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earthlyyan · 3 years

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Little Trainee (Platonic(?)Yan! Childe x Reader)

For @bye-bye-sunbird (thanks again for your help) Warnings: Abuse, Graphic descriptions of violence, Implied Torture, Eye Trauma, Unhealthy Sibling relationships, Childe being a sadist, Kidnapping? If you squint? Imprisonment? Betrayal

Word Count: 3084

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He was gone.

Tartaglia held his younger brother’s fur-lined cap in his calloused hands, bringing it close to his chest. He’d taken off without it, wanting to be as far away from the killer that was his big brother so badly, he’d neglected to dress for the cold.

Despite his best efforts, Tartaglia had been unable to find him, and though tempted, he had refused to get the Fatui involved. It would further remind Teucer that his brother’s job was a terrifying one, too dark for the mind of a child to fully grasp. A child’s mind would never truly grasp why he had to kill, only that he had taken the life of another. And how that was an unforgivable sin.

He’d requested a day off work to prevent him from making any rash decisions on duty. He’d spent the day wandering aimlessly, desperately trying to gather his thoughts. He’d found himself in the familiar shambles of Dunyu Ruins. Perhaps he’d take out his frustrations on some ruin guards, or at least he’d considered it, until he saw you.

In and out and in and out.

Your sword found its way into the ruin guards eye again and again. It had been dead after the first thirteen stabs, but you didn’t care.

Your thrusts were becoming harder to maintain, your shallow breaths and sore arms halting your rage filled pursuit. Your legs straddled its large, heavy body, thick vines restrained its arms and legs.

It killed him. It killed your brother. The laser sliced his body while simultaneously cauterizing the wound, leaving him in two, unable to bleed. His face still frozen in that of agonizing pain.

It was going to kill you as well until a blinding green light appeared before you; a dendro vision.

You didn’t know how you did it, but now it was dead, and the gift of the archons laid on the ground before you. You hated it.

A gift of the gods, what a fucking joke.

You choked back the urge to vomit at the rancid scent before removing your sword from the gaping glass wound.

You kicked the hunk of metal as hard as you could before losing your balance and falling back onto the ground.

A man stood there; a couple years older than you. You’d fallen right at his feet.

He wordlessly helped you up off the ground before clearing his throat, as if to clear the air with it.

“You know, I’ve never seen someone receive a vision before.” His voice was light and airy. “I had been walking when it’s light blinded me. I regret not showing up sooner.”

You refused to look at the strange man, his words not registering. Your mind was too busy trying to process what had just happened.

“Hey,” His voice was louder, shaking you from your stunned stupor. He held out a handkerchief from his pocket. “You should probably get out of—”

“He’s dead.”

The man’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“That thing killed him. He’s dead.” Your words were empty. You contemplated if you should be feeling anything else other than thinly veiled anger and disgust. You should’ve been sadder. The only thing you had felt at the time of you mindlessly stabbing the guard was desperation for your own survival, and fear that it would get up again. You were revolted at the sight of the corpse before you, but you weren’t terribly torn up about the death in itself. And that disgusted you.

Anyone else would’ve been. Anyone would’ve been devastated if they had watched their own kin get cut in two. But no, you were more worried about what you’d tell your mother.

You walked over to the remains of your brother and poked it with your foot, your blatant disrespect for the dead caught the man off guard. Your gut did flips in your stomach at the gruesome sight.

“You don’t seem too upset about it.” He seemed to lack the same feeling of fear at the sight of a corpse. You didn’t quite know how to feel about that. “Though, you don’t seem like you’ve got the guts to orchestrate it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He laughed. “The way you kept stabbing the poor ruin guard made me think it was self-defense, and that the death was an accident. But the fact that you’re not devastated at his death made me wonder that you did it intentionally.”

“And if it was?” “Then I think I’d applaud your ambition.”

The man introduced himself as Childe, a member of the Snezhnayan organization called the Fatui. He claimed to be a warrior of sorts, and that he had gone to Dunyu Ruins to take out some frustrations he had one some ruin guards. He then had stumbled across you stabbing a lifeless robot corpse.

He had treated you to lunch in Liyue, saying that leaving you to stew in your thoughts after witnessing something of that caliber was ill-advised.

“What were you doing in Dunyu Ruins?”

“My brother wanted to do something there. He wouldn’t tell me what it was.” You mumbled.

“And the sword?”

“The sword I have with me was the one he was carrying, but when his torso disconnected from his legs, his scabbard landed close to me. So I thought I might as well use it.” You stirred your soup with your spoon, not having much of an appetite.

“So why did he have the sword?”

“Archons know.” You sighed. “If I’m being frank, I think he was going to kill me.”

Childe lowered his tigerfish from his mouth. A light laugh left his lips, startling you. “What makes you think that?”

“I was father’s favorite, though I am the younger of the two of us. So when he found out he had left the inheritance to me instead of his eldest son, he thought it unfair.” You reluctantly brought the spoon to your lips and swallowed. “We had never gotten along; I was like a punching bag than his younger sibling.”

“And I suppose that’s why you’re not crying and mourning the loss?” His voice was mocking.

“Well, would you?”

Childe hummed. “I’m not sure, family is family, but…” his voice lowered into an inaudible mumble, pondering.

He was silent for a moment. He took a few bites of his grilled tigerfish. His eyes wandered to the scabbard at your hip. “You don’t know how to fight.”

“What? Where did this come from?” He hadn’t even finished his thought from before.

“The way you were holding the sword as you used it to kill the ruin guard was way off. Had you kept going, you could’ve gotten hurt. If you had held it properly you could still be stabbing it now. If you didn’t get that vision when you did, it could’ve killed you with how poorly you were handling yourself.”

“That’s the whole point of getting bestowed a vision. Saving you when you’re on the brink of death or something like that.” You shoved your spoon in your mouth again.

“Yes, true.” He sighed and set down the now empty skewer. “But if you hadn’t gotten it you would’ve ended up like—” “Okay jeez I get it!” You grumbled around the metal in your mouth. “What are you getting at?”

“Luckily for you, I’m quite skilled at the sword.” His chest puffed in pride. “And it’s not like you’re going to go home with half a brother in tow, yes?”

“So you want to train me? What good does that do you?” “I’ve always wanted to train someone in a weapon.” He smiled, though there was a tinge of sadness in his voice. Like he was looking forward to it before the invitation presented itself. “And now, I can.”

You were on the ground again, some shallow, superficial cuts littered your body, Childe’s blade inches from your throat.

“You left yourself open again. I told you this weeks ago and yet you can’t get it.” A disappointed sigh escaped his lips as he pinged the bridge of his nose. “Hunch, keep your legs apart, again.”

Some part of you wondered if Childe got off on hearing your groans and hisses when he slashed you. Something about the way he bounced on his legs and the way his grin seemed more genuine had you worried.

You slowly got yourself off the ground, your bones and muscles creaking in protest as you readied your brother’s blade again.

“If you’re sore it means its working.” His laugh echoed as he lunged himself at you again, leaving you a moment notice to swerve out of the way. “If you weren’t sore before it means you were doing it wrong.” He dodged an oncoming attack from your sword and swept your legs, leaving you on the floor again. Yup, he was definitely getting off on this.

Three months under Childe’s tutelage toned your body significantly. He seemed to be more eager to fight you these days. Saying that you were finally getting fun to fight or something like that.

“Despite your form issues in the beginning, you’re practically a natural.” He beamed as he extended a hand to you. “Fighting you is actually fun these days, and less boring.”

“It was boring before?” You were borderline insulted.

“Fighting against you was boring. Seeing you grow and mature as a fighter was interesting.”

“Uh huh.” You wiped the sweat from your brow. “Sure.”

He’d been gracious enough to let you room at his house. And for someone of his age, it was quite impressive for him to have one of this stature. You had your own room across the hall from his. He only had two rules when staying with him.

One: The lower levels were off limits. No matter what. He said that it had to do with his work, and that it would be unprofessional of him to allow someone to interfere.

Two: Don’t ask about his work.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious about it. Sometimes he’d leave for days on end and come back beat up, other times you’d hear noises from the lower levels.

They sounded like screams.

You wondered what he’d have to do for a living to hear such noises from below. Sometimes he’d go down for hours and come up itching for a fight with you, other times he’d leave satisfied and covered in blood. You’d wondered if it was his own.

Something about it didn’t sit right with you, but a fight with Childe was not one you wanted to engage in. He’d know all your moves, considering he’d been the one to teach them to you. Whenever you’d try to bring it up, you’d be shut down with an uncharacteristic coldness from him. One that barely used, only when he was talking about his work, that is.

But tonight the screams were louder. They reached your room in the depths of the night, even with the door closed and pillows blocking your ears. You had to know.

You were sick of being left in the dark here, you were sick of hearing those screams from downstairs. You had to know.

Were you training under a serial killer? Childe didn’t seem like the type, or was he?

The strange amount of pleasure he’d get when watching you get hurt by his hand. The ruthless way he’d slaughter hillichurls and treasure hoarders alike. No matter who or what it was, its death was no different to Childe. It seemed to light him ablaze, having him itching for a fight with anything that moved, and when it stopped moving, he’d be disappointed.

The screams had died down after a few hours. You had to wait until you heard his boots go back upstairs and into the room across the hall.

You had to be more quiet if you were going to get in and out of there before he noticed you.

After these escapades he would take a shower, the running water would be enough to cover your footsteps going down the hall, truly.

A minute after the shower started running you made your move. It was easy to pick out what door led to the basement, due to the sheer amount of deadbolts and locks keeping it closed. He’d left the key in the door, probably to stop whoever was in the basement from looking through the keyhole. Smart move for him when it came to living alone, but with company, it was practically begging to be used.

And use it you did. Deadbolt after deadbolt, you finally turned the key.

The basement was warm and sweet smelling. But not in the pleasant way sweets were supposed to smell.

It made your stomach ache and twist as you descended the staircase, closing the door behind you.

The clinking of chains got your attention before the sight of blood had. The lights had flickered on, illuminating the sight before you. You couldn’t hold back your vomit anymore.

Your suspicions were right, or so it seemed, with the sheer amount of bodies below. One was still living, trembling, and hunching away from you. “Did Childe do this?” You knew the answer but had to be sure. Perhaps it was an associate he worked with, or some weird fetish.

The man nodded, “I didn’t have enough money.”

“What?”

“To pay back the Northland Bank.” He stammered. “I couldn’t pay them back, so they sent him.”

“He’s a debt collector?”

The man shook his head. “No. He doesn’t care about collecting the debt, not like the others.”

There were others?

“He gets sent in after the warning deadlines are up. You pay with your—”

The man abruptly stopped, looking past you and onto the stairwell. Then he couldn’t see at all.

An arrow flew past you, barely grazing your ear before finding itself in the mans eye socket. He slumped to the ground, lifeless. You whizzed around to meet the source, only to find Childe, an arrow drawn taught in the bow you’d barely see leave his side.

