#A THOUSAND PLAGUES UPON YOU RIOT | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pyrrhiccomedy · 4 years ago

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Heretic update

[previously]

So Andreas was stripped of his title, land, and his betrothed by Edward, Black Prince of England, and was thrown into the dungeon of the palace at Poitiers. Tomassin begged the Order of St. Agnes to send help; but the Order, struggling against the onset of Plague, could not come.

So the Abbess of the Order called upon a fragile and wary alliance, and bid the infamous Murnau family to send a party of their hell-touched inquisitors. Sir Anderlyn von Murnau, the knight-detective, unorthodox and grieving; Margaret von Murnau, a wayward byblow pagan girl; and Sylvain, a man-at-arms with a dark and occult past in France, arrived in Poitiers and plucked Andreas from Edward’s clutches with the use of their baffling and miraculous powers.

They joined up with Tomassin and fled Poitiers, leaving Edward occupying Andreas’s city, palace, and throne.

The world Andreas emerged from the darkness into was one gripped by the throat by the Plague. His first thought was to join up with his other surviving friends: especially Philippe, his best friend who, alone of his closest allies, could do nothing to protect himself from the Black Death. Philippe was imprisoned in the fortress-town of Niort, waiting for his ransom to be paid. Niort had been under English occupation for nearly a year, but Andreas would not let another of his friends die because of his blunder in underestimating Edward. And Philippe has always been his best friend.

But Niort, when they arrived, was in anarchy. The townsfolk had succumbed to bacchanalian madness, in the face of the great dying, and the English had shut the gates of the castle, as much to keep out the rioting peasants as to keep out the plague after the rioters had broken into the prison and dragged the prisoners out.

Philippe was somewhere in a town that was now divided into the Revel, and those who slunk from hiding place to hiding place in fear of them. The horrors Andreas saw during those days shook him free of the last vestiges of his narcissistic belief that he might be the son of Satan: if these were Satan-worshippers - if all this blood and violation pleased Satan - then Andreas wanted nothing to do with him.

If the Black Captain is Satan, He is not the Satan worshipped by the Revel.

It was by the spare, strange favor of the Black Captain that Andreas found Philippe: by cutting a blade into his own arm, and following the blood as it flowed from his fingertips and turned, in spits and gushes, into boiling saltwater. Philippe was astounded to see him; clutched him, begged Andreas to take him from this place; but not without Nina.

Who is Nina, Andreas wanted to know. Philippe had never cared about - anyone, except for Andreas and himself.

Who is Nina remained the question even after they rescued her from the black mass of the Revel. It was the question when she flew at Philippe with a knife, screaming murderer, and had to be restrained from killing him. It was the question when they crept away from the rest of the group that night, and made love. It was the question when they avoided each other every daylight hour, and Philippe informed Andreas that he intended to marry her, and that she intended to accept.

Nina, Andreas would learn later, was the instrument of Philippe’s soul’s subjugation to the Sunflower King, the god of the Revel; as he was hers. They damned each other. They had no choice. Without their ritual circle of two, they would be driven to damn everyone around them.

Andreas had reached the vaster question: Who is the Sunflower King?

What if you don’t have to sell your soul to the Devil, Philippe said, broken in his arms. What if just seeing him is enough? He cursed me through my eyes. He stole my soul through my eyes.

Do not let me drag you into this with me, Philippe said. I know I will try.

The group reached La Rochelle, where Princess Blanche was sequestered in Castle Vauclair. La Rochelle, an independent commune, hidden behind the impassible Forest of Argenson, its harbor protected by the great Chain and Lantern Towers, maintains a fragile neutrality in the war between the English and the French by raising no flags and sustaining no army. Blanche is its lady; and the plague-ridden townspeople of La Rochelle who crawl to the walls of Castle of Vauclair to be nearer to their princess, last child of the Capetian line of kings, favored by God, do not die.

They do not die.

Blanche was a prisoner within, of her lifelong guardian, Sir Tristan, last of the old shattered Templar Order. Wracked with a terrifying vitality, she vomited insects, did not eat or sleep, and woke the dead by her mere proximity. Anyone spending more than an hour in her company died, burst open by twitching, erupting cancers. She did not know what was happening to her. It started when the Plague began. (The Plague that she foretold.)

And she had been sleepwalking, into the forest. In the direction of the Roman shrine where Sir Tristan, 16 years ago, had slept one night, and had a vision of Holy Mother, telling him to go to Blanche, and protect her.

With no other options, Andreas decided to sneak her out of the castle and let her sleepwalk to the shrine, in the hopes that something could at least be learned. With dread, Andreas, Sir Anderlyn, Margaret, and Tomassin ventured into the wood, following a sleepwalker who found a path through the black and frozen twisting mire unerringly.

And then the bugs came. And the wolves. Or they were something like wolves. And the wall of eyes, reflected in the torchlight, that undulated as the earth breathed beneath their feet. And the stars began to swim like fireflies.

Shredded by a two-headed abomination of a wolf, moments from death, Andreas realized that something was close to here, something that would protect him; something that had been left for him. While the animal nearly tore off his arm, Andreas pushed a boulder loose from a stony hollow (while the others screamed what are you doing, and fought for their lives) and found, hidden there, a dagger.

A Roman pugio, its hilt rotted away. Inscribed on the blade in Latin were the words even a god has his duty. It slew the horror-wolf in two blows.

He was separated from the rest of his party. They stayed behind to fight more of their wild, unnatural attackers; Andreas had to pursue Blanche, who was disappearing between the trees, even while the wood became more and more alien and wonderous.

He saw a stranger whose face he could not remember, who told him he could ask it three questions. It called him the Boreal Knight. It told him (obliquely) that his powers, which had brought him so much suffering and terror ever since he was six years old, were the result of being knighted by the Black Captain, to protect the world from the rupture caused by the division of the hours. It told him that Blanche was a part of that rupture. It told him he had to stop her.

He was not, then, her fated ally, or lover, as they, in their adoration, had assumed. His purpose was to stop her by any means, and to kill her if he had to.

And it told him that if she reached that shrine, Holy Mother White would wake up, and they would all be lost. Andreas ran deeper into the Wood.

(What to say about the other visitor he had, in this last, awful leg of his flight towards the shrine? The woman standing amid the trees, blindfolded, pretty and distorted and grey-haired, small and as tall as the trees, fragile and made of the same bones as the world? He touched a flame to his heart when he saw her, wondering, and she touched her hand to her lips and extended it to him. The way to Blanche opened up ahead of him, and her moths kissed his cheek.)

He reached Blanche. She could not be woken. She could not even be touched. She dissolved into insects whenever he reached for her, reforming in a swell of flickering wings. The shrine was close. Blanche’s eyes were white, and when he begged her to see him, a locust leapt from her mouth and tried to sting him.

And then, waiting at the shrine, was Bernadetta, and her accuser-turned-knight, Vauquelin. Bernadetta knew this place had to be protected, somehow, and knew that he would come. She knelt upon the shrine and erupted into a pillar of flames. The unclean children of Mother White burned.

But Blanche was still coming. White-eyed, implacable, while spores and locusts whorled around her.

Andreas heard the Black Captain’s voice for the first time since that night in his cell. It said, the Boreal Knight knows what to do.

And he did.

He took the dagger that had been left for him a thousand years ago, scratched a line into the dirt at the foot of the shrine - no further than this - advanced to meet Blanche, the woman he loves, and plunged the dagger into her heart.

Blanche woke up. Met his eyes. Coughed up blood, and slumped to her knees. And Andreas, using the purifying fire that had earned him torture and condemnation his whole life, tore the knife free from her chest and healed her before she could almost-instantly exsanguinate.

Bernadetta and Vauquelin defended the shrine, as Andreas and a sobbing Blanche fled.

The blind forest-woman’s silvery moths formed a storm behind Andreas and Blanche as they ran, blocking the way to the tidal wave of furious, biting locusts that pursued them. The moths died by the thousands; one, resting on Andreas’s cheek again, fluttered its wings to urge him to run faster.

They emerged from the Wood, back into the forest. Blanche’s hideous malady relieved; her connection with Mother White, at least for the moment, quieted.

These strange and dark saints now stand together in La Rochelle; alive, and intact, doomed by varying degrees. They have to find their place over unsteady feet, put from their mind their thousands of questions, and face what’s in front of them:

The Plague, held at bay by Blanche’s terrible vitality, is about to arrive in La Rochelle in full force.

Edward, the Black Prince, knows that they are there, and will do anything to return Andreas to his power.

And the young man Andreas hired to spy for him - a young man he had liked - has gone missing. The only explanation is that the English have taken him. And he knows where they can find Andreas.

#heretic #dice matters

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kbstories · 4 years ago

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impression//expression

“It’s not like Kirishima had come all this way to U.A. to immediately break the promise he made to himself upon arrival.

It’s just that Bakugou is as feral as they come, and the moment Kirishima recognizes it’s fear he felt crawling up his spine that day, he makes it his personal mission to face it head-on until it’s gone.”

(Or: Being friends with Bakugou Katsuki is anything but a linear experience. Kirishima Eijirou would have it no other way.)

Tags: Kirishima POV, Developing Friendships, Kamino Arc, Kidnapping & Aftermath, Hurt/Comfort, Bakugou Gets A Hug

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Content warning for kidnapping, aftermath of violence. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9.

***

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥)

i’m gonna die (sent 19:08)

no seriously i’m this 👌🏻 close to losing it bro (sent 19:08)

aizawa’s voice is so zzzz and it’s like sir,, i’m begging,,,, (sent 19:09)

a little bit of energy. just a little bit (sent 19:09)

A nudge to his side, somewhat urgent.

shit brb (sent 19:10)

“Dude.”

Kirishima keeps his voice down to a hiss, shooting a glance at Aizawa’s turned back just in case. Hidden behind his pencil case, his phone shows Bakugou has read his messages – near-immediately, as always – before Kirishima locks the screen. His own face is reflected on sleek, innocent black.

Next to him, Kaminari is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Don’t dude me, dude”, he whispers back. “Texting in Aizawa’s class? D’you have a death wish?”

Next to Kaminari, Mina leans over her desk, clearly curious and uncaring of her notes crinkling quietly under her elbows. “You? Kiri, paragon of wholesomeness and sunshine, breaking the rules? Lemme guess, it’s because of Bakugou.”

Next to Mina, Sero joins the fray with a muted headshake. “So brave yet so reckless. Truly inspiring.”

“You can say that again. That guy’s scary, man.” That’s Kaminari again. He leans in conspiratorially, nodding at Kirishima’s phone. “You got Blasty’s number? How? He almost bit my head off when I invited him to the 1-A chat.”

“Uh, yeah? We’re besties. But guys…”

If they were anywhere else, Kirishima would let out a whine. All he wanted to do was keep himself awake by texting his bro, is that such a crime? Especially since Bakugou’s the only one of ‘em who is actually allowed out there, where the fun stuff is happening. It’s downright cruel to have a new challenge dangled in front of their eyes like the juiciest steak only to be dragged away to the equivalent of plain steamed broccoli. Or something.

Point is: Kirishima’s bored enough he could cry and Aizawa, bless his insomnia-plagued soul, is making it about a thousand times worse with his monotone mumbling while he continues to write whatever-the-fuck in chalk to illustrate his point.

Three mouths open simultaneously in what Kirishima knows will be a too-loud bout of teasing – a frantic gesture of his hand to shut up, shut up, shut up has identical grins bursting on his friends’ faces.

Grins that disappear the instant the familiar sense of Aizawa’s quirk washes over them. Uh oh.

Aizawa doesn’t even have to say anything. Not even a brief pause registers in his lecture yet Kirishima snaps to attention so hard his buttcheeks clench as he furiously scribbles down what’s on the board. Some sort of… diagram? (It’ll make sense later, Kirishima hopes. And if it doesn’t, there’s always his equally draconic tutor-slash-best-friend he can poke into helping him eventually.)

After a semester at U.A., everyone in 1-A is whipped enough that not a single word is breathed between them for a good fifteen minutes. Aizawa talks, they take notes.

Then the adrenaline wears off and Kirishima finds himself drifting once more, fingers automatically flicking the home button. There, over Crimson Riot’s confident grin, three new messages.

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥)

pay attention (received 19:14)

ffs (received 19:14)

hope aizawa murdered your ass (received 19:16)

No surprises there. Well, the fact that Bakugou has deigned to reply just before a training exercise kind of is, and he even triple-texted which makes a sappy part of Kirishima’s brain think he must’ve rubbed off on him over the past months. The day Bakugou Katsuki discovers emojis can’t be far off now and it will be Kirishima’s greatest achievement to date.

He bites his lip to suppress an amused noise at that. Ignoring the incredulous stare from Kaminari to his right, Kirishima types.

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥)

haha! i lived bitch (sent 19:32)

minus the bitch askdjfhsk sry (sent 19:32)

i’m just tired af lol (sent 19:32)

how’s things on ur end tho? (sent 19:34)

no asses left unkicked i’m sure (sent 19:34)

👊🏻💥💥 (sent 19:35)

Kirishima gets about a solid second to feel good about furthering his pro-emoji agenda before his phone is snatched away by rigid, white cloth. Wide-eyed, his gaze is met by a flat expression that exudes more exhaustion than any human should rightfully have to feel.

“Kirishima”, Aizawa says, as calm as ever. “How kind of you to lend me your attention.”

Lord have mercy. Whichever hell Aizawa is about to unleash on him, Kirishima will be in it for a while. And when that’s over, it’ll be Bakugou’s turn to have a field day with it.

Somehow, Kirishima is actually looking forward to that last part.

Then, a voice rings out in their heads. Aizawa jumps into motion. The villains strike.

Afterwards, all Kirishima can do is stand there and watch the forest burn. His phone is silent, held between fingers that won’t stop trembling no matter what he does. He unlocks, checks, locks, only to do it all over again a few minutes or seconds later.

Around him, everything is spinning out of control. Reality is too loud, too bright, already overwhelming where it waits to be acknowledged beyond the soothing green interface of his chat with Bakugou.

The messages are still there. Marked read until they aren’t, and Kirishima stares at that subtle difference like it’s the last thing tethering him to the ground. Blue tick, his best friend is fine. Grey tick–

Bakugou let Kirishima take a photo of him, once. Kirishima had complained about his profile picture being that creepy default silhouette, especially once they started texting on a daily basis. So Bakugou sighed and leaned over the tiny table of the café, his chin propped on one hand and his coffee in the other. He’d kept still just long enough for the shutter to go off and called him a clingy bastard right after.

In the soft morning light, there’d been something warm in his typical glare. It’s still there, tucked away in the top left corner of the screen. Fond, red eyes, looking straight at Kirishima ever since.

Higher and higher, the flames reach for the sky with greedy, cobalt fingers, bright enough to take the stars with them. And Bakugou?

Bakugou is gone.

