcy,” Steve instructed, sliding effortlessly into the mindset of the good Captain. “Along the left wall of the palace, Mrs. Barton and Dr. Foster are getting Barton’s kids to safety. Go with them. Barton will bring me and Bucky to that safety point as soon as this is over. Okay?”

“Okay.” What else could she say?

Another wave of soldiers entered the hallway, and this time they caught sight of Captain America.

“Go now,” Bucky ordered, and Darcy ran before the shooting could start. The “we’ll see you soon” that Bucky threw over his shoulder to her meant more to her than she knew how to say.

On the caravan out, with Jane clinging tightly to her hand, Darcy decided she might just have to show him how much it meant instead.

#wintershieldshock #fuckyeahdarcylewis

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