“Well that’s disappointing.” He sighed. “I was hoping to make him last another day.” He grimaced. “That was a warning shot, by the way.” He walked down the stairs slowly, still aiming at you. “Put your back to the wall.”

He almost sounded sad. You were too shocked to move.

An arrow landed at your feet, standing straight up against the ground. “I said put your back to the wall. That wasn’t a suggestion.”

You tripped over the man’s corpse while making it to the wall. “Childe I—” “Nope, too late for that. Hands up.” He slowly lowered his weapon and made a show of putting it away. He wanted you to know he still had it. He leaned in close to your face. “Now that’s a look I haven’t seen in quite some time.” His voice was low, husky. “Betrayal looks so good on you.”

You could feel his hot breath on your neck. You growled and threw your head forward, colliding with his. He took a step back.

Blood ran down from his forehead, his eyes practically glowing with excitement. “Oh hoh~ Now that’s what I’m talking about. A real fight from you.” He drew hydro blades from his sides and threw one at you. “I’m expecting improvement from you, my little trainee.”

You picked up the cool blade from your feet, never breaking eye-contact with him. “I’ll kill you.”

“You better hope you do. For your sake, at least.” You lunged at him, swiftly finding your way behind him, ready to strike.

“Your stance has gotten better.” He smiled. “But I’m afraid it still leaves you open” He kicked off from the ground and into the air, his foot collided with your chin sending you reeling.

“You bastard.” You hissed, picking yourself off from the ground with the steadiness of a newborn deer. “Why not be more quiet about your escapades down here? If you’d had your victims quiet down, I would’ve never found about what you were doing.”

“I never said I never wanted you to find out what I was doing.” He ran at you again, slicing your shirt and your left shoulder along with it. “I was hoping you’d have enough faith in your teacher to follow my rules.” He sighed. “I didn’t take you for the curious type.”

“I’m not.” You said, you swept at his leg, but he narrowly escaped, jumping just high enough to miss it. “But I enjoy liking to sleep in peace knowing my upperclassmen isn’t a serial killer.”

“I’m no serial killer!” He laughed, landing a cut to your lower back, then stepping hard on it. You fell to the ground trapped under his heel. “I’m simply following orders. I have nothing against these people.” He pressed harder.

You suppressed a scream.

“I do have a problem with those who interfere. You were going to help him, weren’t you?”

You’d be lying if you said you were going to leave him to die.

“Weren’t you?” His voice was closer to your ear this go round.

“Yes! Yes, I was!” You sobbed. “I just wanted to—”

“I’ve heard this before. Suddenly you have the moral upright to save a dying stranger? But you sat back and kicked your brother’s corpse?”

“That was different!” “Sure it was. A man is a man is a man, yeah?” His foot lifted from your back and turned you onto your stomach. “See the difference between me and a serial killer, is that if I was a serial killer, I probably would kill you right now.” He sighed. “But see, I like you. So I think I’ll let you live. Though don’t expect things to go back to normal. I can’t expect you to stay quiet and continue your training in the open alongside me.” He leaned you up against the wall, easily fighting against your protests. He took your wrists and cuffed them to the wall.

The restraints were still warm.

You shuddered.

“See, here’s the thing.” He said. He cupped your cheek with his spare hand. “I don’t want to leave you the way you are, half trained. I do enjoy fighting you.” He finished tying you upright and smiled, admiring his handiwork. “I’ll let you go under one condition.”

For the first time since you’d met him, his smile finally reached his eyes.

“You’re free if you can kill me.”

#yandere writing #genshin #yandere genshin impact #yandere childe #yandere genshin x reader #reader insert #childe x reader #genshin tartagalia #tw: violence #tw: injury #tw: graphic depictions of violence

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thefatedthoughtofyou · 4 years

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Another possible chubby Az prompt for you my dear 😊 Crowley sees him in a form-fitting robe for the first time, all white and curve-hugging and pretty. In the sun it’s almost translucent, and every plump part of Az is on display. He looks like a painting come to life. Crowley genuinely has a nosebleed over it. Like, a real one. It’s really embarrassing. He needs a tissue. Maybe he snakes out a bit, gets scaly and can’t say his S’s right for a while lol

( Thank you so much nonny!!!! i loved both the prompts you sent!!!! so much!!! this one ended up shorter than i intended but i am so very tired! it turned out super cute though i think so it’s still a win!!! thanks again i hope you enjoy it!!! )

Ao3

The Garden In Between

It had been… days. Since the ark. Maybe weeks… Possibly months. Crowley squinted up at the sun, looked at the smooth stone buildings around him, let his fingers drift over the cool surface. It may have been years. But not many years. Not enough years for the buildings around him to look like ruins. So not many years at all. He wandered through the streets, moving nimbly around some giggling children as they ran past, chasing each other, smiles on their faces. Crowley smiled as he watched then stumble around the nearest corner. And then he smelled it.

An Angel.

He sniffed, his tongue running along his lip to get a better scent. He closed his eyes and focused. He’d been thinking about the Angel just yesterday. He’d seen some children eating something that looked sickeningly sweet and he knew, the Angel would love it. He sniffed again, deeply, and opened his eyes. It was his Angel alright. Now he just needed to find him.

He checked the market first, eyes moving over the food stalls quickly. He didn’t have to focus hard, Aziraphale was easy to spot. He nearly always stuck out like a sore thumb. Crowley supposed he must stick out as well, he only ever used the bare minimum of his magics to hide himself. And these days it was really just his eyes he needed to hide. People tended not to notice, or if they noticed, they didn’t say much. Either way, he couldn’t be bothered with that now, there were more pressing matters at hand. Matters like where an Angel might go in the city. An Angel who loved food and wasn’t anywhere near the food.

The garden.

The words had barely crossed Crowley’s mind before his feet were carrying him away. Down two side streets, three alleys, and a short cut through a rather grim looking building. He reached the garden gates and peeked inside. The garden was enormous, and beautiful, full of flowers and trees and life. He couldn’t see the Angel, but he could feel him. He stepped inside, wiggling his toes in the soft grass beneath his feet, as he walked.

He moved slowly, his fingers dragging over tree bark, and thick leaves, a gentle smile on his lips as sweet smells rushed through his nose. The sun shone through the trees at their thickest, shining rays of light illuminating the greenery beneath them. Crowley’s chest felt lighter and lighter the deeper into the garden he walked.

He could hear a stream now, the water gurgling in a far-off whisper. He followed the soft sounds, eventually meeting with the small path of water. He dipped his toe in, shivering at the chill. He followed the stream, this garden reminding him so much of the last one he’d been in. The day he’d met the Angel. He squinted into the sunlight passing through the trees, he could see something now. Something bright. He thought it might be sunlight reflecting off of water. He stepped through the trees, onto the banks of a small lake. And it was there that he found his Angel.

Crowley gasped, a strangled sort of sound, at the sight of the Angel. He was standing on a dark flat rock that reached out into the lake, the water just covering his ankles. But it wasn’t the rock that had Crowley gasping, nor was it the water lapping at the Angel’s pale skin. No. It was the sunlight. And the way it shone just behind the Angel, lighting him up. Crowley could see everything. Every curve, every dimple and roll. He tried to swallow, his throat closing around a strange clicking noise. The Angel turned then, toward the sound, and oh, this was so much worse.

The light was hitting him from behind now, his hips now outlined a beautiful shadow against his robes. Crowley could see him smiling, smiling at him, as he walked closer. His brain began to boil, his knees shaking and bumping together as the Angel moved closer.

“Crowley? Is that you?” his voice sounded far away, but he could hear in that voice that Aziraphale knew it was him, of course it was him, who else would it be? Crowley tried to answer, tried speak, to say anything, anything at all. His hands were shaking now as his eyes fell to the Angel’s thighs, the light behind him illuminating the way they moved when he walked, so perfect, so soft. Crowley longed to touch them, to feel them move that way beneath his palms. To know what it felt like to sink his fingers into the meat of the Angel’s thighs, and hear what heavenly noises he might make.

“Crowley?” there’s concern in that voice now. And Crowley knows his eyes have changed, he can feel them. And he can feel other things as well, scales. Along his arms, and his neck, and maybe a few along his face, he can feel them, pressing up out of his skin the closer the Angel gets to him. And then he’s there, right in front of him, looking like Heaven and making Crowley burn.

“Dear me, you’re bleeding.” His voice is much higher now. And it’s now that Crowley’s throat begins to work, how well it’s working remains to be seen.

“Ngk.” Is all that come out. And then the Angel’s fingers wrap around his wrist gently. He leads him to the water and makes him sit. He miracles a cloth and begins wiping at Crowley’s face, just under his nose. His nose was bleeding. How embarrassing. He blinks, slowly, his brain so very fuzzy. The Angel being so close not helping that. He shakes his head and comes back to himself, a little. He swats at Aziraphale weakly, trying to push his tending hands away.

“Now please. Let me help you. What happened to you?” the Angel sounds almost mad now. And it clicks, after a second, that he thinks someone has done this to Crowley. He nearly chokes on the irony. He moves his hand to Aziraphale’s wrist. Halting his ministrations.

“Sss’okay Angel, it jussst happens ssssometimes.” He takes the cloth from the Angel slowly, and he lets him, but only just. He doesn’t move away but he let’s Crowley tend to himself. He wipes at his face until the rag comes away clean.

“What on earth happened? I haven’t seen you this… snake like, since… well, since the beginning.” He says, sitting a little straighter and looking out over the water.

“Right. Yeah. It’ssss gardensss.” He says, internally flinching at the drawn out S’s, his tongue was in shambles in mouth, he could feel it, forked, flicking over his teeth restlessly. The flinch may also have been due to the completely, and badly, made up excuse, but Crowley was going to aim it at the tongue situation and not think about it any further.

“Gardens?” the Angel asks, looking at him, brows furrowed. Crowley swallows.

“Yeah, gardens… they…” he has no idea where he was going with this.

“Bring back memories?” the Angle supplied.

Sure. Let’s go with that. Crowley nods, not trusting his mouth.

“Oh course. I’m so sorry, I didn’t think. I didn’t realize.” He said, sounding so very sincere.

“Ssss’nothing.” Crowley said, waving his worries away.

“Your scales seem to be fading.” He says, an offering, an attempt to make him feel better. Of course they were fading. Crowley was all but forcing them out, he hadn’t looked at the Angel since they’d sat down. He was so close now. It wasn’t safe to look directly at him this close up. Crowley was genuinely afraid he may just turn fully back into a snake. He glanced toward the Angel, he could see his robes bunched and resting on the soft curves of his thighs, his round stomach nestled perfectly above them.

“Oh, there they go again.” Aziraphale sighed. Crowley looked away again, feeling scales pressing forward, across his cheeks and down his neck, and thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be a snake right now. He could just… slither away.