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥)

hey (sent 23:01)

it’s a long shot but (sent 23:03)

are u there? (sent 23:03)

these are going thru so ur phone is on and i thought (sent 23:08)

idk (sent 23:08)

please respond man (sent 23:37)

please (sent 23:58)

katsuki? (sent 00:40)

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥)

fuck (sent 3:24)

Bakugou Katsuki

um (sent 6:13)

the pros asked for ur number to track it and stuff so i gave it to them (sent 6:13)

turns out almost nobody has it?? so like (sent 6:20)

if u want a new one after all this it’s on me (sent 6:21)

pls don’t be mad haha (sent 6:21)

fuck that actually (sent 7:05)

be as mad as u want baku (sent 7:06)

u can do whatever ok? when u come back (sent 7:09)

free pass. i won’t guard this time (sent 7:09)

just come back (sent 8:00)

they’re looking for u so u gotta come back (sent 8:02)

Baku 💣💥

sry i just (sent 19:55)

ok still going thru (sent 19:55)

that’s good right? (sent 19:57)

i need it to be good (sent 20:05)

yeah (sent 20:06)

Baku 💣💥

it’s saturday (sent 2:33)

please be ok (sent 4:46)

i miss u (sent 5:00)

Baku 💣💥

we’re on our way katsuki (sent 12:45)

just hold on we’re coming for u (sending…)

wait (sending…)

oh (sending…)

Bakugou is quiet.

When all is said and done, injuries patched up and police statements given, Kirishima waits and Bakugou looks… tired. Small. Glancing back at the precinct with eyes a little too wide, a little too hesitant to truly belong to him.

Whatever he’s searching, if he finds it or not – Kirishima can only guess as Bakugou’s shoulders slump further and he mutters, “Let’s just go.”

In retrospect, he was probably talking to his parents. The Bakugous came for their son in a car as expensive as they come, white with chrome highlights and an interior clad entirely in tasteful, beige leather; it’s an aesthetic that’s the antithesis to Katsuki’s. Their expressions are full of love, though, brows drawn in concern carefully left unspoken. His father opens the back door for him first, going for his own in the front, while his mother ruffles Bakugou’s hair within the one-second-window he allows for the touch before shrugging it off.

“Welcome back, brat. We missed ya.”

Familiar phrases laden with far too much weight. From the outside in, it’s just that: Mildly exasperated parents picking up their kid after some school thing that dragged on into the night, or perhaps a late hangout with a friend. No one acknowledges the nightmare-ish three days they’ve left behind by the merit of time passing and the world spinning on and nothing else – the countless people injured or dead, an entire district torn asunder in a conflict much bigger than any of them, especially Bakugou.

Bakugou, who shuffles onto the backseat without saying much of anything. It’s only after Kirishima trails after him and Bakugou’s eyes meet his own over his shoulder that Kirishima realizes that’s what he’s doing.

Then Bakugou’s gaze softens and he kicks the door of the car open wider. “Um”, Kirishima pipes up, the noise of keys clinking together drawing his attention to one Bakugou Mitsuki. “Is it okay if I…?”

She snorts and ruffles his hair, too. “Kid, after what you did tonight, a ride home is the least I can do for ya. C’mon.”

Kirishima bows politely, a mumble of “Thanks, ma’am” waved away immediately. A moment later, Kirishima’s hand is being grabbed and he’s dragged inside. “Get a move on”, Bakugou mumbles, staring pointedly until Kirishima rights himself and digs for the seatbelt with his free hand. The click of the clasp snapping in is oddly loud in the ensuing silence.

It doesn’t last. The moment the engine purrs to life and the lights go off, a heavy guitar riff screeches from cleverly hidden speakers in perfect surround sound and Kirishima jumps. He’s the only one in the car to do so.

“Whoops, my bad”, says Bakugou’s mom as she turns the music down the slightest amount, her smirk – so familiar and yet not – clearly visible in the rear-view mirror. Next to her, Bakugou’s dad chuckles and shakes his head.

Bakugou himself is turned towards the window, the hand against his chin barely hiding the tiny smirk there. Kirishima lets him have it. Anything that’ll replace that lost expression from earlier is good in his books.

“So. Eijirou, right? Nice to finally meet ya.” Mrs. Bakugou checks in with him via the mirror. Her hand rests on the gear selector. “Where to? We’ll bring you home first. I’m sure your parents are worried.”

And oh fuck, Kirishima hasn’t even thought that far ahead yet. When he snuck out of the house a lifetime ago, all his mind was able to process was getting to Bakugou, saving Bakugou, bringing Bakugou back. As much as both his mothers are angels in their own right, they’re also easily worried and twice as buff as him. There haven’t been many occasions which called for them to throw down for their son but they totally would if given half the chance.

If they catch wind of even a fraction of what Kirishima got up to tonight, someone will have to pay. Kirishima’s willing to bet his most prized, limited-edition Crimson Riot figurine that that someone will end up being all of U.A., nationally famous pro heroes or not.

Before any of that can make it out of his mouth, Kirishima’s hand is squeezed and… Oh. Bakugou’s still holding it. Their skin isn’t touching; Kirishima’s sleeve has been pulled down to prevent that.

(It’s one of those things Bakugou does, tracking who and what gets in direct contact with his sweat and how to neutralize it in time. It makes Kirishima’s chest ache that, despite everything that happened, he is still aware of small things like that.)

“He’s crashing at ours tonight”, Bakugou tells his parents rather gruffly. Still looking out the window like there’s nothing unusual about that at all, and Kirishima gapes at him in complete and utter surprise. Bakugou’s grip only tightens.

“Got a problem with that?”

Just like that, Kirishima finds himself able to process speech. “Nope! Not at all. Uh, that is– Mrs. Bakugou, Mr. Bakugou, can I?”

Bakugou’s parents look similarly caught off-guard. To their credit, they merely blink and look at each other, shrugging. Again, it’s the mother who speaks. “That’s Mitsuki and Masaru to you, kid. Let’s go home, then.”

And that’s that. They set off, the car’s movement a quiet thrum that’s drowned out by complicated drum solos and vocals barely scraping past outright growling. Any other day, Kirishima would’ve been ecstatic to finally get to meet the Bakugous. He’d hoard bits and pieces of knowledge about them – such as the fact that Katsuki’s taste in music runs in the family, what the hell – like a dragon does gold coins. The notion that Bakugou invited him to their first sleep-over ever would be the biggest treasure on that pile, for sure.

Because Bakugou Katsuki is anything if not cautious: with his quirk, with his time, with his trust. Because, after days of pacing his room and worrying himself sick and crying until exhaustion took him out, their plan worked.

They pulled it off, Bakugou is back and alive, and Kirishima’s allowed to stay by his side a little bit longer.

He’s here because Bakugou wants him to be and that… feels better than Kirishima can properly put into words. So, no, he doesn’t boast about it, he doesn’t have the energy to – but Kirishima notes and appreciates it nonetheless, relief forming a ball of warmth and light that radiates within him like a tiny sun got stuck between his lungs and his heart. Bit by bit, it melts the tension off Kirishima’s bones until all he can grasp is the steady presence of Bakugou’s hand in his and how heavy his eyelids feel.

Kirishima could sleep for a week straight and still crave a nap afterwards. Probably.

There’s something he has to do before he crashes, though. With a gentle squeeze, he frees his hand to grab his phone and winces at the dozens of unread messages and missed calls that greet him. Both the group he has with his family as well as the one for 1-A have been running hot most of the night, reducing his battery to a pitiful 12%.

Opening up the chat with his moms, Kirishima scrolls to the bottom of the increasingly worried barrage of texts and hesitates, his fingers hovering over the keypad. Once he starts typing, he’ll have about a minute before shit really hits the fan.

💪🏻Kirishima Power 💪🏻

guys i’m so sorry!!! (sent 21:58)

i know ur worried and stuff and i swear i’ll explain later ok?? (sent 21:58)

just wanna let u know i’m safe!! staying over at baku’s tonight (sent 21:58)

he’s here and safe too (sent 21:58)

🙏🏻🙏🏻 (sent 21:59)

He pauses then, reading that last part over and over again. Safe. Safe, safe, safe. A smile cracks Kirishima’s lips apart and it remains there, steadfast through the flood of new messages rolling in.

Bakugou’s room is both everything Kirishima expected it to be and at the same time… not.

It’s huge, for one, the typical bed-wardrobe-desk setup expanded by a couch and a beanbag, a TV with a variety of game systems hooked up to it, a handful of shelves filled to the brim with books and manga and oh, a whole freaking drum set taking up a corner by itself. The walls are plastered with band posters and signed set lists and – less blatant but still there – the odd All Might merch Kirishima knows Bakugou would strangle him for mentioning, so he doesn’t.

What comes out of his mouth is: “Dude! I didn’t know you played drums. That’s so cool!”

Everything is kept in the triad of black-orange-green Kirishima recognizes from a certain hero costume. A few discarded shirts aside, it’s really tidy. So much so that Kirishima feels ashamed of the state of his own room just by seeing this.

The feeling is compounded by Bakugou picking up those shirts and throwing them in the hamper first thing, a quiet tch indicating he’s annoyed by it. Kirishima isn’t up to outing himself as an unrepentant walking mess in comparison – instead, he makes a beeline for the bookshelf with the manga, eyes drawn to a row of covers he’d recognize in a heartbeat.

“Wha– I’ve been looking for these for ages! They’re sold out every time I try to catch up on ‘em.”

A short glance at Bakugou is answered with a shrug and an eye-roll: It’s Bakugou-speak for do whatever the hell you want. Kirishima pulls out the volume he stopped at and leafs through it.

It’s meant as a distraction for Bakugou, a space for him to drop the put-together façade and breathe without people constantly fussing over him. It’s honestly what Kirishima would rather be doing right now (exploring his best bro’s room be damned) but it’s not what Bakugou needs. Well, what Kirishima thinks he needs.

It’s hard to get a read on him without the constant snark and pointed glares. With some dinner in their bellies and Bakugou’s parents now safely downstairs, the expression that fits nowhere on the Angry Bakugou Face catalogue is back. Kind of uncomfortable and so… absent.

Kirishima is really starting to hate that expression.

It’s entirely accidental that Kirishima actually gets into reading. One chapter turns to three, turns to five, and the troubles and worries whirling ever-tighter in his chest ease for a bit until–

Woosh. A soft, balled-up something knocks against the back of his head. Kirishima startles and almost drops the manga, a vaguely alarmed noise stopped short by the sight of Bakugou in sweats and a well-worn, black shirt. His hair is wet. Wild as ever. At Kirishima’s feet: A similar outfit including a towel.

“Bathroom’s that way. Leave your clothes out by the door, I got special detergent for the nitro. Shampoo and shit’s in the shower, there’s a toothbrush for you by the sink. Use it.”

Kirishima opens his mouth.

Bakugou sighs. “It’s just a fucking toothbrush, Kiri. Wreck it for all I care.”

Kirishima closes his mouth. He nods. His phone is quickly dug out of his pocket and set aside, then he slips out to shower.

A good fifteen minutes later, he opens the door to let out a gust of steam and sees his clothes are gone. The hallway is empty, half-lit by the light coming from downstairs. The Bakugous have been as nonchalant about their spontaneous guest as Bakugou himself; even so, Kirishima tries not to linger or make too much noise as he sneaks back to Bakugou’s room.

“Baku. I’m back.”

Bakugou gives him a grunt of acknowledgement from where he’s fitting some sheets over the couch, folded out to provide a decently sized bed. There’s a pillow and a pile of blankets next to him, wrapped in fresh linen as well. It’s unlikely he’s stopped doing stuff since Kirishima left and if he is about ready to crash in five to ten minutes, he can’t imagine how Bakugou is doing right now.

Y’know, the guy who just survived being kidnapped by Japan’s newest and most notorious villain menace. No amount of pretense can make that simple fact undone.

Kirishima pads over to help, the offer to take over already on his lips but– Too late. The last corner is already being tucked in and laid flat with grim-faced efficiency. Left with nothing else to do, Kirishima sits down on the very edge, eyes downcast and fingers fiddling with the hem of his borrowed shirt. There’s some sort of band logo on it, an English word written in that typical death-metal-font that looks like someone dumped a bunch of white sticks in a pile and called it a day.

It’s soft. A little loose and frayed around the edges.

“Hey, Baku?”

Taking the blankets, Bakugou dumps them in Kirishima’s lap. “Mh?” He makes to step away and Kirishima doesn’t think, just reaches out and catches the back of his shirt.

“Dude, seriously. Just… sit down for a minute. Please?”

And Bakugou… listens. He stops, he frowns at Kirishima for a moment like he’s trying to figure out what his deal is, he sighs like he’s been presented with the world’s most aggravating puzzle – and then he tells Kirishima to scooch. “What? I’m not gonna sit on the fucking floor”, he says.

Kirishima can’t keep the relief off his face as he gladly makes room on the couch, leaning against its arm and tucking his legs in. Once Bakugou has settled, cross-legged with an elbow propped on the backrest, Kirishima throws the blanket over both of ‘em. Might as well get comfortable while they still can.

“Okay.” He steels himself with a long, slow breath. “I know you hate this kinda thing and we’re both tired and… stuff. Still, though: Are you okay?”

Bakugou gives him a look, which– Okay, fair. It’s a dumb question with an obvious answer. Kirishima doesn’t back down, though, humming to buy himself some time to rephrase.

“Like… It’s fine if you’re not. Okay, I mean. And if you’d rather go the fuck to bed and not think about this for a while that’s fine, too. But that was pretty rough and you’ve been, um, quiet. And stuff. So, I’m kinda worried. Y’know?”

Kirishima pauses. A bit lower, he mumbles: “And I missed you. So yeah.”

At some point, he dropped his gaze to his hands, limp and useless in his lap. Kirishima swore not to be a coward anymore but it’s hard, to speak and ask about things in full awareness he has no fucking clue what he’s doing.

All he wants is for Bakugou to be okay. That’s all that matters, at the end of a day like this.

“I’m not”, Bakugou says, tentatively. Like he’s making up his mind as he goes. “I’m not gonna waste your time with ‘I’m fine’. I’m not. This shit’s fucked up.” And again he sighs, sounding so fucking tired Kirishima’s heart squeezes in sympathy.

“I haven’t slept in three fucking days; my shoulders are killing me from using my quirk and sitting chained to that stupid chair and whatever the fuck else. The League scouted me specifically because they thought I’d make a good villain and fuck them for that. Fuck them. But it’s just… It’s whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

Whatever Kirishima expected, it’s not that. He looks up and into Bakugou’s eyes and–

He can’t mean that, can he? Kirishima searches his face for evidence to the contrary, traces the tension around Bakugou’s mouth and the exhaustion smudged under his eyes and the line between his brows, growing deeper under Kirishima’s scrutiny. It all reads defeat. It hurts.

They won, right? A childish voice within Kirishima can’t help but cling to that even as he looks back down. They won, and things are supposed to get better when you win.

“People got hurt. People died, Kiri. Heroes, too.” Bakugou takes a shaky breath, a hand going to his hair and rubbing it roughly. “Fucking… Best Jeanist was there and nobody at the precinct wanted to tell me if he’s alive or dead or what. All of Kamino Ward is fucking gone and All Might–”

Bakugou’s voice cracks right down the middle and it hurts. Like there’s a beast tearing through Kirishima’s chest to rip out his heart and throw it to the floor, stubbornly beating as it bleeds out.