“Are you certain you’re alright?” the Angel sounded worried now. Crowley did his best to meet his eyes.

“Sss’fine. Nothing to worry about.” he shook his head, not sure if he was shaking it to go with his words, or if he was trying to shake his tongue into submission. He was sure it didn’t matter. Aziraphale was still giving him that look.

“It’ll fade Angel. I’m fine.” The look in the Angels’ eyes didn’t fade.

“Thank you.” Crowley said, and watched the worry dissipate as the Angel looked away, finally.

“Well if you insist you’re fine I suppose I’m inclined to believe you.” The Angel said, his body moving in one of its little wiggles as he sat up straighter, Crowley felt scales run down his back like a chill in the night.

“I do.” Crowley looked away, his eyes falling back to his lap.

“You do what?” The Angel asked, not looking away from whatever his eyes had seen across the water.

“I inssissssss- oh really?!” Crowley growled, catching the Angel looking at him from the corner of his eyes. Crowley glared and the Angel laughed. He laughed. He tossed his head back, and laughed. Crowley sat there, scales breaking out across his skin like the plague, tongue twisting and turning in his mouth, begging to be free, eyes, locked on the Angel. The light was still shining on him, the sun had fallen a bit as they’d been sitting, turning a wonderful soft golden color, bathing Aziraphale in a warm glow. Crowley’s eyes tracked the way his hands fell to his stomach as he laughed, and watched the beautiful curve of it shake with laughter.

He watched the way his legs pulled up a bit, as he rocked backwards, and begged whoever might be listing these days to let him touch, just once, some day. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not for hundreds of years. Maybe not thousands. But someday.

He sat, and he watched the Angel laugh, and told himself that this was enough. For now. If this was all he could have of the Angel, just moments like this, just the two of them.

It was enough.

#good omens #good omens fic #good omens ficlet #ficlet #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #chubby aziraphale #my writing #prompt #request #prompt fill #requests #anon #Anonymous

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whereistheonepiece · 4 years

Text

Here With You

Quick Summary: Sanji has nightmares, but the good thing is he has Zoro with him.

Note: I am very into the idea that Sanji and Zoro present different sides of themselves to each other in private than the sides they present in public/to most people.

I. Sanji

Sanji’s eyes shot open as he awoke with a start. He didn’t recognize his surroundings as his eyes adjusted to the dark, so he sat up and looked around wildly until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He whipped his head around in the direction that the hand had come from and started to relax when he saw Zoro lying down next to him, staring up at him solemnly.

Sanji took a moment to breathe out and look at the surrounding area again, now that higher brain function was slowly churning back to life in his head. That’s right, he was with Zoro in Sunny’s kitchen. Zoro had wanted some privacy with him and neither of them had the watch shift, so they’d taken the futon they kept in the crow’s nest and brought it down into the kitchen.

And Sanji had had another nightmare.

He chuckled softly, bringing his palm to his forehead. “Sorry,” he mumbled, staring down at the blankets pooled in his lap. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Zoro sat up next to him. “Don’t need to be sorry, Cook,” he said. “I can’t sleep if I know you can’t.”

Sanji pushed his knees up, wrapping one arm around his legs and laying his forehead in the palm of the other. “And that makes me feel bad,” he said, staring into his lap pensively.

Zoro pressed a kiss onto Sanji’s shoulder. “And why’s that?”

“Because you don’t get enough sleep at night,” Sanji replied, closing his eyes and sighing as Zoro began rubbing his back soothingly. “And I don’t want to be a part of the reason.”

“Cook,” Zoro said, “I don’t sleep much at night. That’s just how it’s always been. You don’t have to...ah...lose sleep over it.”

Sanji heard Zoro chuckle at his own joke. He smiled wryly as he dragged his hand down his face. He chuckled, wrapping his other arm around his legs, drawing his knees in closer to his chest. “You’re a real dork sometimes, you know that?”

Zoro wrapped an arm around Sanji’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “You love it,” he said smugly.

“Or maybe I just love you,” Sanji said softly, turning his head and looking at Zoro, staring at him in the dark. “And I tolerate some of the other things.”

“Mmmm, I think you love both.”

Sanji tried to smile for Zoro, but the beast of what haunted his sleep shambled past him, its shadow falling over him, and he felt hollow and chilled to the bone. Zoro’s smile dropped. Sanji’s smile dropped and so did his gaze as cold cells, iron masks, and a father’s calculated cruelty returned to him in full force, pulling him away from the security of Sunny and the warmth and safety of Zoro’s presence.

“Cook.”

Sanji closed his eyes and dropped his forehead onto his knees.

“Sanji.”

A hand on the back of his head, gently caressing.

“Sanji. Sanji, look at me. Please.”

Zoro did not ever say “please.” It was enough to catch his attention, but just barely. Sanji slowly lifted himself up, looking at Zoro, feeling like he was miles away.

Zoro stared at him, his gaze intense, the humor gone from his energy. “Come here,” he said, voice so quiet that he was practically whispering.

“But I already am here.”

“Come closer.”

Sanji felt himself nodding, pushing the sheets off the both of them so he could more easily settle down into Zoro’s lap. He sat facing Zoro, wrapping his arms and legs around him, resting his head on Zoro’s shoulder. Zoro put his arms around Sanji, pressing his face into his skin and inhaling deeply.

Sanji’s eyes slipped closed and he sighed quietly, trying to ground himself to the present moment, focusing on the feeling of Zoro’s chest pressed against his and his strong arms holding him close.

Safe.

That was what he was.

He was safe with Zoro.

Zoro didn’t say a word. He didn’t prod Sanji to explain what weighed him down, didn’t even ask him if he wanted to talk about it. Zoro knew him enough to know that Sanji would tell him when–if–he was able and ready. Zoro knew him enough to know that sometimes all Sanji wanted was to be held close because that was all that he could handle without falling apart. Sometimes Sanji told Zoro and sometimes he didn’t. And Zoro made him feel like that was okay.

Sanji held him closer and Zoro responded in kind. The only sounds in the kitchen were the clock on the wall and Sanji’s and Zoro’s breathing, which Sanji slowly realized was synched. He breathed in and out slowly like Zoro and wondered if his body was taking cues from Zoro’s, because Sanji had trouble willfully calming himself down even in the best of times.

A sad smile curled Sanji’s lips. God help him, but he loved this man.

Sanji began to hum a slow melody from his childhood.

Zoro slowly caressed his back. “What's that song?” he asked softly. “Haven’t heard it before.”

“Oh,” Sanji said, opening his eyes and staring at the opposite wall. “It’s just this song Zeff likes to play some nights, when he’s locked himself in his office.”

“Yeah?” Zoro said. “It sounds nice.”

Sanji chuckled softly. “It’s actually super depressing if you know the lyrics. I had to ask another cook to translate them for me because they're in another language and Zeff refused to tell me what the song was about.”

“Shit. I guess you just have a nice singing voice.”

Sanji nuzzled Zoro’s neck. “You’ve never even heard me sing.”

“No,” Zoro agreed. “But it seems like you can carry a tune.”

“Maybe,” he said. “The song sounds nice, if you don’t know that it’s about this guy who had to leave his love behind and who ends up killing himself after a life of failure and disappointment. I think that’s why Zeff refused to tell me what it was about; didn’t want to tell a kid all that.”

“Shit, Cook. And you’re humming this?”

“It’s...comforting,” Sanji said, trying to find a way to explain it to Zoro. “I guess because it’s something that’s Zeff’s.”

Zoro made a sound acknowledging him. “Then keep going.”

“You sure?” Sanji said, feeling self-conscious. It had been impulse that had made him start humming, but now that Zoro wanted to hear more, he wasn’t so sure.

“It makes you feel better, doesn’t it?” Zoro asked.

Sanji hesitated for a few more moments before closing his eyes again and continuing. He started gently tapping his fingers against Zoro’s back, recreating the melody of the song as best he could. It had been a few years since he’d last heard it, but Sanji couldn’t ever forget the song that kept Zeff company on dark, empty nights.

Zeff would put the record on when he got that far-off look in his eyes, when a long day had him drooping, from his stupid had to his shoulders. He’d pour himself a stiff drink and sink into his enormous leather chair that had seemed as large as a mountain to Sanji when he was a young boy, and he’d play that song and stare out the window across the sea to lands and perhaps even times unknown.

Zeff couldn’t be reached when he got like this–he seemed to retreat into himself and wouldn’t come out for hours, alone in his memories and who else knew what else that weighed him down. One time Sanji had tried to join him, to offer some comfort to the man who normally seemed so untouchable, but Zeff had shooed him out of the office and had started locking the door when he got like this.

Sanji hadn’t understood when he was younger–all he’d known was that Zeff was different when that song came on, and it had shaken him at first. But now he was older and when he saw some of his crewmates–Usopp mostly, sometimes Robin, very rarely Franky or Nami–get that same far-off look in their eye and they started to wilt like flowers in the sweltering sun, Sanji did what he could to try to ease that burden. Usually it was through cups of tea or their favorite dishes, sometimes it was a bad joke, and sometimes it was as simple as sitting down with them, depending on the person. He hoped that one day he’d know what to do to help Zeff, just like Zoro always seemed to know what to do to make Sanji feel better.

II. Zoro

Zoro closed his eye, listening to Sanji humming softly near his ear. He didn’t understand what it was about some depressing song that his adoptive father liked that was so comforting to the cook, but if it made Sanji feel better, then who was he to question that? So Zoro listened and held Sanji close. It was all he could think to do in moments like this. He could also lay Sanji down on his back and try to kiss it away, give him a proper distraction because sometimes the cook needed help getting out of his own head, but if Sanji wasn’t asking, then Zoro would give him the emotional space while providing him with the physical closeness he so desperately needed sometimes. That usually seemed to do the trick.

The humming abruptly stopped. “Hey.”

Zoro opened his eye. “Yeah?”

Sanji shifted his weight. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Of what, Cook?” he asked, petting Sanji’s hair again.

“Of–of this...” Sanji mumbled.

“What are you talking about?” Zoro asked, genuinely confused by Sanji’s question and unsure of where he was going with it.

Sanji paused. “I mean, don’t you ever getting tired of having to comfort me when I have bad dreams like this?”

“Why would I ever get tired of that?” Zoro asked, sitting up straighter. Sanji stayed slumped over him.

“I just...” Sanji continued. “I just worry...”

“Worry about what?”

Sanji said nothing.

“That I’ll get tired of you?” Zoro asked, staring at Sanji closely.

Sanji flinched in Zoro’s arms, but remained silent.

Zoro sighed. “Cook, do you get tired of making our meals?” he asked, trying to put this in a way that someone like Sanji could most easily understand.

Sanji finally lifted his head and sat up, looking at Zoro strangely. “Of course not,” he said, sounding as if the very idea of it was inconceivable.

“Does it feel like a burden to you?” Zoro continued. “Waking up early every day so we have breakfast on time? Never taking a day off? Feeding a crew that eats as much as we do?”