Kirishima wants to say something. Anything. All he can hear is Bakugou’s breathing but it’s all wrong, off-rhythm and thread-bare and upset, and any doubt what that means is erased as Bakugou’s hand clenches on the sheets and he sniffs, wet on the exhale.

“Baku–”

“Don’t. Kiri, don’t–”

He’s always been like that, ordering him around and demanding things when politeness dictates to ask for them instead. His tone is as close to pleading as Kirishima’s ever heard from Bakugou, though, and it twists him up inside to the point he feels distantly nauseous.

“Don’t look.” Bakugou isn’t supposed to sound like that. Not now, not ever. “Okay? Don’t f-fucking– Don’t look at me right now.”

“Okay”, Kirishima says. “I won’t.” His own voice is a mess as well, trembling all over the place. “I won’t, Nitro. I won’t.”

You’re safe, is what he wants to tell him. It’s okay, you’re safe now. That’s not what Bakugou is asking of him. Kirishima can’t stop himself from crying because it’s always been hard not to when the people he loves are doing it, but… He tries. For Bakugou, he’ll always try.

Through eyes heavily clouded by tears, he sees Bakugou’s hand tighten, knuckles going white and bloodless. Painfully tense, and Kirishima can’t stand the sight of that, either.

He shuffles a little closer to place his hand over that fist, careful to only touch the back of Bakugou’s hand. Kirishima whispers, “I’m here”, and Bakugou audibly swallows. He lets him slip his fingers in-between his own.

Holding on, just as he did in the car and when they met in mid-air, that desperate instance that decided whether he would make it out alive or not.

Bakugou holds on even as he breaks for good and his shoulders shake with his sobs. As he continues to breathe in gulps of air that sound strangled and desperate, through tears that leave a pattern of uneven dots on the blanket. By morning they will be gone without a trace: The sun will come up, the world will continue to travel around it, and time will reveal the road they walk on as they walk it, step by step by step.

Just because it’s meant to pass doesn’t make this moment any less real. Any less important. Kirishima sits there and listens to his best friend cry. He remembers days spent without him and the mad dash to save him. He thinks of dumb questions and obvious answers.

It’s hard to tell if this is one of them, so he gathers all his courage and asks: “Katsuki. Can I hug you?”

Just like last time, Bakugou doesn’t say anything. He laughs, a watery, humorless thing – and he pulls at Kirishima’s shirt to crush him to his chest. His arms wind around Kirishima’s neck, Bakugou’s face pressing against his hair where Kirishima won’t be able to see him.

It’s fine. Kirishima’s great at hugs; he can totally work with that. Clenching his eyes shut, he adjusts his grip around Bakugou’s waist so he can rub his back, following the bumps of his spine. Up and down, over and over. Bakugou goes boneless in their embrace, not about to let go anytime soon and neither will Kirishima.

Eventually, Kirishima tucks his head against Bakugou’s shoulder, blinking sleep from his eyes. Safe. He doesn’t fight the sharp-toothed smile on his lips. Bakugou mumbles, “Fucking sap”, nearly drowned out by their collective sniffling.

It sounds a whole lot like thank you. Kirishima’s smile only grows.

>>Chapter 5

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #kiribaku #bnha fanfiction #hi kamino still makes me emo: the manifesto #this fic is also on AO3!!#reblogs appreciated c:#my stuff

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author-morgan · 4 years ago

Text

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-four - a song of the fates

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

“DON’T STARE TOO closely into the mist,” Tryphena chides from the helm, watching as Tundareos and his sister peer into the heavy fog, “last time you almost drove us into the rocks chasing sirens.” Lesya smiles, looking over her shoulder at the dark-skinned lieutenant as she helps man the rudder. For a brief moment, the lingering grey parts, allowing a glimpse of the Attikan countryside —patches of ash and toppled stone, yet the crimson banners of Sparta are nowhere to be seen.

A short while later, Tryphena calls to the crew, and the trireme jolts before falling still. The cool fog parts again, revealing the stone towers and wharf of Piraeus —the Ippalkimon docks near the Adrestia, tying off the mooring lines. The port is deserted in comparison to what it had been before. There are no bustling traders or hurrying slaves, nor sound —bar the sad tolling of a distant bell.

Lesya and Tundareos pace down the gangplank, joining Kassandra and Herodotus in surveying the desolation. Wagons sit parked as though abandoned in haste. Some on their sides with the contents spilled and pillaged. It takes a moment for the smell to sink it, an insidious and potent stench of decay. The gods have forsaken Athens, Lesya thinks as she looks up at the Temple of Asklepius.

The few sentries posted around the harbor wear rags over their mouths and noses. “Move along!” One of them shouts, gesturing toward the promenade running inside the enclosing sleeve of the walls protecting the road connecting Piraeus and Athens.

“We speak to Aspasia and Perikles and then we leave,” Kassandra announces looking between the historian and Lesya —her brother standing at her side— before they set off on the promenade and through the grey mist. The path is different from the one they had taken nigh a year ago. The drone of flies, weeping, and plaintive chants fill the air.

Bulky shapes line the roadsides, Lesya guesses they are shanty huts of refugees, but ahead the fog breaks, and bile rises in her throat. The ramshackle shelters are long gone, in their place are serried piles of dead as far as any of them could see —thousands of corpses.

Some are soldiers, most are not. She stops, staring into the heap of cadavers —eyes shriveled or pecked out by crows, jaws lolling; skin broken and partly rotted or riddled with angry sores. Lesya has dealt out her fair share of death, leaving mangled corpses across Hellas, but nothing can compare to this —a dangling limbs, clumps of hair, dripping pus, blood, and seeping excrement. No wonder the Spartans abandoned the siege. Too many people cramped within the walls had cleared the way for the pestilence to rise and ravish the denizens and those fleeing to safety from the countryside.

The path of death does not diminish as they near the agora —the stench of burning flesh and hair is heavy in the air, as is dark smoke. Lesya watches as men and women shuffle past with cloths on their faces, bringing fresh dead to add to the piles —one of them drops the body of a young girl and staggers away, sobbing.

A troop of hoplites march by, pushing the sick aside. “Kleon,” a woman starts, straightening after kneeling next to a heaping pile of dead. “He seeks to use this plague like a lever, to make the acropolis hill his own. He’s bought the loyalty of citizen soldiers and has a demigod on his side.” She coughs, the rattling sound muffled by a cloth, and stumbles away. Lesya’s stomach drops, Deimos is still here.

“I’m going to find mater,” Tundareos announces, doing well to hide his fear, though Lesya can still see it —one in three Athenians rest among the dead. Kassandra and Herodotus move along toward Perikles’ villa. After a moment’s pause, Lesya turns to follow her brother. She trails a step behind him, eyes downcast as she remembers what happened the last time she was here. More bodies line the streets. Some finely clothed and others stripped of their silk robes and jewels. Lesya's hands clench into fists. One in three, her mind echoes —she will not give herself false hope.

Tundareos stops before the mosaic path and looks up at the pale stone —he was still a boy when he ran away in search of his sister. Now, though, he clasps onto her shoulder, smiling. It may have taken half his life, but he is returning home having found her. Mater will be proud, he thinks, anticipation and hope swelling within him. Lesya cannot return his smile in good faith.

“Mater!” He calls, passing through the andron. Silence answers. Gathered in the courtyard are hushed voices, surrounding a corpse swaddled in linen. They are too late. Among those gathered is Hippokrates. Tundareos surges forward, pushing through the acolytes, and kneels at Kalanthe’s side, shoulders shaking.

Lesya stops, staring at what she had known in her gut to be true. Hippokrates approaches her, resting his hand upon Lesya’s shoulders. The plague spared neither rich nor poor and Kalanthe had fallen into hard times since the death of her thesmothetai husband. Guilt twists in her stomach. She is not sorry for killing Leandros —would do it again given the chance— though a piece of her wonders, if her mother would have fallen to the sickness, had Leandros lived. “I’m sorry,” the physician confesses —both for the death of their mother and the desecration that must follow in an attempt to spare others. There will be no burial for Kalanthe, only a pyre or a nameless pit.

The acolytes lift Kalanthe’s corpse, carrying her from the villa for a final time. Tundareos moves back to his sister’s side —watching the dark-robed figures disappear into the grey haze. He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks around the empty villa. There are no slaves bustling, no lyres being played, no fire burning in the brazier. “Pater?” Tundareos calls and silence answers him again —he looks up as if pleading with the gods, lost.

Lesya’s blood runs cold, heart dropping to the pits of her stomach. She hadn’t told him Leandros, the man who sheltered them as children, was killed by her hand. There will be no more hiding after today. “Tundareos–” she rakes a hand through her copper hair, pacing around the courtyard “–I killed him,” she tells him, unable to mask the small shred of pride in her tone.

“What?” He asks —the weight of Lesya’s words not sinking in or either he does not wish to believe his sister had murdered their father.

“He was a hateful man who sacrificed me to the Cult, Tundareos!” Lesya shouts, voice trembling and laurel eyes burning with hatred. Everything ill that had befallen her in life was his fault. It was because of Leandros of Athens that her humanity and identity had been stripped away, leaving behind a hollow shell of a once lively girl. “It’s because of him I’m a monster!” It was nigh impossible to sleep with memories haunting her and no matter how much she scrubbed her hands, Lesya could still see the blood of innocent on them. There was no other way to describe what she and Deimos had become at the hands of Chrysis and the Cult of Kosmos.

Tundareos’ face twists in ire and resentment. Leandros had not been a kind man, but he had loved his sons above all else and that love had been reciprocated. His hands turn to fists at his side. Perhaps you truly are the monster they say you are, sister. He swallows the thought, but cannot contain the mix of rage and grief. “He was my father!” He roars —spittle flying in the outburst.

“I cannot change what I have done, brother,” Lesya starts, meeting his cold and clear gaze, “and even if I could, I would not bring him back.” Leandros —son of Kalliades— deserved to rot in the depths Tartarus for the pain he caused her.

Between his mother’s death at the hands of the pestilence and his father’s ruin at the hands of his sister, Tundareos cannot stomach the thought of looking at Lesya again. He turns his cheek to her and draws in a heavy breath. “Sister,” he says, voice suddenly hoarse, “go.” Lesya flees, wiping away tears, and travels down the street leading to Perikles’ home at the base of the Acropolis.

No guards are posted though Aspasia pales, her back going rigid upon seeing Lesya enter the villa. Enyo always brings death and destruction in her wake. The champion has never seen her face without a weeping ivory mask, but her voice is unmistakable —the Ghost of Kosmos. “Leave us,” Aspasia tells Sokrates and the others taking shelter in a calm, commanding voice. They leave in silence, dispersing into several rooms with lowered heads.

“You fucking snake,” she hisses, closing the distance between them in three strides and seizing the hetaera by the neck. Fear flashes in Aspasia’s amber eyes —there is no one here who can save her should the disgraced champion choose to act. Lesya squeezes harder.

“She’s different!” Aspasia gasps, speaking of Kassandra as her hands wrap around Lesya’s wrist. “Not like Deimos,” she pauses, straining for breath, “or you.” Lesya’s face contorts, her grip tightening for a second more before she lets the hetaera go with a shove —sending her to the ground. Her hand goes to her neck, rubbing the tender flesh. Aspasia looks up at the weapon she helped create, a weapon that could still be put to use. “See me safely to the Parthenon,” she requests, but Lesya just laughs.

“You trust me not to hand you over to the mob?” Kleon stirs the mobs to riots —many of them want to see Perikles’ head mounted above the city gates for his inaction against Sparta. Blaming him for the rise of this pestilence that had claimed both young and old alike. It would be easy to give Aspasia to the mob and let them dispose of her. The Ghost of Kosmos dead at the hands of the oppressed, it does not sound like a bad thing to Lesya.

Her amber eyes narrow. “I trust you not to betray Kassandra,” she says, rising to her feet. Lesya swallows, after potentially losing her brother, she is not willing to risk the loss of a friend for vengeance.

THE EAGLE BEARER joins them on the steps of the great temple, tears streaking her face. Phoibe. It is all cut short by a ragged cry from behind the great wooden doors. Kassandra and Leysa push them open just as Deimos sinks to a crouch and wraps a mighty arm around Perikles’ neck.

He looks up, meeting the eyes of his sister, Aspasia, Hippokrates, Sokrates, and Lesya. “I’m going to destroy everything you ever created,” he whispers in Perikles’ ear, placing his blade edge on the Athenian general’s neck. Deimos’ arm jerks. Aspasia cries out and lurches forward, stopped by Sokrates. The Eagle Bearer looks to the side grimacing as blood spouts and soaks Perikles’ robes —his wan body turning grey in a trice. Lesya’s gaze burns into him with all the grief of the day rising in her gut. Deimos releases the corpse and stands, his white-and-gold armor streaked with blood. “Stay out of my way,” he hisses, flicking off the blood dripping from his sword.

The handful of masked men accompanying him advance, but Lesya slips away to pursue Deimos, confident Kassandra would be able to dispatch the remaining guards with ease. He is halfway down the marble steps of the Acropolis Sanctuary —armor glinting in the moonrise. “Deimos!” She shouts and his shoulders tense. “Stop!” Now her voice is baleful.

He turns, unsheathing the Damoklean sword and levels it toward Lesya as she nears him with her own daggers drawn. “You need to stay out of my way, too,” he growls. She ignores him —knocking him back with a powerful kick. He has to be stopped. Lesya spins out of his advance but does not react quickly enough to block his elbow from colliding with her jaw. She spits blood and drags the back of her hand across her busted lip.

“You’ve gotten slow,” he remarks, coming for her again. He swings his sword and the tip streaks down her shoulder and lower back, slashing open her leathers and tearing through her tricep —her side and arm suddenly hot with blood. She cries out and staggers backward, but levels her blades again, knowing she has endured worse pains than this. Deimos clenches his jaw as he eyes the blood sluicing down her leg. “Don’t do this,” he rasps —if they cross blades again, he might not be able to stop.

She steps forward again, jabbing the point of her blade at his thigh and narrowly missing. He lashes his blade in a flurry of quick swipes and it is all she can do to parry them. There’s a moment’s opening and she sees a weak point at his knee and calf. Lesya stabs out, but like a viper’s tongue, he strikes downward, blocking the cut, and flicks his blade up, slicing across her face. Blood and sweat sting her eyes —her strength ebbs away.

The blades in her hands clatter against the stone and then she is falling. The pale stone around them is painted with splotches of bright red. He watches, aghast this has been his own doing. “No,” Deimos utters. Sheathing his sword, he kneels and scoops her into his arms. She whimpers. “Lesya,” he breathes, stroking over the bloody cut at her hairline —he hadn’t meant for it to go so far. Her eyes are wide, staring up at him but unfocused.

He takes her to Hermippos’ residence —the air is thick with burning herbs and sweet incense to mask the scent of death. Deimos threatens to cut out the Cultist’s tongue if he speaks to anyone about this night. Hermippos has always been cowardly and Deimos uses the man’s fear to his advantage. Slaves scuttle in and out of the bedchamber, bringing water, rags, and a fresh poultice.