Sanji’s brow furrowed. “Of course I don’t think it’s a burden. I-I enjoy–” He stopped when he saw Zoro staring at him dully, waiting for him to connect the dots. He looked down in embarrassment. “Oh...”

“See how dumb you sound?” Zoro asked, the affection in his voice offsetting the harshness of his words.

Sanji chuckled nervously. “I guess when you put it like that, I do.”

Zoro ran his hand along the side of Sanji’s face that was covered in hair, smoothing the blond locks. “We’re a team, Cook,” he said. “You take care of us, so let us–and let me–take care of you.”

“I don’t think I know how to do that,” Sanji murmured. He sighed and got out of Zoro’s lap, settling back under the covers.

Zoro followed suit, pulling the blanket over their heads, cocooning them from the rest of the world. He reached for Sanji’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “That’s okay,” Zoro said. He kissed the skin on the back of Sanji’s fingers. “You just need practice.”

Sanji gently shook his head, a small grin breaking out on his face. “Like training?”

“Yeah,” Zoro said. He didn’t know if it would help Sanji to picture working on accepting help as training, but everything someone worked on was basically training, anyway, and people like Zoro and Sanji were always working on being better. He hoped it helped. “Yeah, just like training.”

Sanji nodded. “I’ll try,” he said. Sanji exhaled, closing his eyes. “Will you hold me until I fall back asleep?”

“You know I will.”

Sanji nodded again, letting go of Zoro’s hand as he turned onto his other side, back facing him.

Zoro grabbed hold of Sanji and pulled him closer until they were nestled close under the blankets. They fit so perfectly together. Zoro buried his nose in Sanji’s hair, inhaling the scent of the cook’s favorite shampoo. Zoro lay there, holding Sanji to him, listening to his breathing as it slowly deepened as sleep finally reclaimed the cook. Zoro closed his eyes as he allowed himself to start to fall back asleep, knowing that he would wake up as soon as he sensed that Sanji needed him, and that he would do so gladly.

#zosan #zosan fanfic #fanfic #zoro #sanji

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littlemisssquiggles · 4 years

Note

Hello! Long time no see! I read your Cinder the Red Queen theory, and it's really cool! Cinder is one of my favorite characters (even if I don't watch RWBY anymore) and it would be really awesome to see Cinder play a really big role, besides "revenge on Ruby". Although, I am personally more of a Cinder Redemption Arc fan. So, hypothetically, if Cinder were to get one such redemption arc, how do you think it would play out?

Hiya Yellow! Yeah it has been a while. Sorry I took so long to get back to you. Slowly working through my backlog of posts inside my inbox. Anyways, how have you been fam? And in the literal immortal words of one Oscar Pine, wait…WHAT! When did you stop watching RWBY? ! D8

What happened? If you don’t mind me asking, how come you’re not watching anymore? Is it because you just fell out of love with the series as a whole after being disappointed with its current direction or did all the discourse surrounding the show (and by extension RT as well) drive you to stop?

Sad to hear you’re no longer in the FNDM man. But on a different note, allow me to say thank you! Knowing that you’re a Cinder fan, I’m happy to hear that you liked my Red Queen headcanon for her. Much appreciated.

And yes, I do remember you being an advocate for Cinder’s redemption as well. In response to writing a Cinder redemption arc, I’m gonna be frank.

Given the way the canon has portrayed Cinder’s character, both in previous seasons and currently, redemption is still the last thing I can envision for your favourite Fall Maiden m’dude. I’ve never seen Cinder getting redeemed as a possibility since to me, the show hasn’t shown enough evidence of her being empathetic to anyone else other than herself to make me believe there’s a chance for her to change for the greater good.

The only way I can picture Cinder going is either she is given the Adam Taurus treatment---unceremoniously killed off despite the series keeping her relevant to the story for so long or…Cinder survives long enough to rise up and see herself becoming the all-powerful entity she desires to be---ultimately walking out of Salem’s shadow to overthrow her and replace her as the Red Queen and succeeding within a short time what Salem has failed to do for centuries---thrusting Remnant into utter anarchy in the form of a second Great War sparked by one of the kingdoms (possibly Mistral) declaring war against the remaining three kingdoms hoping to conquer them all after learning that the great Atlas Kingdom has fallen along with the former Mantle.

One kingdom to rule them all and this was all done through Cinder puppeteering her pawns in the Mistral Council through her newly awakened abilities after finally succumbing to the Geist Grimm and becoming something more than human--- a Grimm with a soul and a conscience. A Grimm-human hybrid or Grimmoire as I’d like to say.

Instead of being redeemed, I more favour the idea Cinder becoming a bigger threat to Remnant than Salem who I peg would be defeated, purified of her darkness (courtesy of Ruby’s silver eyes) and stripped of any magic that she had, courtesy of Cinder betraying her.

Cinder’s whole “…Without you, I am nothing” statement from the trailer is just giving me huge red flags for her to eventually realize that she can probably do better than Salem without her holding her back. The student does eventually become the master, right? So why not expect Cinder to replace Salem as the main big antagonist of RWBY with her reign being the true threat of Remnant in a time of war?

I really, really like the idea of the main conflict of RWBY not being the war with Salem but the rise of Cinder Fall and the second Great War of Remnant. I think such a plotline would be cool especially looking back on the fact that Oz had told General Ironwood that he prayed that his students---the children whose futures and development were entrusted to him---would never have to face the pains and strife of war like his predecessor: King Phadrig of Vale, once did long ago.

It would actually be very compelling to watch our heroes attempting to survive a dire time when the world was divided with two of its founding kingdoms in shambles while one tried to conquer them all (Mistral) and another daring to defend them all (Vacuo). The first Great War lasted ten years. Imagine if…it were the same for the second with time fast-forwarding to another period ten years later when all of our young heroes were now grown adults. No longer naïve children enamoured by the huntsmen lifestyle but seasoned warriors doing what they could to help the people in a dark world where war raged, humanity pleaded for their salivation and the Grimm feasted.

That could’ve been nice. But…I’m getting ahead of myself here. I’m not sure if anything like that will actually happen in the show. Still it’s good to share the idea around.

Going back to Cinder, like I said---right now I can’t see a redemption arc for Cinder.

As I said, the core reason why I’ve never been for Cinder being a redeemable character is due to the fact that up until this point, the series has done very little to establish her having any positive qualities. Cinder has sadly been selfish through and through making it very clear multiple occasions that she’s only out for herself. For me to have pictured Cinder to be a redeemable character, the series would’ve need to introduce a sort of “buffer character”---for lack of a better term. Basically when I say a buffer character, I mean in terms of a character who could’ve acted as a sort of foil to Cinder---seeing through her power-hungry nature and faults and thus revealing to the audience a much more relatable, sympathetic and emotionally vulnerable side to her through her relationship with said buffer.

The best example of this type of dynamic for me in an animated media is the relationship between Prince Zuko and his Uncle Iroh from Avatar the Last Airbender. In that series, Iroh was Zuko’s buffer character---the one person who saw through Zuko’s acts of aggression and appealed to the side of him that was just a insecure young man lacking any real support in his life and wanting nothing more than to do his best to appease an abusive father just so that he can feel a sense of belonging in the world.

It was through his bond with his uncle that I, as a viewer, was able to believe in Zuko’s redemption arc since it was only with Iroh did we see a more open side to Zuko---the side that reminded us that outside of his status as Prince of the Fire Nation leading the charge to capture the Avatar---outside of that, Zuko was only a boy in need of guidance. Guidance that Iroh attempted to provide him on multiple occasions.

Going back to Cinder, this is what I would have needed to make her redeemable. Give her a character who is the only one to see her more vulnerable side. Using what we know about the series, I’d say Emerald Sustrai could’ve easily been Cinder’s buffer. In the show, RWBY already established Cinder as a sort of motherly/sister figure based on Emerald’s perception of her.

Through Emerald, the show could’ve used her close ties with Cinder to show a side to her that we often don’t see. A side that actually cares for Emerald or at least better fools Emerald (and by extension us as the audience) into thinking that she cares. Ironically enough, the show could’ve had Cinder mirror Salem in this regard.

The reason why I’m more of an advocate for Salem’s redemption over Cinder is because UNLIKE Cinder, the show has given me moments of Salem being genuinely kind and caring to others. We saw this with the way she loved Ozma and would’ve done anything to get him back before her self-interest and hatred toward the Brother Gods consumed her.

We saw this in the Lost Fable and to some degree, even though she is another pawn to her, I’d like to think that the way Salem treats Cinder is akin to a mother. My issue with Salem isn’t that she is incapable of caring about others, it’s that no matter what, she will never put them before herself. It will always be her first and others second. At least that’s what I interpreted and it for this reason while her curse will remain.

However at least the show has shown examples of Salem showing compassion towards other. This is something I have yet to see from Cinder Fall. To me, Cinder is lacking that side of her.

Salem is selfish but as strange as this for me to say, I don’t think she’s entirely heartless. It’s kind of complicated when it comes to Salem but this just adds onto why I find her character fascinating. This is what makes the difference for me between her and Cinder and separates the two.

Salem is selfish but is capable of empathy and a surprising amount of mercy in unexpected moments (like in the way she treats Cinder for example. Salem could’ve easily offed Cinder for her failures like how she ended Lionheart but instead she left her be. And judging from the V8 trailer, even as Cinder came grovelling back to her, Salem still seemed to mostly react to Cinder’s return with an air of a strict parent who isn’t angry at their child but more disappointed. And oddly enough she did the same thing with Tyrian back in V4)

Cinder, on the other hand, shares in Salem’s self-centred nature but lacks any kind of compassion. Cinder is heartless.

Sorry Yellow, picturing a redemption arc for Cinder Fall is tough for me, even hypothetically speaking. I mean, if the show had done something with Cinder akin to Zuko---having her gain the power and status she’s always wanted only to have it result in her losing the only good relationship she had in Emerald thus leading to her falling from grace again after realizing her mistakes---then I could see it.

Or…perhaps the show could’ve pulled an Azula type of redemption for Cinder. Have her gain the power she desired at the cost of her own humanity and she loses herself in the process, becoming a monster and realizing her mistakes too late. And in the end, despite everything she’s been through and in spite of all that she put her through, the only person to appear before Cinder in her time of death after falling from her mistakes is Emerald.

I like the irony of Emerald cradling a dying Cinder Fall, choosing even then not to hate her and remain with her until her last dying breathe as her way of finally paying her back for saving her from her former life of poverty; giving her a new sense purpose in life outside of being a street rat.

That could’ve worked, at least me. But again, this is only if the show had further developed Emerald and Cinder’s bond. I genuinely wished the show had explored more of Cinder’s ties to Emerald. This is why I wanted Emerald to be Cinder’s accomplice for Atlas instead of Neopolitan. We could’ve watched Emerald’s character grow further through her separating herself from Salem’s legion and devoting herself entirely to Cinder. We could’ve watched Cinder even entice Emerald with the prospect of her ruling beside Cinder in the new world she would’ve aided her to build for Salem.

At the end of the day, as Emerald implied back in V5, she doesn’t care that much for Salem. The only person of interest to Emerald Sustrai is Cinder so this makes me curious to see what their reunion would be like for V8. I highly doubt Salem just ups and left Emerald, Mercury and Hazel back in the Dark Domain. Unless they were sent off to Vacuo to retrieve the Sword of Destruction, they’re bound to be there with Salem inside of Grimm Monstro so I’m looking forward to seeing the look on Emerald’s face when she realizes to her dismay that in her absence, she had been replaced with Neo.

It would be interesting watching how Emerald deals with this development in addition to seeing where her story goes from here now that her beloved Cinder Fall is back with her but not really with HER, y’know what I’m saying? Perhaps this could lead to Emerald going out of her way to get back onto Cinder’s good side mirroring Cinder attempting to return to Salem’s.

“…Without you, I am NOTHING!” “…I don’t care about Salem but I owe Cinder for EVERYTHING!”

It’ll be a game of watching apprentices regain the faith of their masters as Emerald is Cinder’s apprentice while Cinder is Salem’s. This should be a fun development to observe for next season

…Sorry if I haven’t exactly answered your question Yellow. Truth be told, I don’t have much ideas for how Cinder could be redeemed. However I do stand by my points about Emerald being used to show a different side to Cinder. It’s a shame this wasn’t done much in the canon. But who knows? Maybe something might be done to change that for V8.

~LittleMissSquiggles (2020)

#squiggles anwers: rwby #cinder fall #emerald sustrai #rwby salem #rwby theories #rwby volume 8 theories #yellow-eyed-green-crocodile #squiggles answers

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sa-gt-tarrius · 5 years

Text

The Violet Forest [Secret Santa gift]

Warnings: Sympathetic Remus, characters being SO RUDE to each other, lots of arguing

Alchemy can’t solve everything, but maybe friendship can. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Logan certainly thinks so.

@oxylillikay I’m sorry about the wait! I didn’t mean for this to take so long, but I got carried away again SOBBB ;v;

Oh oh and I gotta tag @secret-sanders-sized. Whoopsie doopsie

***

The Kingdom of Sanders Isle was known for a variety of things. It was known for its stunning landscapes, remarkable architecture, and lively culture. But most importantly, the kingdom was known for its kind and wise monarch, Prince Roman. The people of Sanders Isle were prosperous under his rule—no kingdom anywhere in the world could compare.

However, the kingdom was also home to the infamous Violet Forest. It’s been said that the creatures lurking in this forest were harbingers of evil, using dark magic to achieve their wicked ends. People warned their children far and wide not to venture too far into the wood, lest they vanish without a trace.

The kingdom had good reason to be afraid of the Violet Forest, especially after what happened to their prince.

Anyone in the Sanders kingdom could tell you what happened on the fifth of March, one year ago. The prince ventured into the Violet Forest to search for a missing child. But many days passed and the prince never came home. Weeks after his disappearance, everyone was convinced that Roman was gone for good. Some were calling for his brother Remus to take over the throne. Others were ready to move. The whole kingdom was in a state of hysteria.

But then, as quickly as he disappeared, Roman returned. The missing child was at his side, unharmed.

They deemed Roman a hero for braving the magic woods for the sake of a peasant child. But the prince never spoke of his mysterious disappearance. Questions about what awful creatures he encountered and why he was keeping the details a secret plagued every meeting and interview. But no one got any answers out of him. The child insisted that he fought a dragon, but Roman didn’t address the claim at all.

Eventually, the people stopped asking questions. Life resumed, the subjects fell into an eerie state of normalcy, and Prince Roman continued to rule as before. Only now, Roman had become much more withdrawn, never stepping foot outside his castle. He barely spoke or slept, leaving his staff concerned and his eyes droopy.

It was under these circumstances that Logan Cerebrus was summoned to the palace.

Logan was known far and wide as a skilled alchemist of the strangest calibre. Although the ability to perform magic was genetically determined, alchemy in of itself was a skill that anyone could learn. However, without the aid of inborn magic, alchemy is exceedingly difficult to learn, let alone master. Logan was the first (and so far, only) non-magical being to master the art of alchemy. He’d even taught himself to top it all off. Logan was gifted—no one would deny that.

As for why Logan was called to the castle, he had no clue. He’d received a letter in the mail from Prince Remus, Duke of Schwarz, requesting a private meeting in the castle. The guards by the drawbridge were shocked to see such a letter, but there was no mistaking the signature at the bottom of the page. With some hesitance, the guards escorted Logan to the gathering room.

“Ah, here he is!” Remus sang, outstretching his arms as Logan arrived. “Mr. Cerebrus himself!”

“Greetings, Your Grace.” Remembering his manners, Logan lowered himself to his knee and kept his head down. Remus pulled him off the floor roughly, shooting the alchemist a lopsided grin. Logan hesitantly smiled back. “You summoned me?”

“I did, didn’t I?” Remus chuckled, slapping an arm around Logan’s back. Logan didn’t so much as flinch—he was used to Remus by now, having visited the castle so much in the past. “See, I was tempted to summon you just to get you out of that musty lab for a while.” The duke laughed, but his smile fell. “We used to have so much fun together.”

Logan nodded, his expression unchanging. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Oh my god,” Remus spat, hanging limply off Logan’s shoulder while kicking his leg into the air. “Throw me a bone here! Like a femur, or your tibia! Something!”

“I’m… not sure I follow.”

Remus exhaled in exasperation, letting go of Logan to resume a proper stance. “Nevermind,” he muttered. “I need your help, Logan. It’s a matter of utmost importance. And… it has to do with my brother.”

“You mean Roman?” Logan shifted uncomfortably. “Your Grace, I don’t—”

“He’s not doing well,” Remus sighed. “He doesn’t eat or sleep. He never leaves his room anymore. I’ve tried getting him help, but he sends all the doctors away.”

Logan gazed at the ground absently. “What would you have me do?” he asked softly. “I’m no doctor. I’m just an alchemist.”

“But you’re also Roman’s friend, aren't you?”

A humourless chortle escaped Logan’s throat. “Maybe we were. But not anymore.”

It was true. Once upon a time, Logan and Roman had been inseparable. But in recent years, their relationship began to crumble, and the two saw each other less and less. It had been a few years since Logan and Roman had even seen each other, let alone had a friendly conversation. And the last time they met… well, suffice to say, it wasn’t a pleasant interaction.

Logan had been tempted time and time again to reach out and apologize, to rekindle their old friendship, but he always backed out before he could draft a letter. Roman didn’t seem eager to make amends either, so Logan gave up on trying to make things work. He’d focused on his studies instead of pursuing a long-dead companionship. They were better off on their own, anyway.

“I know you two have been on bad terms lately,” Remus said, pulling Logan from his thoughts, “but I have no other options here. I need you, buddy.”

Logan looked away, his heart growing heavy. “I don’t know how I could help… but I’ll do what I can.”

The duke smiled. “Thank you, Logan. Truly.” Remus patted Logan’s shoulder much more gently than usual, shambling towards a side door with a grim disposition. His body was halfway outside when his head swivelled around. “Well… you know where Roman’s room is. Good luck.” With that, the door was closed with a soft click, and he left Logan alone.

Well, better get this over with.

Logan went slowly, making his way up the winding stairs with a scuff in his step. He knew the way to Roman’s quarters by heart, although it had been a long time since he’d ever walked down the long hallways leading there. How would Roman feel about him suddenly showing up at his bedroom door? Especially when his brother sent him? Remus might as well have called more doctors. There was no way Roman would open the door for Logan.

The trek to Roman’s room went by far too quickly. Logan’s hand hesitated at the golden lion-shaped knocker. It was late at night—the prince was probably asleep by now. As if dealing with Roman wasn’t bad enough already. The alchemist exhaled and rapped thrice on the door, praying that no one would answer.

And at first, no one did. Logan stood by the door patiently, but no one came to open it.

But then, just as Logan was prepared to leave, a familiar voice spoke up from behind the gold-crested mahogany. “Remus? Is that you?”

“Ah… No.” Logan coughed awkwardly. “It’s just me.”

“...Oh.”

“...Yup.”

“Let me guess... you’re here because I’ve been acting up.”

“That’s… not entirely incorrect. I’m here because you’re unwell, apparently.”

“Right, got it,” Roman sneered. “Listen, wiz-nerd, I appreciate you coming by or whatever—but I’m a little busy right now. So if you’d just leave me alone, that would be so, so lovely. Thank you, love you lots.”

Logan huffed, unimpressed with the sarcastic tone and the demeaning nickname. “Nice one. And no, I’m not leaving. Remus asked me to help, and I don’t plan on disobeying my prince.”

“Remus sent you?” Roman sounded genuinely surprised. “I didn’t think he…” Groaning, Roman cut himself off. “Whatever! As your crown prince AND as your absolute ruler, I order you to hit the road!”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Logan replied, reaching for the door handle, “just as soon as I’m done here. I don’t plan on making Remus upset with me.”

A startled gasp sounded from within the bedroom. “Wait, no! Don’t—”

The door slid open with an eerie creak. Logan cautiously slipped into the room, the door falling shut behind him. “Roman?” Logan called, annoyed to see the room so dark and unlit. The only source of light was that of the fireplace on the other side of the room. “God, you’re so dramatic,” the alchemist murmured. “Get a lantern on in here.”

As Logan fumbled through his bag for his handheld lantern, he waited for an insult or an offhand comment. But Roman remained silent. In fact, once the light of the lantern illuminated the room more, Logan quickly realized that Roman wasn’t even in the room. Wasn’t he just here, talking to Logan through the closed door? And now the room was empty… how strange.

However, out of the corner of his eye, Logan spotted someone—something—scurrying across the bed.

Logan let out a surprised cry, nearly dropping the lantern in his fright. What WAS that thing? It certainly wasn’t a rat, not with the way it scuttled about on two tiny legs. Thinking quickly, Logan set the lantern down and leapt forward, pinning the thing down with cupped hands. Now Logan was sprawled on the prince’s bed, wrangling a small creature of unknown origin.

And then suddenly, to Logan’s shock, it spoke. “Let me go, you gigantic oaf!”

“Wait, what?” Logan lifted his hands, peering curiously at the tiny figure sprawled out on his palms. It was hard to see its features in the dim light, but there was no mistaking that iconic voice. “Roman? Is that you?”

“Who do you think?!” Roman cried, absolutely exasperated. The prince struggled to sit up straight in Logan’s hands. “What makes you think you can just grab me like a heathen? I am ROYALTY!”

Logan blinked, taken aback. “That’s… not what heathen means.” He meant to ask why Roman was so small, or why he was running away, it why the room was so dark. But all Logan could focus on was Roman’s last comment.