Deimos tends to her with shaking hands, his heart heavy and guilt-ridden. You kill Perikles or we kill her, Kleon’s words echo in his mind. It is your choice, Deimos. It had not been a hard choice. Sitting back on his haunches, Deimos runs his hands down his face and is startled to feel the dampness on his cheeks. He waits at her side almost until the morning light.

“Enyo.” That is not her name, but Lesya responds out of instinct. A pair of tawny-gold eyes meet her own. Deimos. His face is a mixture of troubled emotions. Pain. Guilt. Anger. Two calloused hands settle on her sides —helping her sit. Fresh tears spring up in her eyes at the burning pain in her back and side. She looks around the dimly lit bedchamber, finding her bloody armor and exomis piled in a corner, and stained rags are strewn over the floor near a washbasin with red-tinged water. It is a familiar situation. One she and Deimos have been in too often.

Deimos pulls his hands back, taking in her scars and injuries as though he has just remembered it is his hand that harmed her. “Where am I?” Lesya asks, raising her hand, fingertips ghosting over the scab cutting through across her brow up into her hairline.

“Athens still,” he answers. An ember catches flame and burns in his dark eyes. “I told you to stay out of my way.” If she would have just listened to him, all of this could have been avoided. He looks down at his hands, numb. He had hurt her.

“You know I can’t,” she mutters, reaching for the small tie holding stained white pteruges to his gold-and-white cuirass. Deimos does not object. Instead, he pulls free the knots, ripping the breastplate from his chest and the belt from his waist. Lesya takes his face in her hands, pulling him toward her until his rough lips find hers —hands slipping down his sides. He eases her back down on the feather-stuffed mattress, never breaking the kiss.

Warmth blossoms in Lesya’s chest, sparks igniting when he parts her lips with his tongue. She finds an uneven brand at the base of his ribcage and sighs into his mouth —it had not been there that night in Korinth. “Deimos,” Lesya breathes, her heart aching to know they will have to part ways again. He braces his weight on his forearms, cupping her cheek as he meets her laurel gaze —something about how she looks at him now, after everything, makes his heart ache too. They were each half of the other’s soul as the poets would say.

No one could escape their fate and Lesya and Deimos’ were always meant to be entwined.

@wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fjor-ok-skadi @fucking-dip-shit

#Alexios #Deimos #Alexios x OC #Deimos x OC #Alexios Imagine #Deimos Imagine #Alexios Fanfiction #Deimos Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Imagine #Assassin's Creed Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Odyssey #story: Kryptic #my writing

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lindwur-fr · 4 years ago

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First Impressions, chapter 3

Poe is out looking for food when he runs into a very strange group of creatures, and Mallorie swoops in to save the day. But how did she know?

It had been about five days now. Poe continued to write in his tome about the goings-on since he met Mallorie. The Riot of Rot was long over, but Mallorie was still in no condition to travel home. Poe thought long and hard about the situation. He decided he would offer to bring Mallorie to his home Clan, where she could finish healing once she was stable enough to travel.

Poe struck out into the Wastelands on a daily basis to hunt for native insects to feed himself and his patient. Mallorie turned out to be a very amicable and friendly dragon, despite her appearance. Though a part of her craved meat (Poe knew this from prior experiences with his Nocturne patients), she accepted the insects gratefully.

Poe was deep in the wastelands on this day. The murky, reddish-green sky was unusually cloudy, giving relief from the sun’s vicious heat. The ground was damp, and the insects were plentiful under every shard of bone and flat stone on the ground.

While picking out grubs from a long-stripped-down carcass, Poe heard something shift. A small, quick, barely register-able noise that made his ears flick. He lifted his head abruptly, scanning the area.

“Hello?” He asked aloud, slowly turning his head to try and identify the source of the noise. Another scavenger, no doubt- he knew he wasn’t alone in the wastelands. He had already happened across a few scavenging parties from local Clans.

From the skull of the carcass that Poe was scavenging on, something snaked out of the gaping eye socket. It was smaller than Poe himself, with a silken mane that dragged on the ground. Its head wavered, dark plague-red eyes gleaming curiously as its body slid out of the skull of the carcass.

“Aren’t you interesting.” The strange creature said, insectoid wings slowly lifting from its back. “I’m almost sorry for what I’m about-”

“POE!”

The small creature gave a jump, and Poe wheeled around.

A swarm of identical creatures, who had swarmed around Poe’s head, screeched and scattered, wingbeats chopping the air like noisy beetles. Mallorie, who had called out, was running as fast as she could towards Poe, her injuries hampering her approach.

“Close your eyes! Close your eyes and use your wings!” Mallorie’s tone was heaving and obviously pained, but her voice pitched with fear.

Poe squeezed his eyes shut and flung his wings straight up, holding them tall. The eyes on his wings blinked open, pupils pinning in the sudden light as their vision swam into focus.

“His wings! Get his wings!” The small creature hissed.

Poe watched through his mutated eyes as the strange, ropy creatures hovered around his wings, near his tail. Their wingbeats were blurred, the patterns on them creating striking designs as they moved through the air. Their silken manes floated weightlessly, giving them an almost hypnotic appearance.

Poe wasn’t oblivious, though. He sensed the magic in the wingbeats, the intention on the strange creatures hovering near his eyes. He had seen this tactic before in Mirror dragons. How they shuddered their wings, flashing their designs, as a way to enthrall dragons. But this was different. This wasn’t just a tactic to make prey stall or halt- this was true hypnotization.

“Why isn’t it working?!” One of the creatures cried.

“These- these aren’t eyes!” One of them hovered nearer to Poe’s wing, staring directly into one of the mutated eyes. “They look like eyes, but they’re not!”

“I can see you.” Poe muttered softly, sliding one of his eyes to fix its pupil on the strange creature. “But they’re not true eyes. But I can still see you.”

“I’ll just have to fix that, then.” One of the small creatures growled ominously. Its jaws flew open, lunging at Poe’s eye.

Poe braced himself for the ripping pain of the small creature’s teeth, but it never came. Mallorie slammed her weight down on the creature, swiping it from its flight and pressing it to the ground, its wings akimbo. She had caught up and intercepted it just in the nick of time.

“You little wretches!” Mallorie heaved. “How dare you! I heard about you on my travels, but I never imagined you’d come here!”

The creature pinned beneath her claws writhed and hissed desperately as Mallorie put more weight on her front claws. The small creatures backed away now, hovering in a swarm as they stared at Mallorie and Poe, aghast.

“What are you?” Poe asked, tilting his wings to look forward at the swarm of creatures. “Land. Tell us what you are.”

“Or your swarm-mate is gonna get it.” Mallorie added, tilting one of her mutated claws up against the creature’s wiry neck. The creature’s squirming stopped, and its eyes showed their whites as it stared at Mallorie’s readied talon.

The swarm of creatures exchanged glances, a worried look passing over their faces, before one by one, they touched down on the ground and folded their wings against their backs.

Mallorie sat back on her hind legs, adjusting her claws on the creature so she held it firmly, its wings squashed against its sides. It whipped its tail and cried out in anger, but Mallorie didn’t relinquish her grip on it.

“We are Veilspun.” The supposed leader of the swarm said. “We are the first children of the Shadowbinder.”

“Yet you are Plague-Born.” Mallorie hissed.

“We are,” The leader continued, “But we know our heritage. We have diversified as you have, little Nocturne. Your kind is a creation of the Shadowbinder as well. So look upon us, and know that we came before you.”

“I’m hardly a Nocturne anymore.” Mallorie lowered her voice. “And quite frankly, I don’t care enough about heritage to worry about that. I’m no Pearlcatcher. Cry to them about that if you want to talk about favored creations to make yourself feel better.”

The swarm of dragons growled and chittered, looking to one another at the jab from Mallorie.

Poe stepped closer to the swarm. “You tried to hunt me.” He started, “And if you’re truly dragons of the Shadow Flight, I understand why you did. You’re used to closed spaces and the darkness of the forest. But you’re out of your element, here. I am in mine.”

Poe dug his front claws into the leathery ground, veins of Plague magic winding towards the swarm of Veilspun as a small demonstration of his power.

“Hypnosis in this land only means that the bigger predators have a clear target,” he took another step forward, Plague magic dripping from his claws as he pulled it from the ground. “You aren’t the top of the food chain here.” He cast his gaze around the diminutive dragons as they shrank back from his advances.

The leader of the swarm, who had looked confident mere moments ago, now faltered. Poe saw the details of their expression as it wove across their face. Unsure, scared, abandoned. Their kind had never left the thick forests of the Shadow Flight. But now that their presence was known, much like other Ancient dragons, they were having trouble adjusting to this new, strange world. One where Flights co-existed and mingled. Where one God’s creation could be born of another’s magic.

“You're not the first to leave your birthlands.” Poe folded his head fins slightly, relaxing his tone. “I understand that it can be hard to learn everything about this new world. How hard it is to adjust after you leave your bubble. To see how things have progressed around you while you’ve been left behind.” He let his words sting the Veilspun. “I have seen it with the Gaolers,”

The Veilspun swarm shuddered at the mention of the titanic Ancient breed.

“But they, too, have adapted. They’re not strictly of the Ice Flight anymore. They can live among us safely, and be true members of the Clan.” He took a step towards the leader, allowing the Plague magic to seep away from his claws. “I can help you,” he offered, “but you must understand: If you betray my trust, I’ll show you what a child born of the Plaguebringer is capable of.”

The Veilspun swarm hesitated, looking amongst themselves. The leader’s eyes flicked across their swarm as they weighed out the risks of this offer.

“We’re starving,” one of the members piped up.

“We’re tired, we’ve not found shelter in days.”

“Everything is so different here! There aren’t any trees to scavenge from, the flora here looks poisonous, we’ve not found any insects… We’ve been forced to hunt.”

“We’ve had to eat dead dragons.”

“The Gaoler we found was already rotten and we barely found enough safe meat to eat.”

“Then something else found the Gaoler and chased us off. We lost one of the swarm…”

“Stop!” The leader barked, wheeling around to their swarm. “You’re making us look weak!”

“There’s no shame in it.” Poe sat down, his fins folded amicably. “We all need help, sometimes.”

“That’s rich, coming from a Plague dragon.” The leader turned on Poe, their eyes welling up with tears as their stress mounted. “What are you planning? Wait til we’re asleep and then pick us off?”

“I don’t eat meat, firstly,” Poe started, “but no. I’m a healer, a doctor. Mallorie is my patient. We’re in a cave I summoned southwest of here, near the Water Flight border. I live in the Light Flight territory, on one of the cliffs overlooking the Sea of a Thousand Currents. Come with us, and I’ll show you how to scavenge in the Wasteland. On one condition: You don’t hunt me, or Mallorie, or any other dragon from now on. It’s a low-born thing to do.”

The Veilspun swarm looked eager to take up the offer, but the leader hesitated. “You… You’re not tricking us?” They asked, not entirely on board with the idea just yet. “You’re truly doing this out of the good of your heart?”

“I am,” Poe nodded. “Out of the good of my heart, and the refusal to let more dragons get hunted. Be it you the ones hunting, or the ones being hunted when a predator spots your frailty and lack of knowledge in this land.”

The leader’s small whiskers trembled and their brow creased. “Very well.” They said at length. “We’ll not hunt dragons, but you will show us how to hunt other prey in these lands.”

Poe nodded, unphased by the half-threat. “Of course.”

Mallorie finally let the Veilspun she held captive go. It fell onto the ground in a pile, wheezing now that its breaths weren’t constricted by Mallorie’s grip.

Poe turned to a large, flat stone embedded in the ground and sauntered over to it. “You said you eat insects,” Poe started, “And I know most insects in the Shadowlands fly by moonlight, and hide in the bark or under mulch,” he hooked his claws under the rock and flipped it over, revealing a swarm of various insects. “But unlike the Shadowlands, most insects hide under stones. I know your territory isn’t normally rocky- perhaps near the Forum it is, but in the forest, I’d imagine it’s more marshy. Out here, you look under rocks.”

The swarm of Veilspun drew closer, their eyes round as they stared at the bounty of insects. Poe stepped away from the stone, gesturing with a claw for the small dragons to help themselves. At once, the swarm lunged for the insects, grabbing them as fast as they could and gorging on the uncovered meal.

Poe talked as the Swarm satiated their hunger. “The next lesson I’m going to give you is where to find water that’s safe to drink, and fish that are safe to consume.” He advised, his fins folded back in a rather prim manner as he adopted the teacherly persona he often used while teaching his students.

Mallorie stepped beside Poe, standing close to him. “You think we can trust them?” She asked softly, looking down to the Fae as concern threaded her tone. “I’ve heard they’re very tricky, even outside of the Shadow-born ones.”

“They’re dragons, too.” Poe replied simply. “They’re hungry, tired, and scared. They may be the Shadowbinder’s first design, but that doesn’t mean they deserve our scorn, even if they act high and mighty. If we show them that we modern breeds aren’t weak because of our diversity, I’m sure they’ll learn how to live in this new world.”

“You’re something else, you know that?” Mallorie said with a smile. “Giving these dragons the benefit of the doubt, even though they were fully intending to eat you.”

“Well, fill their stomachs with food, and fill their hearts with trust, I say.” Poe’s normally-expressionless face cracked the faintest of smiles. “Their leader seems hesitant, but they just wish to protect their swarm. I can respect that.”

Mallorie chuckled, her breath rattling a bit. “Well, I trust you, even if I don’t trust them.” She gestured with her good wing to the Swarm, who were digging into the earth in search of more food. “So… I’ll go along with this. At the very least, I have no eyes to be hypnotized with, so if they do anything… Well. They’ll regret it.”

Poe chuffed and nudged Mallorie lightly. “Always have a contingency plan, that’s the Plague mantra.” He lifted his fins happily. “I’m sure once I’ve taught them how to look after themselves, we’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“From anyone else, I’d not believe that,” Mallorie chuckled, “But you sound so sure of yourself, I have to believe that you’re right.”

“Because I am,” Poe grinned with his fins good-naturedly. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

Mallorie barked a laugh and shoved Poe lightly. “You cheeky so-and-so.” She shook her head, but her tone was warm.

Poe felt his heart quicken and his fins turn a bit warm. He searched for words to speak with, but his brain could only find blanks. He gaped for a moment, struck by the fact that his words failed him, before the leader of the swarm cleared their throat pointedly, snagging his attention.

“You said you’d help us learn how to fish…?” The Veilspun prompted, tilting their head to the side.

“Yes, of course,” Poe nodded, grateful that his words returned upon another dragon speaking to him. “This way- the safest place to find water is near to the sea. There’s a river delta that’s safe to drink from there…”

#Clan Vagrilux #Vagrilux Lore #Flight Rising #fr #Had to change the wholeass script when the Veilspun were introduced BUT IT TURNED OUT WELL

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mybeautifulchristianjourney · 4 years ago

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Righteous Noah

by Job Orton

"And Noah did according to all that Yahweh commanded him. Noah was six hundred years old when the floodwaters were on the earth." - Genesis 7:5-6

How happy are they who are righteous before God! This was Noah's character, and his deliverance is an emblem of the great salvation of all good men. They shall be saved from the wrath to come. Let us follow after righteousness, like Zacharias and Elizabeth, who were righteous before God, walking in all the statutes and ordinances of the Lord, blameless. Let us not partake of the sins of a wicked generation lest we also partake of their plagues. Rather let us set the Lord always before us, approve ourselves in his sight, and whatever others do, serve the Lord. Then will he hide us in his secret places, and surely in the floods of great waters they shall not come nigh us.