Roman scoffed loudly enough for Logan to flinch. “Ah yes, that’s EXACTLY what we should focus on. Glad to see you have your priorities straight, wiz-turd.”

“You already used that one,” Logan murmured, although he wasn’t paying attention to Roman’s insults anymore. He had become completely captivated by the tiny person in his hands. His finger drifted beneath Roman’s chin, lifting it roughly to examine the miniature face. “What happened to you? You’re so small.”

Roman tried batting the offending finger away but failed miserably. “It’s a long story, and I’d rather not—hey, don’t touch me!” When Logan didn’t retract his finger, Roman resorted to screaming hysterically, writhing around in Logan’s grip. “Guards! Guards, arrest him!”

“Oh, relax,” Logan spat, taking a seat on Roman’s bed. The tiny man was dumped unceremoniously onto the blankets, causing him to stumble and fall flat on his face. “There. Now can you stop screaming like a child? You’re giving me even more of a headache than usual.”

“Oh, that’s rich… coming from the guy who isn’t the size of a MUG! I’d say I’ve been handling this quite well…” Roman crossed his arms, giving the larger man with the world's tiniest glare. “… At least I was until you GRABBED me!”

“I didn’t know it was you!” Logan countered. “You could have had a little more light on in here. Emphasis on little.”

“Little,” Roman repeated incredulously, raising an eyebrow. “...Noooo, you know what? I’m the bigger person here. I’m gonna let that slide.”

“Actually, you’re the smaller—”

“SHUT IT, BEANPOLE!!”

Logan’s hands went up defensively. “Whoa whoa whoa, okay. So sorry, your majesty.”

Roman looked about ready to tear Logan’s ears off. But then, slowly, his shoulders began to sag and his eyes fell to the floor. He looked… upset, and not in the usual seething, raging, Roman kind of way. “I was hoping this wouldn’t happen,” Roman sighed. “Especially not with you.”

Logan put his hands down. “What do you mean?”

“This. Me being this size. You weren’t supposed to see me like this.”

“Wait a minute…” Logan tried to make sense of his words. “Have you been this way for a while?”

“Since I went into that damned forest,” Roman grumbled. “I got into a spat with a dragonwitch. He cursed me for my hue-brit or whatever it’s called.”

“Hubris.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever… So now I’m stuck at this size every night. I don’t change back until the sun rises.” Roman looked defeated at this point. He stared into the fireplace, dangling his legs off the side of the bed. “I don’t want to tell anyone about it… I was supposed to be the hero who slew the dragon, not the loser who got cursed.”

But then, like a spark, his eyes lit up. He jumped to his feet in his excitement, almost falling onto the sheets again. “Wait a tick! You can fix this!”

Logan blinked. “Me? How?”

“You know magic,” Roman explained, growing more and more excited by the minute. “You can change me back! You can break the curse!”

“Uhhh…” Logan hesitated. “I don’t deal with curses, Roman. I’m an alchemist, not a warlock.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I turn metal into gold. I don’t deal in witchcraft.”

“Come now, there has to be SOMETHING you can do,” Roman countered. “Do you have any idea what people will say if they find me like this? Or how I’m supposed to rule a kingdom when I can’t even reach my throne?”

“I see you haven’t changed much,” Logan huffed in reply, taking a seat on the floor to look Roman in the eye. He wasn’t keen on helping at all, but what choice did he have? Even if Roman couldn’t stop him from walking away, Remus certainly would. “I’ll… I’ll do what I can. Come here, I’ll see what I have in my bag.”

Roman squealed in delight, hopping gleefully into Logan’s palm. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he cried, holding onto Logan’s thumb for support as they made their way to Roman’s desk. “Truly… I’m in your debt.”

“Whatever,” Logan muttered. He set Roman on the desk—more carefully this time—and drew out his quill and paper. “So… tell me about this witch you met with.”

“Dragonwitch.”

Logan sighed. “Right. Tell me what he did exactly.”

Roman scratched his chin, recalling the event. “Well, I first found him while I was looking for a missing child,” he began, leaning on a nearby book. “I caught wind that he was holding a poor kid captive in her hut, so I swooped in for the rescue. But turns out the whole thing was a ruse. The kid was bait, and I fell for her trap.”

“So what did she do to you?”

“He cursed me. I told you that already.”

“I know, but could you recount what she said? Perhaps that could help us.”

Roman curled in on himself, darting his gaze away. “I don’t remember,” he grumbled.

“Hmm.” Logan hummed. He had a funny feeling that Roman wasn’t being truthful, but he’d focus on that later. “And then what happened? How did you get out of the forest?”

“The kid took me back to town himself,” Roman grumbled. “I’ve got the bruises to prove it, too.”

Logan winced at the mental image of Roman being manhandled like a doll. “Ouch.”

Roman shook his head, dismissing the remark. “So… can you help me?”

Biting his lip, Logan began fishing through his bag. He dumped various things onto the desk, searching for something of use. Pens, bags of powder, a flask, some books… Roman had retreated to the opposite side of the desk to avoid being pelted by a stray object. “Curses aren’t my department,” Logan commented, still running his hands through the leather sack, “but I should have something to help. No promises, though... Aha!” The alchemist lit up immediately, pulling a small satchel into the open. He set it next to his flask, along with a small burner, matches, a feather, and a leaf of some kind. “This could work.”

Roman peered curiously at the assortment of ingredients. “What is it?”

“It’s a potion for remedying jinxes,” Logan explained. “A curse is different—far more powerful—but maybe this can help anyway. It’s worth a try, at least.” Logan carefully set the flask onto the burner, lighting a flame beneath it. “Give me a little bit. I’ll try to strengthen the formula to adjust for curses.”

“Very well.” Roman flung himself onto the book he was leaning on, opting to lie down on it instead. Logan raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, instead choosing to focus on his work. He began delicately plucking the fibres from the feather, sorting them into neat piles based on colour. But as he worked, Roman’s complaints gradually increased in volume. “I’ve seen snails work faster than you,” he whined. “Just stick the whole feather in!”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Logan snapped, turning away from his feather to glare at Roman. “Be patient. It’s only been five minutes.”

Roman pouted. “Look, you’d be impatient too if you were in my shoes. Just… hurry up! I can’t take this!”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Logan lied with a smirk. “And if you keep complaining, then I’ll…” He trailed off, his eyes landing on the desk drawer near his leg. “...Then I’ll stick you in the drawer.”

“Yeah, right,” Roman scoffed. He almost looked amused at Logan’s threat. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Logan cocked an eyebrow. “Keep it up and we’ll find out.”

At that, Roman seemed to sober up. The prince mumbled something rudely under his breath but didn’t complain any further. Logan sighed in relief, continuing the arduous task of sorting the feather fibres.

But then, mere moments later, Roman spoke again. “You missed a spot.”

“That’s it,” Logan growled, standing up suddenly. His hand bolted forward, squeezing Roman in a fist. Roman cried out—maybe from pain, maybe from surprise—as he was forcefully stuffed into the drawer by Logan’s foot, landing face-first in a stack of papers. “See how you like that, Your Highness!” And with that, the drawer was kicked shut, leaving Roman stunned in the darkness.

“Treason!” a muffled voice screeched. “I’ll have you thrown in the dungeon for this!”

“Good luck with that,” Logan snickered. Despite the stupidity of locking the ruling prince in a drawer, Logan embraced the sick sense of satisfaction washing over him. It felt good to stick it to the snob—he had it coming, anyway.

Once Roman’s incessant babbling was muted by the drawer, Logan was able to continue his brewing in peace. Eventually, the sounds of kicking and swearing died down, and by the time Logan finished pulling apart the feather, Roman had fallen completely silent.

When he finished plucking fibres, Logan snapped the base of the feather in half and dropped it into the flask. He sighed deeply, relieved to finally be finished with the hard part. The satchel was opened, and a fine powder poured into the flask, sparking as it fluttered down. Next, Logan tore the leaf in half and dropped both pieces in among the glitter and the feather base. And finally, Logan grabbed two pinches of the feather hair, one of each colour, and sprinkled it on top of the rest of the ingredients.

The flask lit up as it was set on the burner, and a small puff of smoke flew from the top. Logan smiled, pulling the desk drawer open much more slowly than he closed it. “Okay, Roman. It’s done.” But there was no reply. Logan bent over to peer into the drawer. Roman was huddled in the far corner, facing away from the oncoming light leaking in. “...Roman?”

“What?”

“I’m finished. Come out, we’ll give this a try.”

“You know what? I’m good. I’ll stay here.”

Logan chuckled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the one who was so desperate to get back to normal, correct?”

“I—I mean... yes, but—” The nervous sputtering was cut off as an enormous hand snaked its way into the drawer, zeroing in on Roman. “Hey hey HEY, WATCH IT!” he hollered, scurrying around the hand. “I can get out by myself! Don’t—”

“I doubt it.” The hand snatched Roman with finality, eliciting another cry. Logan raised the tiny man out of the drawer and plopped him back onto the desk. “You couldn’t have climbed out if you tried.”

“If you hadn’t locked me in there, that wouldn’t have been a problem in the first place,” Roman snapped, springing to his feet.

Logan’s face darkened. “Well, if you weren’t such a nuisance, I wouldn’t have done that to you.”

“And maybe if YOU weren’t such an unfeeling, callous—” Roman trailed off, growing uncomfortably quiet. “I mean… if you weren’t a jerk. That’s what I meant.”

“Roman—”

“I didn’t even say anything,” Roman murmured softly, avoiding eye contact. “Just forget it.”

“...Fine.” They had bigger issues to focus on, anyway. But Logan knew that this conversation was far from over. “Come here. We’ll see how this works.”

“Fine by me.” Roman broke out of his stupor and sped over to Logan’s arm, standing patiently by the flask of simmering, sickly yellow liquid. “Let’s get this finished. I want to be normal as soon as possible.

Logan nodded in agreement, plucking the flask up and swirling the liquid around absently. “Indeed.” He paused, glancing between the flask and Roman. “Just remember,” he stated, “that I can’t promise success. There is a chance this will not work at all.”

Roman shrugged. “Just do it.”

“Very well.” With the precision of a seasoned alchemist, Logan tipped a few drops out of the flask and onto Roman’s head. The tiny prince sputtered, put off by the awful stench. “Just rub it diligently. It should start working soon.”

Roman complained under his breath but did as Logan instructed. His hands slid up and down his forearms, soaking the nasty liquid into his skin. Logan stood, gathering his materials and placing them into his bag. The colour of the potion was correct. And given Roman’s crumpled nose, the smell was correct too. With luck, the effects would kick in momentarily.

But by the time Logan had finished gathering his things and Roman was no longer dripping wet, the prince was still only a few inches tall. Roman glanced between himself and Logan in a state of turmoil. “It isn’t working.”

“Give it a minute,” Logan wavered, although they both knew that the potion, for some reason, was ineffective.

Overwhelming grief came over the prince. He fell to his knees, staring into the distance. “That’s it, then,” Roman whispered, burying his face into his hands. “I’m stuck like this. I’m doomed.”

Despite the bubbling of sympathy from within his chest, Logan couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Doomed is a strong word. I’m sure we can find some way to break this curse.”

“You can’t,” Roman snapped. “The curse is unbreakable.”

“Now, that’s ridiculous. Every curse has caveats and fine print. We just need to figure out how to break it.”

Roman stomped his foot angrily. “I already know how to break it!”

At that, Logan did a double-take, trying to process what Roman had just said. “...You know how to break the curse?”

Roman said nothing.

Logan leaned closer, scooping Roman off the desk. He was still sticky from the remnants of the potion. The prince yelped, backing away from Logan’s face, but found himself cornered by the alchemist’s fingers. “Roman,” Logan breathed, “tell me what the dragonwitch said when he cursed you.”

“I…” Roman gulped. “I—I don’t remember.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you lying to me? Don’t you want to get back to normal?”

“Of course I do!”

“Then say it. Now.”

Roman hesitated, choosing to look at Logan’s shirt instead of his eyes. “It was something like… The coward falls to kiss the ground, the king must grow into his crown… Something about roses, I think... For lifelong bonds confession makes, and only then this curse shall break.”

Logan scratched his chin with his free hand. Lifelong bonds? Confession? What kind of curse even was this? Frankly, Logan was baffled.

The lack of dialogue was making Roman visibly uncomfortable, so he spoke up. “I think… to break the curse… I have to admit a secret of mine. But I don’t know if I can. I don’t want to.”

The alchemist was still very confused. “So... you’d rather be stuck at this size every night?”

“Of course not,” Roman scoffed, flinching away from one of Logan’s prodding fingers. “It’s just that… I can’t… I can’t do it!”

“Sure you can. You simply say whatever this secret is and we’re done with it.” Logan was getting frustrated—he’d been here for hours, and now Roman finally admits that he knew how to break the curse the whole time. What a waste of a night. “We could have broken this curse ages ago, and you’re still being stubborn. I’d suggest spilling this stupid secret so we can both go back to hating each other.”

“Look, I just…” Roman trailed off, rubbing at his face in disbelief like he didn’t believe what he just heard. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

“You want me to say it out loud? We… dislike each other, so to speak, but we’re choosing to be tactful about it. I’d like to return to a distant hatred before we end up fighting like children.”

Roman blinked. “I don’t like you? Since when?”

Logan rolled his eyes. He hated it when Roman played innocent. “Since you started insulting me? Calling me a nerd? Insinuating that I’ve wasted my life on my studies? Surely you remember that argument.”

“What?!” Roman looked downright offended. “I’ve always been in favour of you studying magic! If you’ll recall, I was the one to suggest it in the first place!”

“So why all the demeaning nicknames? Why the insults? Why do you still insist that you don’t hate me?!”

“That’s just how I show my love,” Roman exclaimed in his exasperation, not quite noticing what he had just said. “I thought you knew that I liked y—” As he heard the words coming from his mouth, he quickly clapped his hands over his mouth lest he say something else he regretted. “I—I mean… I…”

“You…” Logan bit his lip, struggling to form a sentence. “You’re… attracted to me?”

Roman whimpered. “N—no.”

“That’s literally what you said.”

“I said nothing!”

“You’re an awful liar,” Logan replied, but his tone wasn’t as harsh as his words would have you believe. He lowered his chin onto the desk, holding the small royal up to his eyes. “Be honest with me. Please.”

Roman flinched away from the piercing gaze. It had shattered his bravado—gone was the stubborn Prince Sanders, and here was the nervous and stuttering Roman, quivering in Logan’s palm. “I… I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

Logan’s gaze softened slightly. “Why didn’t you?”

“Cause you didn’t like me back. You never laughed at any of my jokes, you never wanted to be with me in public, a—and… you were so focused on your studying. I thought you hated me.”

“Far from it.” Logan curled his fingers tighter against Roman, trying to simulate a hug. “I don’t laugh at anyone’s jokes. It was never about you. And I never liked being with you in public because people kept swarming you for autographs.” Logan cringed inwardly at the memories of running from paparazzi. “As for the studying… I really can’t explain that.” Logan clenched his fist in frustration. How did he not realize Roman was feeling this way? “I didn’t mean to make you feel unwanted. On the contrary—I rather enjoy your company.”

“You do?” Roman looked genuinely surprised. “Oh. Well… I like your company too, Logan.”

“We’ve established that, yes.”

“R—right.” The prince tentatively scratched his neck. As he did so, Logan blinked. Did Roman just get a little taller? If he looked closely, Logan could almost swear that Roman sprouted an inch or two. “Look, I get it if you don’t like me back. That’s why I never told you. I was fine with just being friends.” Roman huffed indignantly. “I was hoping to tell you on my own terms though, not because of a stupid curse.”

“That’s fair,” Logan said, watching in awe as Roman grew two, three, four more inches taller. Lifelong bonds confessions make. “Well, I rather like you too,” he said with some reluctance. He wasn’t even sure if it would work. “In a romantic sense, I mean.”

“Really?” Roman gasped, suddenly growing taller than Logan’s bag. The growth was much more rapid, and soon, Roman had reached the two-foot mark. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t lie to make you feel better. I just didn’t want to say anything because of the marrigae laws here. You can only marry royalty, right?”

“I plan on reversing that law soon.” Roman slipped off the desk, leaning on the chair for support. He was almost as tall as the desk now. “Wow, okay then... So, uh, what now? Are we... together?”

Logan grabbed Roman’s arm, sweeping him off the floor and placing him on the bed. He’d have to check for any side effects of the curse or the potion, but so far, Roman seemed just fine. Great, even. “I suppose so. Is that… satisfactory?”

The growing finally came to a halt, leaving Roman at his normal size. He grinned, grasping Logan in a tight hug. “Yes. That’s perfect.”

***

“I guess your potion was useless after all, huh, bore-cerer?”

“Don’t insult me. And regarding my potion, I... Wait. Are you… flirting with me?”

“...Oh, NOW you notice.”

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derangedhyena-zoids · 4 years

Text

So now that I have a chance to write this in an orderly manner:

In my land of things, Hiltz is a Complete Monster.

I only work with two* Complete Monsters in any of my stories, and the other one is technically abandoned, so. I don't have a lot of real estate for the explorations that come with these kinds of characters just because they tend to fucking bend space around them and make the whole story darker just because they're in it. Not every story I have is down for this, nor am I. so.

(*there is another character in KB that is kind of this, but [it's complicated, and] their innate lack of emotional depth makes them not really... the same. being indifferent to abuse vs being oblivious to it is a big divider imo)

Despite the backstory comic I just made, I'm not trying make him sympathetic. That piece is just a tiny, specific, show-relevant slice of backstory that I've had in-mind for a LONG while because it was sorely missing. It exists just as much to "explain" him as it does point out that there were steep ethical issues involved with humans obliviously dredging up the past. Plus plants a flag in what relevance I think Hiltz actually had to the death of Raven's parents. I've always wanted someone to make something for that span of time and to my knowledge no one has. So.

My Hiltz backstory IN ZOIDIAN TIMES would very quickly paint him in a different light, and that's more-or-less why he essentially does a backflip and accelerates past the Moral Event Horizon fast in my canon because he was already there, just wasn't whole and hale enough to recall it. Also keep in mind that he's narrating the backstory piece (by necessity) so of course he's presented well.

He was part of a group that was already on an outright genocidal crusade against other Zoidians (and Zoids, and Organoids) who weren't "strong" enough and therefore deserved to die for the betterment of the species. That group got heavily into the power of the primal (you know, the four F's... except for them it was more like 3) because of the viciously positive feedback loop it set up. Their unyielding brutality was incompatible with the... you know, DECENT society other groups were trying to maintain. Hence big war, big apocalypse.

The events that led up to the Death Saurer/Death Scorpion took a long, excruciating time, over which the group Hiltz was part of chewed through the fabric of society like a cancer. Part of what made things really bad was the creeping conversion to the "winning" side's way of thinking. The assault on their society was both outright (active attacks on peaceful settlements) and insidious (attempts to convert, planting people in key positions/institutions, etc).

Once Hiltz got his wits about him in CC-times and realized what had happened, he felt obligated to do something to erase humanity - which was many times worse than even the most "inferior" Zoidian. The issues being, during his early time among humans he lost a fair amount of his mental stability because they did not treat him well (read: vivisected, and unintentionally they basically starved him), and he was kept in isolation. This damage was compounded by the lack of having Ambient around - Zoidians don't do well without their Organoids, and especially in that group they'd become over-reliant on them.

So... Hiltz started out pretty penalized on the sanity front. (The only reason he just didn't up and die was because he was so strong-willed)

Then he realized the futility of his entire, prior belief system, life and efforts up to that point given that Zoidians were basically a dead race (hence his wide nihilistic streak) ... then let himself be tempted by One... then was basically, inadvertently mentally stabbed to death by Ambient carrying around the shard of One... then (in his mind) was betrayed by Ryss. And, you know, the whole Death Stinger power trip thing didn't help. There was very little good about him to begin with, but by GF there just Wasn't Any. He was completely ax-crazy.

But let me back up a little bit.

Let's consider that tetchy canon timeline.

Per the math, Ryss being found in the Imperial village with Nicholai happened 3 years prior to when Hiltz retrieved Ambient & Raven's parents were killed. The Republican army attacked that village and took young Ryss, but given that Prozen had all the information about that village and its associated events restricted/classified, I'm going to make a relatively safe assumption that he had Imperial forces shitkick the Republican ones shortly thereafter and they took possession of Ryss.

Ryss wasn't treated as badly as Hiltz was, but she wasn't treated especially well either. She had Specula so fared much better overall, but... she had Specula and people kept trying to mess with/take Specula away and THAT wasn't great. However, the Imperial Army - aggressively subverting expectations - was far more conservative in their Zoidian research so never did anything too drastic. Ryss was also incredibly hostile because she was afraid. She barely knew the language, and the range of traumatizing human behaviors she’d seen didn't help much.

Hiltz lived in that small colony during this timeframe, oblivious. Several years later though, after recovering his memory, he sought out the opposing faction, because fuck the Republicans and he needed resources to do anything. He figured he could talk, teleport, and brute force his way around - and he was right, and very soon was acquainted with Prozen.

And here's where I'm going to put up some 'sensitive subject' caution tape.

Shortly after that is when he learned they had a young ancient Zoidian girl in their custody. Obviously this was INCREDIBLY relevant to Hiltz's interests - remember, at that point he wasn't aware of any other living Zoidians, and from what he learned from the Scholar had become concerned that most that would've otherwise survived, had been killed.