How hateful is sin, which provoked God to blot out and destroy the creatures he had made! What a fearful thing is it to fall into the hands of the living God! Sin is that abominable thing which his soul hates, and which he will severely punish. This story should be a warning to a careless world. Let us attend to that important question in Job, "Will you keep to the old way which wicked men have trod, who were cut down before their time, whose foundations were swept away by a flood" (22:15,16)? Let us hear and fear, and do no more wickedly.

How uncontrollable is the divine power over all his creatures, animate and inanimate! His power of the beasts to make them tame and gentle and enter the ark; over all the elements, laying up the deep waters in his storehouses. He sets bars that they shall not cover the earth, but he takes off those bars when he pleases and causes the waters below and above to unite their force to execute his divine commission and chastise an incorrigible world. He sends rain in its season or can withhold the bottles of heaven. Who would not adore and fear this mighty God! Who can stand before him when he is angry!

Observe how exactly God fulfills his threats as well as his promises. By the preachers of righteousness in the old world he had long foretold this judgment; but the ungodly thought it would never come. Probably when Noah was building this ark they came and asked him what he was about, and when he told them they laughed at him and asked if he would sail on dry ground. They thought much piety had made him mad. What contempt must have been poured upon Noah when they saw him shut himself up in his ark with so many beasts and birds. If there were any poets in those days, they were probably satirical and witty about the enthusiastic old man. Perhaps they made ballads of him and he became the song of the drunkard. Note the end. The flood came as God had said. Just and true are all his declarations. Men may sneer and despise, but Yahweh is a God of truth and judgment, and blessed are all they who wait for him and hope in him.

How unable to escape divine judgment shall sinners be at the great day! So sudden and unexpected shall that day come: "As it was in the days of Noah, so shall it be at the coming of the Son of man" (Luke 17:26). How awful was the judgment in the days of Noah, to be surprised by death while in so carnal and secure a state, in the midst of peace and safety, even perhaps of mirth and riot. No doubt they tried all means to escape. In vain they fled to trees and mountains, perhaps clung to the ark believing what Noah had spoken. But it was too late. Thousands might be waiting round the ark and crying for admittance before it was borne upon the waters. But it was in vain, for God had shut the door and man could not open it again. Noah is safe in his vessel amid the gushing torrents, the roar of beasts, and the shrieks and cries of his drowning neighbors.

So shall the coming of the Son of man be--sudden and unexpected. Sinners shall have no way of escaping; none except those who are in Christ, of whose salvation the ark was a type. They shall be safe; all the rest shall perish. Be sober, lest that day come upon you unawares. Seeing we look for such things as these, what manner of persons ought we to be in all holy conversation and godliness!

#Righteous Noah #Job Orton #Genesis 7:5-6

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alsoaubrey · 4 years ago

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It is perhaps helpful to formulate the events of January 6 in this way: law-preserving violence fought hand to hand with law-making violence. “Trial by combat!” declared America’s Mayor, become the wax-faced carnival barker of Trumpism gone wild, reminding us that armed landowners wearing animal skins have often made the laws on this continent, have inscribed those laws in letters of stolen land and enslavement. These were not pitchforked peasants marching on the castle of their lord, but ruined local gentry and minor nobles marching on the king to demand the return of their acquired right which that plague called modernity had stripped from them. On order both sides agree, even if one threatens disorder as part of their negotiation about what kind of order, exactly, and how it is to be achieved. Salon owners and state senators, veterans and tax attorneys, influencers and podcasters — first and foremost, we should stress, those who made their way from the Ellipse to the Senate chambers were directly dependent upon the Trump conjuncture for their livelihood. But secondly they were all of those who could not distinguish what was said from what was meant, who truly believed that they had been chosen to restore the soul of the nation and that they were matched move for move by omnipotent actors behind the scenes.

This is what separates this sedition from any comparison with ostensibly similar moments, with the sacking of the Third Precinct this summer, for example. The Q-surrection took place in some world other than ours. It was launched by a speech from the President and in keeping with this imagined itself met, at every moment, by some providential violence from inside the state — the arrival of Q, a Kennedy resurrection, the final destruction of the pedophiliac deep state. Partisan movements, by contrast, may suffer all manner of delusion but they take as their objects features of the real world. The storming of the Capitol operated entirely on the plane of the imaginary — confusing capital with Capitol, the capital with the Capitol, capable of coup in some world other than other than this, an insurrection of unmeaning, forced by a few thousand people who needed to bring this story to some kind of satisfying close.

And that they did. Everyone who survives within the halo of meaning got something out of January 6: the fascists, their myth; the president, his image; the center, its revenge. It is only those who would alter the material world who get nothing, not even a lousy two grand.

The right can riot, but its violence is always personal, always victimizing and scapegoating, always symbolic even when it spills fatally into the material. This is its understanding of order. This is why the gallows looms so large in its imaginary, why so many of those interviewed speak of stringing up politicians, making them pay for their crimes, watering the tree of liberty with the blood of tyrants. But here tyranny grows capacious, for it designates any figure who threatens their inalienable right to harm. They wanted to hang Senators but they would have gladly killed a Black person, a Jew, an immigrant, and they settled for a cop. One single article by an embedded reporter on January 6 captures, without meaning to do so or seeming to notice, seven different references to communists. This is what you get when you imagine yourself a rightful heir, dispossessed by social justice warriors, by the RCP puppeteering the rise of China, by northern carpetbaggers and urban elites. You get people who want to cleanse the Capitol’s marble with blood, who fight cops in order to be cops.

The burning of a police station by partisans, by comparison, targets a basic structure of domination. It wants the unmaking of everyday life, not its purification and repetition with a slightly changed cast. In this regard the Capitolists could not have been more eloquent. Having breached the building and reached the Senate chambers, the boldest and most ludicrous among them, dressed as a reiver, could think of nothing better to do than install himself at the desk of the Senate president. Elsewhere one of his brethren settled into Pelosi’s chair, feet up. More deskwork, but now for real patriots. It seems not to have occurred to them to burn the place down.

...

Covid-19 clarifies the workplace for what it really is, a charnel house with private offices attached. Some of us work from home, others can’t find any work at all, still others are forced to get sick and to sicken others in the name of necessity, so that all of us can purchase our supplies or receive care if we get sick. The new variants are more transmissible but so far this has been a disease of cramped spaces rather than sporadic contact, affecting anyone who must work indoors with others, anyone who cannot go outside: workers, prisoners, residents in nursing homes and other facilities. Confinement is the disease’s metier: wherever humans are treated like objects, massified without egress, there the disease thrives. The summer’s insurrection showed us the creativity with which people can act together who are nonetheless disconnected, a lesson that doesn’t stop needing to be learned.

...

The dilemma of the moment, for our side, remains familiar. It is not how to choose between the breakers and the gamers, Democrats and Republicans, the moderate and progressive wings of the party, the DSA or the Democrats. Nor even how to choose between electoralism and other confrontations.

Rather it is how to recognize and reckon the forms of appearance, the ways that crisis manifests among our enemies and our friends and ourselves, and how to do so without being drawn into the thousand fantasies which share, as their invariant feature, that we might resolve some matters and advance others by sufficiently rebuking this villain, that party, these yahoos. The tide continues to flow in the wrong direction. The least we can do is to see that it is a tide rather than being assorted flotsam and jetsam bobbing on its flood.

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thejakeformerlyknownasprince · 5 years ago

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Animorphs in Zombie Apocalypse AU?

• It’s been seven years since the end of the war. Three years since the Animorphs — all six of them — stumbled off of the Rachel on its return, over two dozen ex-yeerk-hosts in tow. It’s beginning to feel like this peace might last.

• Rachel’s in the middle of a business lunch when the call comes in. Her line of fragrances (“Animal Essence by Rachel Berenson: Let out your wild side”) has performed pretty well this quarter. But there are always marketing campaigns to manage and deals to sign, which is why she and her PR manager Linda are in a trendy Brooklyn café when the phone in her purse buzzes.

Jake tries to sound calm, as he tells her that they’re being called in. Because it’s Jake, he almost succeeds. No details yet, he says, just a behavior-altering pathogen. Possibly extraterrestrial origin.

Around her, the room has gone cold and strange and far away. How silly the delicate spread of quinoa and avocado on her plate appears now, how pointless the fan of business cards in her hand and manicure on her nails.

“My cousin,” she says, and then “family emergency,” and then “I have to go.”

• Marco’s head lifts when the din of the crowd goes quiet ahead of him, scanning automatically for trouble. Jordan Berenson is cutting through the crowd on the dance floor. She’s utterly out of place in her full business suit amidst the night club’s flash and camp, her straight posture bizarre among the half-naked slouch of bodies that surrounds her.

“Hey there, G-woman!” Marco calls over the music.

“She’s a fed?” his security guard Rena asks sharply, glancing at the line of cocaine clearly visible on the nearest end table.

Marco waves Rena away. “She’s family.”

He sees Jordan absorb the label with no small amount of surprise. He’s not sure what the fuck else they’d count as: they’re not friends, but that doesn’t change the fact that they fought and cooked and lived and nearly died together during the war.

“I’m here on behalf of the NSA-CDC joint commission,” Jordan says, trying a small smile.

“And what’s Uncle Sam want with little old me?” Even as Marco says it, he knows: he really really does not want to hear what Jordan is about to say.

• Cassie rolls to her feet when the Army transport jeep approaches, heart already beating faster. The hork-bajir preserve doesn’t get many human visitors, and the official ones never bring good news. She glances over at Tobias – who was, like her, listening to Toby tell a surprisingly entertaining version of their war story to a group of youngsters – and sees him tense, feathers flaring.

Please, she thinks, don’t let it be the start of another “human” rights battle. Which just goes to show that it’s been a while since the war, long enough that she thinks another spat over land grants is the worst thing that can happen to this community.

• «Prince Aximili.» The aristh looks nervous enough to be about ready to trip over his own hooves. «Sir, there’s a message for you. It’s from Earth.»

Ax nods automatically, even knowing that the gesture won’t mean anything to his fellow andalites. «Who on Earth?»

The aristh shuffles his back hooves, tail tucked close to his body. «Just… Earth. A human called the President of the United States. She says she’s calling on behalf of the entire planet.»

A war-prince must always project calm and confidence, to reassure all warriors and civilians who might be watching. Ax manages, only just barely, to remain still and inhale slowly. To keep his voice level when he says, «Thank you. I’ll take the call in my private quarters.»

• There are three of them in the cramped observation room. Then four, then five, and finally six. A unit, huddled together and barefoot and unable to speak. They’re not the only ones here for the meeting, of course. Other people await them in the next room: the Joint Chiefs, the U.N. representatives. Collette and Timmy. Peter. Tom, Jordan, Walter and Michelle. The president.

On the other side of the glass, Eva beats her hands against the wall. A guttural moan gargles in the back of her throat. She’s walking forward, not seeming to realize that she encounters a wall again and again.

The flesh has already rotted off her extremities, leaving bone and putrescent muscle exposed underneath the peeling curls of skin.

“We’ll find a cure,” Cassie says. Even as she tries to breathe through a nightmare come to life, a flashback made present. “We’ll find a way—”

“My mom is dead.” Marco’s voice is as steady as the hands of a man sawing off his own leg. “No heartbeat. No brain activity. No respiration, digestion, circulation.”

Tobias looks back into the room, then at Marco. «But…»

“She’s an organ donor.” Marco’s eyes are dry, but he sniffs hard to keep them that way. “Wanted her body used for science, for humanity, when she couldn’t use it anymore. She’s dead. We’re respecting her wishes.”

Eva’s mouth gnashes at the air, teeth and jawbone exposed where her lips have already decayed. Her fingertips leave streaks of gore on the plexiglas.

“We know it spreads by fluids,” Jake recites dully. “That even a few drops can infect an entire water system. We know that it kills the hosts within hours of infection, and then uses their bodies to try and reproduce itself. We know it can be killed by fire, and by beheading the host, but so far that’s all we know.”

«How many humans have suffered its effects so far?» Ax asks.

“We don’t know,” Jake says. “Lowest estimate’s a few thousand.”

“And the highest?” Cassie asks.

He turns to look at her. The answer’s there on his face, in the way he can’t seem to stop himself from reaching out to take her hand.

• “How bad is it?” Ronnie asks Cassie that night.

She pulls him into her arms, desperate to sink into warmth and soft muscle and still-living flesh. “Remember last time humanity got attacked by an alien pathogen?” she asks. “Remember how that ended for the invading parasites?”

He has to know that she’s dodging the question. But then he wasn’t in the room when the graph tracing the U.S. watersheds spread slowly from blue to red, the entire continent glowing sickly crimson within weeks. The heading at the top said Conservative Estimate. They never saw the non-conservative one.

• Please remain calm, the president’s broadcast says, and stay inside your homes. Boil any water before drinking, she adds, even though they don’t think that that will do any good. Better to give people something to do, some way to feel like there’s still hope.

• Rachel goes up against entire hordes. She becomes elephant, alligator, grizzly and cheetah. She perfects the necessary motions to grab and rip, to sever the spinal column in one bite or one slash. She wades through firestorms as a salamander or rhinoceros, swoops in on kafit wings or surges upward on lerdethak tentacles to rip bodies to bits. Sometimes the others join her. They get infected a dozen, a hundred times, and each time they morph and survive.

• Which is where Tobias’s suggestion comes from.

«I say we arm the populace,» he says.

It’s the six of them, sitting around Marco’s kitchen table — one of his kitchen tables in one of his houses — after yet another bout of endless killing and very little progress.

“Meaning what?” Jake says.

“The civilian death toll’s already high enough, if you ask me,” Marco says. “Seeing as how everyone and their aunt is out there with hunting rifles and modified dracon beams blowing their neighbors away.”

Cassie winces. He’s not wrong. The riots have cost more lives than the plague, according to the latest estimates.

«We’re safe,» Tobias points out. «Or we can fix ourselves. Because we’re morphers. We have the cube… why not use it as widely as possible, on as many people as we can find?»

“That’d be illegal,” Jake says.

Rachel lets out a dull laugh. Cassie can see her point. They’re way past that by now.

“And when the vampires start morphing too?” Rachel asks. “What then?”

“Don’t call them that,” Marco snaps. “They’re dead bodies with parasites inside, not…” He laughs, humorless. “Vampires, revenants, the undead, that’s all stuff you play for pretend on some television show. It’s makeup and bad writing.”

“Yeah,” Rachel says, “just like aliens. Just like shapeshifters.”

«I sincerely doubt that the infected would have the necessary mental abilities to sustain focused attention upon achieving an animal shape,» Ax says. «Tobias’s proposal would indeed break several laws set by at least half a dozen species… and it may be the only way to save this planet.»

“How do we make sure the civilians are using the morph tech responsibly?” Jake asks. Which shows that he’s already thinking about it. Already halfway there.

• They make an announcement on the only remaining television channel. They send out a broadcast on every frequency that emergency radios will pick up. They go even more old-school, and pass out fliers. Anyone who wants the morphing can come. Can wait in line, sometimes for hours, to press their fingers against the box in Marco’s hand. Acquiring DNA is their own problem. So is the two-hour limit, for all of the warnings that Cassie repeats ad infinitum to the waiting crowds and the folks at home.

It’s inevitable, really, when the panic breaks out one day outside the elementary school where they’re recruiting. No one can say for sure if the woman was actually infected, or if the man next to her just thought she was.

Eight people are trampled to death in the ensuing crush. Nearly a hundred more are injured, too many to treat in a town that has already run short on dozens of essentials that must be shipped in from other parts of the country. No one can say how many are infected, just that the Animorphs spend nearly a week clearing the undead out of the area around the elementary school before it’s finally safe to use again.

• The reports coming out of the densely-populated East Coast are shocking. There was a battle between human and undead outside Yonkers, and now Yonkers is overrun. All groundwater from the Chesapeake Bay watershed is now considered infected, take precautionary measures. Florida has closed its borders, and is gunning down anyone who gets too close. A riot over a shipment of bottled water took out eighteen square blocks in downtown Philadelphia, and took out the entire shipment of water as well. The wealthiest residents of Boston and Manhattan are moving off-planet as fast as craft will take them, leaving the rest of the planet to die.

And then one day the reports… stop.

No CNN, no NPR, no MSNBC. No U.S., not really, not anymore.

• “I’m going to go lie down,” Jake’s father says, after a long day in the lab. And, “It’s just a headache, I’m sure.”

It’s the last thing he ever says. Eight hours later, Tom becomes the one to shoot him in the head.

• When Rachel picks up the phone, Jordan says, “You know you’re my hero, right?”

Rachel rushes out of the house, phone up to her ear, desperate for a better signal. “How… you…” She draws a sharp breath. “It’s been three months!” Not just three months since she heard from her sister. Three months since anyone that she knows of has succeeded in making a long-distance call.

“Sat phone,” Jordan says. “Government-issue. We’ve all been taking turns using it, in here.”

“Holy shit.” Rachel pulls the gun off of her belt and, almost unthinkingly, puts a bullet between the eyes of the child who has been shuffling toward her on corpse-stiff limbs. “How are you? How’s DC?”

“Not great, actually. INSCOM’s got me and a bunch of other essential personnel in a bunker. Or they did, anyway.” Jordan clears her throat. “The perimeter’s been breached, and there are about twenty of us holed up in this room. Maybe four—” Her voice wavers, steadies. “Four, five hundred hostiles outside, judging from the security cameras.”

“I’m—” Rachel is running down the street, cataloguing morphs. “I’m coming for you, just hang on.”

“Rachel.” Jordan’s voice is terribly sad. She’s three thousand miles away. “Just listen, okay?”

Rachel sits on the ground. Curls into herself. Fetal position, a ball of helpless rage.

“We’re each taking one phone call, and it just seemed really important to me.” Jordan takes a breath. “To tell you that I love you. That you’ve always been my hero. Since… forever, really. And that everything I am, everything I’ve done, is because of you. So…”

There’s a noise in the background of the call. One Rachel doesn’t want to identify.

“Tell Mom and Sarah I love them, yeah?” Jordan says.

Their mom’s been dead two weeks. Sarah is MIA. “I will,” Rachel says. “I promise. Jordan—”

“Time’s up, gotta go.” There’s a click, and the line goes dead.

• Ax lies so smoothly, so thoroughly, that he doesn’t know if he even remembers how to tell the truth. The fight against the pathogen is going well, he tells the Andalite Navy. Humanity is doing well. There’s no need for alarm. No need for drastic action. Yes, he would like to stay here indefinitely, but only to do what he can to assist the clean-up efforts.

• They morph every six hours, setting alarms to make sure that it happens. There is no uninfected water, not anymore, which means they’re constantly exposed. It can’t last forever. One of these days, Tobias knows, one of them is going to go in their sleep. And there’s nothing to be done to fend it off indefinitely.

• The being who appears in Marco’s living room is human and raptor and andalite and most definitely none of the above. (Ketran, Rachel will say later, and then silently shake her head when they ask her what the word means.) They all still recognize the Ellimist when they see him.

“I came to you once with an offer,” the Ellimist says. “Your lives, and your families’, in exchange for relocation to a different planet. I can bring your families back. Save them, and you. A way to preserve the human species, a final desperate measure.”

“And all of a sudden it’s back on the table?” Marco demands.

The Ellimist nods, or maybe he’s just bowing his head in grief.

They look around at each other, needing no words to communicate their thoughts.

They were so young, the last time they had this offer, Rachel thinks now. She was just a little girl, too caught up in worrying about being in love with a nothlit and disappointing her father to understand what was really at stake. She missed it entirely, the reason Jake and Marco were the ones to hesitate and grieve. They’d both lost loved ones to the yeerks already. They’d known what was at stake, the way that the little girl she’d been at the time could not have known.

Now she understands. Now, I can bring your families back isn’t abstract or principled. It’s real down to her gut, down to her pores. Now she understands, as do they all, just how much war can take. They’re adults. This time, their eyes are open. Their decision is informed.

This time, Jake doesn’t hesitate when he speaks for them all. “Go fuck yourself,” he says. “It’s our planet, and we’ll fight for it to the very last man.”

#animorphs #animorphs au #au #body horror #gore #character death #long post #zombie au #canon compliant

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earamis · 4 years ago

Text

Unadulterate

“You woke up to find yourself alone in the dark of night, yet the shackles were no longer gnawing on your limbs. Whether the freedom was nothing but another falsity, you didn't dare to guess. Let the presence of a certain beloved man be the anchor to your wavering conviction.”

A gender-neutral Kim Namjoon x reader fic reposted from AO3.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24620374

Jostling awake in the thick of darkness, you searched for another presence familiar before your own. Hands scrambled among the sea of fabrics only served to tangle shivering limbs further and still, the search bore you no fruit. The air was stale and cold. Your skin became damp with perspiration as the beat of your heart grew frantic. You opened your lids yet no light aided your vision. No sound was heard but the rough heaves of air from your own lungs. In this instant you froze, you realized you were alone.

Dread grounded you if only for a fraction of second. You carefully assessed the elements of your surroundings. Softness beneath your fingers was a minuscule comfort within the unknown. Your fingers grasped the sheets, so your eyes widened. The shackles previously gnawing at your limbs had been unbound. The freedom of your movements was restored. You felt your breath hitch as tears blurred your unseeing eyes. For what exact reason did they chose to dampen your eyes now, you knew not. But your muddled recollection of what had happened prior this moment gave you one dangerous thing: hope.

You remembered sounds all around. Although your eyes were blinded, your senses numbed, brash and clamorous riots and probably a thousand goings on seemed to shake you between light and dark. You heard the lull of voices, tense, full of suspense, while your consciousness too weak to process the jumbled syllables. There you laid unmoving, waiting for a rough pair of hands to lay themselves on places that weren’t meant to be touched.

All praise to a divine intervention, they never came.

Thus your memories ended, and here you were now, vision still dark, but senses sharp as can be it bordered on being overwhelming. The ring of silence turned to another offering of comfort. You took it in haste, calming your mind before braving to move. You crawled without direction. One step of a hand, one graze of a knee. Around five times of it and you reached an end. You found you were perched on a raised platform none other than a bedding. But whose, again you knew not.

You decided to test the waters by lowering one leg to brush shyly on the floor. The dreadful anticipation came back. You tried to catch any sign of something incoming, to chain you back, or to rob you of the clarity you barely had. When seconds passed bringing nothing, you lowered your other leg, slowly standing up. Your knees trembled weakly but you chose to ignore them. You took a small step, surprised to find most of your strength gone. So you fell. In the dark, the weight of you was brought down upon something unseen, and it crashed with you. The bang was too loud. That feeling of dread returned, amplified by your fear of getting caught. Your arms flailed again, desperately seeking a nonexistent leverage.

In panic the rhythmic sound of footsteps approaching was almost missed. Only when it grew loud did you managed to realize, every step taken could be a countdown to your end. Such thought plagued you. The terror of being put back in capture after this brief moment of freedom snitched your ability to think straight. Tears started to flow. Your chest heaved heavy. Those footsteps kept growing louder and closer yet you could process nothing, do nothing, and when they paused, you thought, “Oh, there goes liberty.”

A blinding light suddenly filled your retinae. You had no courage to close nor avert your gaze for fear when you do, those hands you loathed would slither around your body. There afore you, the silhouette of one man blocked that white light. Your eyes, too used to darkness, hadn’t the ability to conclude whose presence had graced you.

That silhouette moved to you, and you jerked away, ready to summon whatever strength you had left to fight it if needed. One shameful whimper escaped your lips when its hand landed on your arm.

“Hey, hey!”

Your breathing stopped. That hand wasn’t rough, and his voice was familiar.

“You’re alright. It’s me, dove, it’s just me.”

That second all the air rushed back into your lungs in a sob. The shadows had left and now you saw crystal clear. This man wasn’t whom you loathed. He was an opposite in any juxtaposition. You felt your heart clench and break at the same time. Maybe you wasn’t forsaken as had been made to believe after all. Namjoon was here, right in front of you.

“Please.”

He lowered himself further to embrace you gently, arms encircling your form. “Tell me what you need,” he whispered in your ears. “Anything. I’ll do whatever I can.”

Your hands fisted his clothes, unwilling to let go. “Please be real, please, I can’t- no- please, not another fever dream.”

The man froze, you could almost hear his heart cry. “Oh, dear, dear,” those arms wrapped even tighter, he brushed a kiss against your temple, another on your moist eyelid, and one next to your lips. “It’s not. Believe me, you’re here with me now.”

That warmth couldn’t be a lie, or so you thought. The chapters of horror had somehow ended with you back in his arms. You wept and clung harder now, in gratitude and fear of being robbed again, of this comfort, this fragile moment you had with a beloved.

“Shush…. No need to cry.”

He continued to embrace you until your sobs receded to shy hiccups and your iron grip finally began to relax. The man caressed your hair, humming a low tone to further soothe your nerves. You rested your head against his chest. The vibration of his voice was truly welcome.

“Are you alright?” Namjoon asked quietly, concerned by the state you were in. “Did you hurt yourself?”

You looked up to gaze into his eyes and shook your head. His searched deep into yours. He knew the foolishness of his question, yet still he asked. You were not all right, you were hurt badly. Darkening bruises covered your skin, your lip split, welts on where the shackles had bit you, and more on places supposedly only his privilege to touch. Another kind of pain – this one he couldn’t alleviate with drugs nor topical ointments – was brewing, filling you to almost to the brim. He didn’t understand what would be enough to protect you from such thing so unseen, but he knew with conviction, when the time came for it to spill like waterfall, he had to be there. To offer a simple comfort if nothing else.

“It’s only 3 A.M. I’ll put you to bed, okay? You must rest.”

Upon being lifted, you snaked your arms around his neck, refusing to let go even when he’d laid you gently on the mattress. “Namjoon, no! Don’t go!”

He hovered above you inelegantly. His arms caged your sides, long shanks spread apart on the edge of the bed, and his head held close to yours in a tight embrace.

“I won’t.” He turned his head to push a kiss of assurance on your cheek, noticing it had been again dampened by tears. “I’m not going anywhere.” He waited for your response, worried when you graced him with none. Instead, your form began to tremble. He instantly returned your embrace. His limbs interlocked with yours. He nuzzled the warmth of your skin, carefully soothing the bruises with the softness of his lips, then stopped at the beat of life on your jugular. His beloved was alive, though not yet well, that was all he was grateful for. Things could be worse. He could’ve been robbed also of you.

Namjoon didn’t want that, never wanted it his whole life. He hated himself for letting it happen the first time. He still did and was sure will always do. Nothing, probably not even you, could bring himself to forgive the flaw of his decisions. He could’ve done better. More men to stop the gunning, more arms to kill that ignoble lumpen, more caution, more ruthlessness, more, more, and more….

Yoongi had been right. He should have listened to his own lieutenant. You were never safe as long as you chose to stay by him. Yet despite knowing of it, he couldn’t bring himself to let you go. A selfish man he was. Every smile, every laugh, the longing only grew. How could he ever let go? Because he wouldn’t. As long as you chose to be with him, he’d never abandon.

“Namjoon….”

The hoarse call snapped him back from his reverie. “Yes?” You seemed to relax more next to his warmth. Your tears had stopped falling, leaving glimmering eyes to look at the man with pure, unadulterated trust.

“Can you…turn the lights on, please?”

The man casted a gaze upon his surroundings. He cursed himself inwardly. The room must had been pitch black the way he’d left it in. “Of course. I’m sorry, dove, I should’ve thought of that.”

Namjoon got up surprisingly without resistance from your arms. He reached to the bedside lamp to leave it on. The new lighting revealed a wooden chair knocked over on the floor, right next to where you must had fallen. He carefully pulled it back up, hesitating where he should position himself, but when he saw you barely able not to make grabby hands at him, he smiled and decided to forget the option of sitting altogether. After closing the door and locking it, more as a gesture of comfort than habit, he stripped off his leather jacket and shirt, leaving his chest bare and free for you to seek the warmth of.

The two of you laid side by side. You practically attached yourself to his skin. The hard plane of his back and chest a victim of your wandering fingers. His presence held you captive within the only cage you ever wanted to be kept in.

“Sleep now,” he whispered, and so you did, closed your eyes as the haven assured his staunch.

#bts #bts x reader #kim namjoon #mafia #mafia kim namjoon #sfw #archive of our own #bangtan sonyeondan #bts fanfiction #gender neutral #pride month #min yoongi #hurt comfort #suspense #angst #my fics #e-aramis

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gaminggoddessinc · 5 years ago

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We Need More Asian Activism

I know there have been posts and articles like this everywhere, but with the murder of George Floyd I need to talk about this directly at other Asian people (I’m Korean American).

There was an East Asian police officer at the scene where Floyd was murdered, standing silently as Floyd pleaded for his life. He didn’t do anything. Now, some say that this is because he’s a police officer and was following orders, but a hidden aspect to this was the pressure of the “Model Minority” that Asians have adopted in America.

We have become accustomed to serving white people and pretending we are part of them. Ever since white people came to Korea and China and Japan with Christianity and all of its western ideas, ever since Asians immigrated to America for a living, we have trained ourselves to submit to the will of white people. We will side with them against other people of color and we have turned our backs on the people who need our help the most.

That is why there is so much tension between asian people and black and hispanic people. I think back to the 90s in LA, where a Korean shopkeeper shot a black girl, and the riots against Korean businesses that ensued. Asians have adopted the mentaility of the colonizer when they should be siding with the suppressed.

After all, we have become submissive because of the coercive devil’s tongue of white supremacy and colonization. We have told ourselves that, in order to pass through life, we need to bend to the white man.

But we can’t continue to do this. Enough with being the model minority. If you are enraged by anti-chinese sentiments, anti-korean sentiments, anti-japanese sentiments, then get enraged when a black man is murdered. Get pissed off when latino families are separated. Get furious when there is injustice in the world!

If we continue to side-step, bite our tongue, look down upon others, then we are complicit in the subjugation and murder of thousands. We must speak up.

Now, I understand that it’s unfair that one asian is expected to be representative of every single member of their race. It is unfair. We shouldn’t have to feel that we and our whole race is being judged because of something that happens in a far-off country or because of something a horrible human had did.

But guess fucking what? That’s what every other person of color is facing right now. And we have to support them and fight for them. The benefit of being a “model minority” is that white people will listen to you. If we start speaking up and getting enraged, then they perhaps they’ll listen.

And even if they do not, it is better for the oppressed to unite against the oppressor. Injustice puppeted by white privilege plagues our country, and we need to unite to combat it.

Enough is enough. Stop being a model minority. Start being an ally. Stop being complicit and complacent. Start being supportive and help others be heard. We need to be activists, Asians.

#tw racism #tw anti-asian #tw anti-blackness #george floyd #tw murder #asian #east asians #model minority #race #long #tldr: read last paragraph

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spirit-of-the-void · 5 years ago

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Hello sweet! I’ve got a part 2 for that Outsider ask I sent. Could I just get a follow up with the reader waking up, the Outsiders relief, him comforting her about her sister selling her out, maybe even offering to punish her (though the reader would refuse that offer), and maybe her asking why he saved her. The way you ended that ask just made me think of a second part, and I’m just looking for some more Outsider angst, fluff, and sweetness. Hope this isn’t too much. Thanks! 🌸

I’m sorry this is so late! I’m a terrible wife ;-;

(Part 2)

- In that empty darkness of the deep, the sting of betrayal your sister had brought to you had not dulled in the slightest.

- It was raw, burning like fire under your skin even while you felt nothing, while sleep was claiming you so heavily you didn’t even dream. And if you had, you didn’t want to know what kind of dreams sleeping in the Void would bring.

- Your sister had been so close to you growing up–you were her little angel, and she was your starshine. You looked out for each other when the riots started during the plague, and when she fell ill you were the one to wipe her brow, feed her broth, and pray to the Outsider for her health.

- But when she took a lover from the abbey…it changed that sister of yours. Her eyes became narrowed and mind fogged by a sea of lies and sermons. She did not hesitate for a second to throw you to the wolves, the very same flesh and blood who used the God’s power to save her. And that revelation was more painful than any gunshot wound.

-It was on those thoughts that you finally awoke, body still drifting in the strange pool of water in the Void.

- For a moment, you had no idea where you were, eyes gazing up at the dull light piercing through the crystalline sheet that was the surface of the water. The pool was completely clear, but down below you was only blackness. Your heart stared to pound gradually, awakening after being slowed for a long period of time, limbs feeling heavy and achy.

- But there was no longer pain in your shoulder or back, no ripping agony of gunshot wounds. They were completely healed.

- You blinked, inhaling more of the strange water in your lungs and letting it swirl out into the pool. As your body came back to you in bits and pieces, you became heavily aware that you were not in fact alone. Arms were wrapped around your waist, steady and unmoving while a body aligned with your back.

- Someone’s chin was pressed to your shoulder, leaning on you while you drifted without going up or down.

- Not just someone. You knew this form.

- Your heart doubled its tempo, head turning to stare at the Outsider’s face so dangerously close to yours. He looked…peaceful, more so than you had ever seen him. Was he actually sleeping? His face was so soft with his eyes closed, lashes a dark contrast against his pale cheeks and lips gently parted in the smallest of breathes.

- Part of you expected not to feel a heartbeat or anything like that, but you could feel his gentle pulse when you reached a hand around to touch his neck, rotating in his grasp so you could wrap both arms around him.

- He was a God, a being of strange and mysterious power, but…he felt very human in these moments, and so very tired. You didn’t want to awaken him.

- But…your movement must have cued him in, or perhaps he was just sensing you being more active in thought? Whatever it was, you felt his muscles ripple in the next moment, his arms squeezing you ever so slightly and his own heartbeat gaining strength again.

- Oh dear. There was quite a few emotions fluttering through you, some that made your cheeks flush despite how cold it was. Had you ever been embraced by a man like this before? Surely not.

- “Your eyes have finally opened, little mouse,” The Outsider’s voice came low and smooth, right against your ear as he cupped the back of your head, “Does your body ache? Can you feel any more pain?”

- You tried to swallow down your nervousness, heart thudding away as your chin rested on his shoulder, “I…I feel heavy, but…I don’t hurt.”

- He let out a low hum at that, slowly raising you both up toward the surface of the pool. He breached the perfect flowing glass in a slow movement, the water dripping down his hair and face in a way that was almost…beautiful.

- You leaned back so you could look at his black, endless eyes, feeling entranced by the way water glistened from his lashes, down those high cheekbones to his lips. He was truly a lovely creature, wasn’t he? You rarely got the chance to see him so close, but now…it was so fascinating, his skin looked so smooth, those lips perfect and soft.

- Oh dear. That made you flush more.

- Upon exiting the pool you were greeted by the cold chill of the Void’s wind, making you shudder and wince. You were soaked to the bone, but the water seemed to be slipping off of you without resistance, same with the Outsider. By the time he was carrying you away from the pool, you were dry but still cold.

- The God was strangely quiet as he held you close, eyes staring ahead as a path of debris formed around you. It was a sight to behold, seeing stone and metal weave a path for his feet until he found his destination–there floating in the abyss was a room, one with jagged edges and open walls. A single, queen-sized bed with blue and violet blankets adored the center with a simple wardrobe on the far wall.

- Was this where the Outsider spent most of his time? It was illuminated by low, glowing blue lanterns and candles, carved with runics you didn’t understand. In another corner books upon books were stacked in piles without rhyme or reason, some covered in dripping whale oil from a source deep in the sky.

- “Is this…your home?” You whispered to him, eyeing it all with a mixture of awe and sadness. What a lonely place to call home, one that was never touched by the sun or stars in the sky.

- The Outsider set you down on the bed, his fingers sliding up to your neck so he could cup your cheeks and look at you. Those deep, black eyes of his made your pulse thud faster in your veins, his head tilting lightly at your question.

- “Home is such a strange term,” He replied, tone low and ominous as he lifted a lock of your hair, brushing it over his lips, “It implies stability, safety, comfort. This place is that and none–It’s a home, but it is also a cage that has me trapped inside.”

- His words were so mysterious, you didn’t exactly understand what he meant but…it sounded incredibly enigmatic, border-lining on downright melancholy. But he didn’t give you the chance to ask any questions.

- “You have been through something truly terrible, haven’t you Y/N?” He murmured to you, tracing the line of your cheek with his thumb. You instinctively leaned into his touch, letting his chilled hand cup your cheek, “Betrayed by your own kin, left to die as you ran from the abbey’s disgusting followers…a shame after all you did to save your family. Even I was unable to save you from such a fate.”

- The image of your sister, lying in bed with the plague returned to your mind, making your heart squeeze in your chest. He was right–you had been betrayed, had you not? The wounds it caused on your heart were still so fresh, eyes closing as you fought back tears.

- All you had wanted was to save your family, and it cost you them in return.

- “I did not hesitate,” You whispered, feeling the Outsider lean one knee on the bed next to you so he could cup your face, “I didn’t hesitate once to sacrifice something in return to save them. And she…she did not hesitate a moment to get me killed.”

- He wiped a tear from your eye before it could drop, his tone low and soothing as he replied, “Humans have an uncanny way of being ruled by fear–That Overseer filled her head with tales of my exploits, of how the plague was secretly my doing and that I sought to kill all of Dunwall. And she ate it up, like tyvian pears over breakfast.”

- That was what you had been afraid of–You never liked the men of the abbey, even before you were a follower of the whale God. But when she had taken the arm of one and claimed they would be married…there was such a joy there in her eyes, how could you object?

- But you saw the change he brought, saw how she went from joyful and kind to pious and easily disturbed. But…by then, it was too late.

- “I should have stopped her,” You whimpered, a sob growing in your throat and threatening to burst forth, “When he started courting her, I should have warned her away from him before he got into her head.”

- The Outsider clicked his tongue at that, stroking your hair back and tapping a finger by your temple. It made you open your eyes, looking up at his face and feeling a bit breathless at the expression he wore–his eyelids lowered, gazing at you with something akin to adoration, a fierce protectiveness, and…guilt.

- “The blame is not yours to shoulder–it belongs to her and the overseer she scorned you for,” He said softly, eyes growing a bit cold and dark as he continued with low, threatening meaning, “What punishment should I bring forth for this sister of yours, to destroy her for what she has done? A thousand years in the Void, hordes of rats feasting on her lover before her very eyes? Whatever you desire, I could bring it forth.”

- His icy voice sent a shiver up your spine, reminding you very easily that he was in fact a creature of neither evil, nor good. He was capable of dark things just the same as any human, maybe darker with that power of his.

- But…what he spoke of, you did not seek. The anger was dying in your blood, draining fast and leaving you simply feeling tired and sad. Because at the end of the day, even after all she had done…she was your sister, and you could not see her hurt.

- “She was not herself anymore,” You replied softly, shaking your head at his requests, “I do not wish to see her punished, not now nor ever–she was weak of mind after living with the plague, so close to death…he sought out her vulnerability, and took advantage of it. And for that…I cannot hate her.”

- The black-eyed God narrowed his eyes at your words, frowning and seeming heavily displeased. A moment of silence paused between you, making you a bit nervous considering you had never seen the being upset before–you didn’t want to do anything to anger him, especially after all he had done to help you.

- Above all things, his opinion of you mattered most.

- “Is that your choice, little mouse?” He murmured, tilting his head to the side and gazing at you with a serious expression.

- You would not be swayed. You nodded, tone soft as you replied, “It is. And for better or for worse, it is what I want,” You flushed lightly, looking away and clasping your hands together in your lap as you added nervously, “B…besides..her actions brought me here, to you…and that I can never be regretful of.”

- You didn’t dare look at his face with such a remark–were you stepping out of line by saying such a thing? You thought you knew how to read the God’s intentions, but maybe you were wrong?

- But there was nothing to fear.

- You felt the Outsider tilt your head back, pulling you closer so he could press his lips to your forehead. They felt chilled, but soft and soothing after all that had transpired. You were growing used to this cold, finding enjoyment in it.

- “Your kindness is admirable, mouse,” He murmured, meeting your eyes with a crooked smirk and gentle fingers holding your face, “But you should not have to suffer to be close to something like me…I would hardly call that a blessing.”

- Something about the low, slightly tired way he said that filled you with emotion you couldn’t ignore. Your heart pattered faster, arms slipping around his neck to tug him down onto the bed with you in one, fluid motion. To your surprise, he did not resist–he simply leaned forward to your wills, collapsing on the bed over you and letting your arms tug his head to your chest.

- He blinked, expression blanking out a bit when you placed his ear over your heart–he could hear it beating while being so close, could he not? You flushed, leaning your head back and gently stroking your fingers through his hair.

- Had anyone been intimate like this with the God before? Maybe not in a long, long time. His expression was confused for a moment, body stiff as he leaned his weight on you. But…after a few moments he began to thaw, lulled by the rhythmic stroke of your fingers, by the sound under his ear. You felt him relax, his eyelids closing half way and taking on a bit of a dazed look.

- He looked more peaceful now, and more tired than ever.

- “Outsider,” You whispered, closing your eyes as you listened to the wind howl by, rustling the pages of book and sending the bed’s tapestry flowing overhead, “Why did you save me?”

- He slid his arms up, wrapping them underneath you to pull your body closer. You felt him exhale, the sensation sending chills up your spine, ones that delighted you–being so close to him was breath taking, heavenly despite the harsh landscape. You could only hope you offered solace to him.

- “I saved you,” He began in a hushed tone, voice tickling the skin of your chest in the most tantalizing way, “Because of all my followers, it is you who I enjoy the most,” He lifted his dark eyes, staring up at you with an expression you couldn’t quite identify, “In a place like this, you are the first true glimpse of the sun I have had…It would be a cruel shame to let you die in such a way, alone in that dark, filthy place.”

- His words sent a thrill through you, eyes opening again to meet his and breath catching in your lungs. It was in moments like these, the Outsider felt less like a God, more like a tired human forced to live years and years beyond what he should.

- You wanted nothing more than to give him the love and adoration he deserved. Not worship, not the love of a fanatic to their source of power…the love only someone who truly cared for him could give.

- So you went to sit up, letting him move with you. That brush with death had made you bold, dropping any hesitations you might have had in regards to the God, but…now those were all gone, there was nothing left to lose.

- Your lips parted, moving to gently brush over his in the first kiss you had ever given a man.

- He didn’t lean away like you had hoped, nor did he try to stop you. Your eyes were closed, unable to see his expression but not needing to when his hands cupped your cheeks, pulling you closer to deepen the contact after a few seconds of pause. He tasted like something cold and dark, of the Void itself. You were happy to let him take control of the kiss, a sigh of delight leaving your lips as he held you in a tender embrace.

- When he finally pulled away, he held a curious look in his eyes, like you were the most puzzling thing he had ever seen. But in those depths was a relief, one mingled closely with awe and wonder.

- “You still feel warm,” He whispered, eyes lingering on your moistened lips as he touched them with his fingertips, “Like the sun.”

- His words made your heart ache terribly, sounding so lonely and lost. You leaned forward again to kiss him, feeling the chill from his lips slowly melt away while they eagerly drank the warmth of your own.

- “I will gladly be the sun for you,” Breath left your lungs slowly, the words sounding soft like clouds billowing through the sky, “If you’ll let me.”

- He released a soft sigh at that, a hint of regret in his eyes as they met yours again.

- “Every moment you spend here, the Void will steal that light from you,” He whispered, stroking your cheeks down to your neck with those chilled fingers of his, “That warmth. I steal it from you with each touch, and that I cannot allow to happen.”

- Would that mean he meant to send you away? Despair filled you with his words, more tears threatening to spill over your cheeks.

- “Is that warmth all you desire of me?” Hurt filled your tone, voice cracking with sobs that wanted to be released, “I want to stay with you, I don’t belong anywhere else.”

- He pulled you closer again, tucking your head under his chin as he said in a fierce tone, “It is not the warmth the Void will take–living in a place like this destroys human souls. It takes and takes…stripping away all you felt and filling you with the Void itself, turning you into something that is no longer human, but nothing else entirely. You forget how to feel, the emotions that once drove you…it makes you numb from the inside out. And I…cannot watch it suck the life from you.”

- He spoke from experience, didn’t he? That sorrowful tone, that deep ache that did not seem to leave. There was a humanity left in this man you adored, warped by so many years in this terrible space that he scarcely remembered what it felt like to be a human.

- And you wanted to help him remember.

- “Then…” You swallowed down your tears, wrapping both arms around his waist and holding him closer to you, “I will have to keep my warmth for the both of us…won’t I?”

#the outsider dishonored #the outsider #the outsider x reader #outsider x reader #outsider x self insert #request

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thinktosee · 2 years ago

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THE RIGHTS OF THE INDIVIDUAL

“The curious logicality of all isms, their single-minded trust in the salvation value of stubborn devotion without regard for specific, varying factors, already harbors the first germs of totalitarian contempt for reality and factuality.” (1)

Hannah Arendt (1906-1975), political philosopher and Holocaust survivor, on “The Origins of Totalitarianism,” published in 1951.

“Hence, even as we repeal s377A, we will uphold and safeguard the institution of marriage. Many national policies rely upon the definition of marriage. Under the law, only marriages between one man and one woman are recognised in Singapore. Many national policies depend on this definition of marriage – including public housing, education, adoption rules, advertising standards, film classification. The government has no intention of changing the definition of marriage, nor these policies.” (2)

Prime Minister Lee H.L. in a National Day Rally address to the nation of Singapore on Aug. 21, 2022

The global movement to right a gross and insupportable injustice against LGBTQ+ folks has, especially over the recent years, made significant progress. According to Human Rights Watch, there are at least 67 countries, a minority among the community of nations of the world, that still have laws “criminalizing same sex relations between consenting adults.” (3)

Diversity, whether of gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, faith or opinion is to be welcomed, maintained and supported. We should not suppose that our beliefs are the only truth and therefore must be adhered, under pain of punishment. In Hannah Arendt’s expansively researched tome, “The Origins of Totalitarianism,” she cautions the reader about the dangers of discrimination, especially where it is institutionalized. Prof. Arendt traces, with unique literary style and heightened passion, the rise of Nazism in Germany and Soviet Communism in Russia from the 1920s onwards, to their unbridled ideological impulses which sought to discriminate and sanction visible and opposing segments within the citizenry as a means to seize, uphold and maintain political power. We all know what happened thereon – the Holocaust and the Gulags became possible. These atrocities against our fellow human beings had a small and tentative beginning. But because of society’s indifference, to borrow a term which the Pope applied recently in his public apology to the First Nations People of Canada, (4) these seemingly innocuous acts of discrimination were allowed to morph into the most horrendous crimes no one could possibly imagine. And yet, they did happen. Adolf Hitler’s concentration camps were filled with the deliberately disenfranchised – Jews, Gypsies, Homosexuals, Slavs and many others. Hitler was not alone in the commission of these unspeakable crimes. He had tens of thousands of people to assist with this. How was it possible that an ordinary person, perhaps just like you or I, could be enticed to perform mass murders on behalf of an ideology? Prof. Arendt aptly refers to this as “the banality of evil.” (5) While this term was and remains controversial to this day, it nevertheless lends credence to the notion that ordinary folks are quite capable of the worst imaginable crimes.

Religious conflicts have always plagued humanity, be they the Crusades of old, right through to the communal riots in Iraq, India, parts of Africa and Indonesia in more recent times. Prof. Arendt’s words in the opening to this essay, bear some serious reflection, no doubt.

In closing, some good news – in a judgement reported yesterday, the Court in the Caribbean nations of St. Kitts and Nevis nullified an 1873 colonial-era law which criminalized homosexual behaviour. In rejecting the position of the state, the court, among other things, offered this opinion :

“public morality is not synonymous with religious dogma or public opinion.” (6)

More needs to be done to free the world of discrimination, including against LGBTQ+ folks. It is highly recommended that we all engage in constructive dialogue to pave the way for this. Awareness is a prerequisite to stymie this “banality of evil” in each of us.

Sources/References

1. Arendt, Hannah, The Origins of Totalitarinism, p458. Harvest Book/Harcourt Inc., 1966 (1951)

2. PMO | National Day Rally 2022

3. Maps of anti-LGBT Laws Country by Country | Human Rights Watch (hrw.org)

4. Think to See - A tribute to David (tumblr.com)

5. Hannah Arendt's challenge to Adolf Eichmann | Judith Butler | The Guardian

6. ‘Null and void’: Judge strikes down Saint Kitts anti-gay law | LGBTQ News | Al Jazeera

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96thdayofrage · 3 years ago

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Health Freedom Is the Hottest Political Issue on the Entire Globe, and Our World Will Never be the Same after this

We are witnessing an epic global struggle for freedom, and the outcome of that struggle is going to greatly shape what our world is going to look like in the years ahead. Ultimately, one of the most fundamental rights that we have is the right to make our own health decisions. If someone else has the authority to make those decisions for you, then you aren’t really free. This pandemic has transformed the debate over health freedom into the most hotly contested political issue on the entire planet, and the intensity seems to have been turned up a few more notches in recent days. As governments around the world have begun instituting new lockdowns, new mandates and new “health passports”, we have seen huge eruptions of anger all over the world.

For example, over the weekend there was an enormous health freedom protest in London…

Thousands have gathered today Saturday, July 24, in London’s Trafalgar Square to protest against the lockdown rules and COVID-19 vaccinations. A wide range of speakers is attending the event, including well-known British conspiracy theorist, Kate Shemirani, who spoke to the crowd. Demonstrators are angry about the recent move which will see vaccine passports becoming compulsory in England to access nightclubs and other packed venues.

At the same time, there were also massive protests in the heart of Paris…

French anti-riot police fired tear gas Saturday as clashes erupted during protests in central Paris against COVID-19 restrictions and a vaccination campaign, television reported.

Police sought to push back demonstrators near the capital’s Gare Saint-Lazare railway station after protesters had knocked over a police motorbike ridden by two officers, television pictures showed.

Images showed a heavy police presence on the capital’s streets. Scuffles between police and demonstrators also broke out on the Champs-Elysees thoroughfare, where tear gas was fired and traffic was halted, the pictures showed.

On the other side of the globe, we continue to see violent protests in Sydney and other major Australian cities…

Thousands of people took to the streets of Sydney and other Australian cities on Saturday to protest lockdown restrictions amid another surge in cases, and police made several arrests after crowds broke through barriers and threw plastic bottles and plants.

The unmasked participants marched from Sydney’s Victoria Park to Town Hall in the central business district, carrying signs calling for “freedom” and “the truth.”

Millions upon millions of people are fed up and are refusing to accept any more violations of their fundamental rights.

But of course there are millions of others that are eagerly embracing the tyrannical measures that have been implemented by national governments around the globe.

In the end, the scale is going to tip one way or the other, and the outcome is going to greatly shape the direction of humanity’s future.

So let us hope that freedom wins.

Right now, the corporate media continues to work very hard to generate as much panic as possible. Earlier today, I found it quite comical when one news outlet ran a story about how authorities are now warning us that COVID can be spread by flatulence…

The official advice is to open a window to increase ventilation and slow the spread of Covid, but now there could be an added incentive – the virus may also be spread by flatulence.

Ministers have privately pointed to evidence that Covid could be spread by people breaking wind in confined spaces such as lavatories. One said they had read “credible-looking stuff on it” from other countries, although government scientists are yet to produce a paper on the matter.

The source said there had been evidence of a “genomical-linked tracing connection between two individuals from a [lavatory] cubicle in Australia.”

You better run out and do as they say, because someone sitting in the next bathroom stall may have gas.

Here in the United States, we are now being told that more mandates and more lockdowns are coming because “this pandemic is spiraling out of control yet again”…

“More mitigation is coming. Whether it’s masking, or whether it’s closures or whether it’s your kids having to return to virtual learning, that is coming,” the Trump administration surgeon general told CBS’ “Face the Nation” on Sunday.

“And it’s coming because this pandemic is spiraling out of control yet again. And it’s spiraling out of control because we don’t have enough people vaccinated.”

In fact, we are already starting to see some local governments put new mandates into place.

For instance, a new mask mandate has just been announced in St. Louis and St. Louis County…

Faced with a rising tide of COVID-19 infections and hospitalizations, St. Louis and St. Louis County leaders announced Friday that they will reinstate a mask requirement, for vaccinated and unvaccinated residents alike.

As more mandates are instituted by local governments around the country, it is inevitable that we will see widespread protests break out just like we are seeing in other countries.

Meanwhile, other “pestilences” continue to make headlines as well. A drug-resistant “superbug” that is “resistant to all existing treatments” is causing quite a bit of alarm for U.S. health officials at this moment…

Cases of a deadly fungal infection resistant to all existing treatments have been spreading through nursing homes and hospitals in the United States for the first time, health officials said.

In the past we have seen isolated cases, but now we are being told that it looks like this “superbug” is spreading pretty easily from person to person…

“This is really the first time we’ve started seeing clustering of resistance” in which patients seemed to be getting the infections from each other, said Dr Meghan Lyman, a medical officer at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).

If that wasn’t bad enough, scientists have recently confirmed cases of the Bubonic Plague “in animals and fleas” in six different Colorado counties…

The Colorado Department of Public Health and Environment says there have been laboratory-confirmed reports of plague in animals and fleas from six counties.

One of the six counties with confirmed plague is LaPlata County, where a 10-year-old resident died from causes associated with the plague. Laboratory testing has since confirmed the presence of plague in a sample of fleas collected in the county, according to CDPHE.

For even more examples like this, please see my previous article entitled “4 ‘Pestilences’ That Everyone Should Be Keeping An Eye On Right Now”.

As I have stated before, I believe that we have entered a new era of great pestilences. Scientists all over the globe are constantly playing around with deadly diseases, and in many instances they are actually attempting to make them even deadlier.

With that in mind, it chilled me to the core to read that 33 ancient viruses were recently discovered “trapped in the ice of the Tibetan Plateau”…

Glaciers can preserve all sorts of relics from the distant past. So could they also be home to a pandemic from prehistoric times as well? It’s possible. A team from The Ohio State University has discovered a collection of viruses that have never been seen before in the ice of a glacier in China.

Scientists say the viral samples date back nearly 15,000 years and may reveal how pathogens evolve over the centuries. Of the 33 viruses found trapped in the ice of the Tibetan Plateau, the team considers 28 to be completely novel. About half of them also seem to have survived specifically because of the freezing conditions.

Now these ancient viruses will be “brought back to life”, and it is inevitable that scientists around the world will start playing around with them.

So what happens when there is an “accident” and one of those ancient viruses gets released?

We live at a time of incredible stupidity, and our stupidity is going to end up getting a whole lot of people killed.

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tark-msi · 4 years ago

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REVIVAL OF GANDHISM IN THE 21st CENTURY

You must be the change you wish to see in the world.

- Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi

On the eve of March 12, 1930, Gandhi with his band of 78 followers, set out on a 241-mile journey from Sabermati to the coastal town of Dandi, with thousands more joining him during the course of his expedition. A historic incident, Gandhi peacefully defied the British Salt Act (1882), cementing the Salt March as one of the best-known acts of Satyagrah (peaceful resistance).

The father of the Indian nation dedicated his entire life to propagating the message of leading a simple life, built on beliefs such as Satya (truth) and Ahimsa (non-violence). Yet, only 70 years past his demise, we’ve devolved into a society dripping with deceit and intolerance. The malice has seeped so deep into our very beings that Gandhi’s lessons have become just an afterthought, his words echoing behind the bars of the cage we’ve erected around our conscience, a place only a few ever traverse.

Our core values are like a mirror to the soul within. People’s beliefs transform into their psyche and it takes the bare minimum to push these thoughts into action. Which end of the spectrum these actions materialise, is determined by the very values we hold so close to our being. Gandhi tried to lay foundation to a system of values, values that represent the epitome of what defines humanity and worked towards integrating these values into the pre-established moral code of people. However, it seems that his dreams to build a society based upon morality have fallen short.

ERA OF VIOLENCE & BLOODSHED

The Delhi riots of 2020 were a picture of dirty politics, police brutality and communal violence. The protests that happened in the light of the Citizenship Amendment Act (2019) turned particularly gruesome when clashes broke out between the Hindu and the Muslim community, with the blatant abuse of power by the police just adding fuel to the fire. Had Gandhi lived to see this day, he would have been heartbroken to see his country in such shambles, with its people burning in the fire of rage, intolerance, sufferance and a thirst for the blood of their own countrymen, brothers by soul.

An eye for an eye will leave the whole world blind.

- Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi

It seems that the ship is sinking, as people have started equating activism to abuse and physical violence. Violence has never been and never will be the key to resolving conflict. Gandhi’s intentions and attempts have neither been towards nurturing the idea that accountability for a deed done wrong can be extracted through violence, physical or otherwise, nor that the accused reduce themselves to use of force in return, defending their rights and peace of mind.

We undermine how easy it is for us to become the very people that we dislike.

- Ayishat Akanbi

FAITH, A STORY OF UNITY IN DIVERSITY

One of the key pillars for Gandhi’s phenomenon of Swaraj was Hindu-Muslim unity. For a man that united a nation full of people from different backgrounds, castes and creed to fight against a common evil, such a scenario was never an impossibility. The Gandhian philosophy doesn’t just define faith as belief in one’s god, it also promotes the acceptance and tolerance for others’ beliefs as well.

But the definition of faith isn’t confined to religion alone, it goes far beyond that. Faith is tightly interwoven with principles like Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam (the world is one family) and Sarvodaya (welfare of all). It’s closely connected to respecting and loving the different nuances within different individuals, that make up this diverse planet. It is about welcoming the idea that every individual is unique, with a unique identity, personality, beliefs and perspective, shaped by their diverse background and experiences. It goes beyond borders, gender, sexuality, race, ethnicity, physicality as well as station.

Intolerance betrays want of faith in one’s cause.

- Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi

The Transgender Protection Act (2019) was an oxymoron in itself. The Act was a half-hearted attempt at making transgender lives more “secure” and drew heavy criticism from the Indian transgender community and the general public, due to its highly regressive nature. The day of its approval termed as the “Gender Justice Murder Day”, the Act was an embodiment of violation of the rights and privacy of the transgender community. The provisions suggesting at disturbing certification processes, leniency in punishment of perpetrators of sexual crimes against transgender people and suggestion of setting-up “rehabilitation centres”, just proved how intolerant, untrusting and afraid the country has become towards the “different”. Having to seek validation from the system to be recognised as transgender and constantly fighting to lead a normal, somewhat peaceful life, is just an insight into society’s blatant disrespect and disregard of these people’s faith and identity, a new norm for this country.

TRUTH, A BITTER PILL TO SWALLOW

The society has become weak, the people scared of the truth, so much so that a person’s truth is highly bothersome to many. People would much rather prefer living in the shadow of a lie than being confronted by the harsh glare of the truth. The society only wants a single narrative, the convenient one.

They are just angry that the truth you speak contradicts the lie they live.

- Anonymous

Recently, actress Vidya Balan addressed the brutal vilification of actress Rhea Chakraborty, the prime suspect in actor Shushant Singh Rajput’s alleged murder case, while asking people to let the law take its course. Balan immediately became the target of the public and the media, condemning her for supposedly “supporting” a “criminal”.

Welcome to the new world order, “Guilty until proven Innocent”.

- Anonymous

PATH TO SALVATION

It is akin to a crime, to not try and work towards an era of morality. In a world plagued with evil, Gandhi tried to bring forth the “human” in every individual. If Gandhi could do that in a time where such ambitions had little power, what is stopping us from fighting for the same? The resurrection of Gandhian ideology might just save this world from devolution, all we have to do is reach for it. We all have to face the judgement day, might as well do it with a cleaner soul.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

- Martin Luther King Jr.

-Rashi Agarwal

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