So Hiltz is introduced to Ryss, who's matured a little but she's still the Zoidian equivalent of a preteen.

Remember: Hiltz is from the Big On Genocide group and to anyone who knows what's up, it's written all over him. Ryss is from a smaller clan that was specifically targeted by Hiltz's group so of course she's torn between being absolutely terrified and being glad that someone who speaks her language and understands Organoids exists at all.

Hiltz explained the situation as he understood it, and worked to gain Ryss's trust by basically denouncing his association with his group. He put an end to her being held against her will, and they stayed together from then on. But let's be real. Hiltz wanted to fuck her six ways from Sunday. And she was VERY aware of this. And he knew she was very aware of this. So on and so forth. (read: at this point in time Ryss found she could easily exert control over exactly one person and did so. Much to Hiltz’s chagrin.)

However, not only were there functional issues with this (eg Specula wasn't fully sexually mature, which tl;drs into "Ryss wasn't yet either" - and obviously part of Hiltz's interest was reproduction), Hiltz also did have the sense to not... you know, rape a child. He did genuinely want Ryss to trust him, work with him, and - hey, you know, maybe even -want- to be his mate? Pickings were slim after all, but there wasn't any reason they couldn't make the best of a bad situation. (maybe he might have tried “not constantly thinking of her as a lesser” but okay)

So everyone grew up some more and hooray, Guardian Force.

Thing is, Hiltz was an angry, mentally-unstable person with a slow but vicious temper, and though Ryss rarely caught sight of that, his wanton violence was a bit scary. Ryss also began to sympathize more with humans over time, which Hiltz couldn't stand. Ryss especially sympathized with Raven, who she initially was just intrigued by, but then she kiiiind of fell for him.

[insert that short comic, Collapse.]

I have no intention, never have had any intention, of portraying Hiltz positively. In my canon he's a disgusting, broken, shambling mess with offensively high Charisma and I thematically like the idea of his atrocious scattering of a lineage having to deal with all the problems that'd come with (also, hi: the whole thing with anyone of Zoidian blood feeling compelled to Zoids and especially Organoids? Is a sort of allegory for addiction, which... yanno, runs in families)

k? k.

Oh and Ambient is an aggressively problematic pile of shit also. He's just as vicious as Hiltz. Aren't we excited to have him show up in NC? HAHAH FUCK.

Organoids are their own entities, though. He's not just some strange extension of Hiltz's personality. He's his own "person" - one who's been a delighted participant in -many, many- atrocious acts. He's arrogant and prideful, he's got a dark sense of humor and is loyal to a fault. He just doesn't have a handle on the problems One has caused him, and it's gnawed at him for years. (and unlike the older canon version, he's not completely lost his mind or anything - but depressed wallowing in a pit of failure and hate for years isn't really healthy.)

He's also held on to grudges for dear life, because otherwise the vastness of existence w/o partners for a hugely social creature was untenable.

Basically, I think there may be some hope for him to be turned around as a character. Hiltz - nope, never.

#tw hiltz #tw rape mention #headcanon

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mithrasisgay · 5 years

Text

The Rise of the Dread Fleet Pt. 4 - Stalwart

@tyrias-library @skrittilicious @omnivoroustree <3

On Ao3

Night has fallen over the city, but silence never comes in Lion’s Arch. Asha and her little group are lurking in an alley near the less frequented corners of Sanctum Harbor, the noise of a nearby tavern with an open door hiding their own sounds easily.

Before them, in the waters, lies a large three-master, a Lionguard ship named the Stalwart, currently out of commission due to the installation of new cannons, but the workers have already gone home to their families, leaving the Stalwart entirely alone.

Liamu, Snezz’ friend, is sitting cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed tightly, one tooth digging into her lower lip. Around her, the group is silent, letting her concentrate and watching anxiously for her verdict. The necromancer acts as a scout here, having summoned a swarm of locusts that swarm over the ship, examining every nook and cranny for hidden guards or traps. She has been motionless for a good twenty minutes, before her eyes snap open abruptly. “It’s clear.” She reports. “I could not find anything.” Asha, who had been crouching at Liamu’s side, now rises back to her feet. “Good. Summon your guys. They might get alerted of our intrusion once we board, and I wanna be ready to run as quickly as possible.” She orders and Liamu gets up as well, while the rest of the group readies themselves for a potential fight. Cariyen looks upon the young girl with unconcealable pride.

Liamu steps away from the group, to make room for her little horde, and draws a deep breath. Then, green, necrotic magic gathers around her claws as she rises her hands over her head, muttering under her breath as the green energy coalesces into solid form before her, growing limbs and digits, writhing under Liamu’s spell, until seven vaguely humanoid, headless minions stand before their master. She lowers her hands and gazes upon her work, then nods her head in satisfaction. “They can sail. I designed them for us.”

Each creature is about two heads taller than Cariyen, has long arms, reaching down to its knee joint, or rather, the first joint below the hip, because there is another knee between the first and the ankle. Their feet resemble Charr paws, with spurs on the heel, and each hand has four fingers, adorned with boney claws, not unlike an Asura. No one speaks for a few seconds, looking at the creatures with a mixture of respect and disgust, but Asha grins from ear to ear.

“That is so FUCKING cool.” She praises. “Exactly what we needed!” The corners of Liamu’s mouth twitch, as if she was trying to smile, but was unsure how. “Okay. Your minions need to rush ahead of us and ready the sails. Cariyen, you’re behind them, get on the wheel. Snezz and Auri, you chop off the lines and raise the anchor. Liamu, you’re with me. I’ll guard you.”

“What did you just call me?” the Charr growls. “Auri. Short for Aurelia. Your name. Cute, isn’t it?” Asha shrugs at her, then claps her hands. “Right, chop chop, you guys! We got a ship to commandeer!”

The group gets moving, each filling their role. Cariyen runs with the minions and finds them to have a strange type of grace to their movements, as opposed to the horrid shamble she expected of them. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees Liamu moving slowly, holding Asha’s hand like a blind person, as the necromancer focuses on directing her minions.

Cariyen and the minions climb on board easily, two of them break away to lower a gangplank down, so the others can board more easily. The minions work without pausing to catch their breath, and within a few minutes, the sails are risen and ready to sail.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

The voice from the harbor has Cariyen’s blood running cold, but when she hurriedly glances down past the Stalwart’s railing, she doesn’t see Liamu and Asha anywhere.

“Borrowing your ship!” Asha calls back, from the starboard side. “Indefinetly!” The anchor is risen and Cariyen grabs the wheel to maneuver the large ship out of the harbor. There’s a group of Lionguard aiming bows and rifles at them, but before thez can shoot, a purple distortion fills the sky around the ship, bullets and arrows bouncing off it uselessly. Aurelia has thrust her hand into the sky, casting a reflective dome around the ship, giving them time to flee. Snezz cheers her on, but Cariyen catches Asha looking over the railings, looking for Raya in the waters.

Life is good for Vaixx. He’s sitting in the Captain’s Quarters of his brand new ship, which he named the Queen, sipping rum and pondering his next move. He’s assembled a number of free pirate crews around himself, and with no threat from Taidha, he can build up his new empire quite comfortably. Raxxi has left his side to lead her own crew, having risen to Captainhood under his banner.

Admiral. The title sounds beautiful next to Vaixx’ name.

He groans and stretches, then leans back in his chair. What could possibly sully this triumph of his now? As if responding to his question, there is a knock at the door. “Admiral? There is a lady wishing to speak to you. Shall I let her in?” Neci, his new First Mate, asks, muffled from the other side of the door. Vaixx grins. Clearly, this particular lady was here to congratulate him on his success. “Absolutely.” He responds.

The door opens and in walks the most beautiful woman Vaixx knows. She has ashen black hair, tied up in a ponytail, obsidian black eyes, and teeth as sharp as razors. Tall she is, taller than him by at least an inch, and dressed in fine silks. She steps in, a serious expression on her gorgeous face, and takes a seat on the other side of the table.

“Linni, my dear.” Vaixx greets her. “I welcome you to my humble new abode. What may I aid you with?” Linni pulls a grimace, and clears her throat before speaking. “Thank you.” She says. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Vaixx’s glass of rum shatters on the ground as he stares at her in disbelief. “What?” he finally manages to force out. “But why?”

Linni sighs and closes her eyes for a moment. “You are a wonderful man, Vaixx.” She assures him, although her words feel hollow. “But you are driving me insane. You feel fake. You constantly try to prove yourself to me. You do something and look at me as if you were asking if that was good and manly of you. You’re insecure, and you project that insecurity onto me. I am thirty-seven years old, Vaixx. You’re older than me. You should not be relying on my verdict as a basis for your self worth.”

With every word she speaks, Vaixx’ composure peels away. She’s right, he thinks. Alchemy, she’s right. “But-…” he protests, his voice climbing a few octaves, the corners of his eyes burning. “But I gave you everything, I-…” “Exactly!” Linni leans forward. “You give me everything! You keep wanting to buy my affection materially! And you’re so… damn pleased with yourself whenever you take me out to a fancy restaurant, you don’t look at me! You look at everyone else, to make sure they see how you’re spoiling your girlfriend. It’s never genuine!” She pauses to draw a shuddering breath. Clearly, she’d been keeping this in for a while.

“I don’t know why you’re like this, Vaixx. I care for you, I do. Deeply!” she continues. “And I know that whatever you’re doing here is not healthy for you. You never learned how to be in a proper relationship and everything you do is performative. I can’t deal with it anymore!”

Vaixx doesn’t respond. He just stares at her in stunned silence, processing her words and what they mean for him. “But… I love you.” He stammers. “Vaixx-…” Linni cuts herself off and shakes her head. “Listen. This isn’t the only reason I came to see you. I’m here mainly as a representative of the Order.” “What.” Vaixx whispers, feeling hollow. “Whispers has watched you kill Taidha and build this fleet. We know that you have big plans, and we want to ally with you, for the future. You’re a good man, and I know you have a sense of justice. I was given a new post as a sleeper agent in the Inquest. The Order plans a large-scale campaign against them.” “Inquest.” Vaixx parrots. “We could use a naval force disrupting their supply lines. You have the means, and as this fleet’s leader, you have a responsibility. For once in your life, take it.”

Vaixx nods, slowly. “I’ll help.” He promises. “Linni, please, if you could reconsider-…” “No. I have been brooding over this decision for months. I am not taking anything back. This is better for me, and for you.” She gets up and turns to leave. “I wish you the best, Vaixx.”

The door falls shut and the noise rings in Vaixx’ head. He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a bottle of rum, uncorks it, and raises it to his lips.

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #gw2 fanfiction #pirate saga #the rise of the dread fleet

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the-bounce-back · 5 years

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THE CONFIDENCE CHRONICLES PART V - CONFIDENCE IN YOUR CONFIDENCE

This is post 5/5 of my “Confidence Chronicles” series, in which I discuss the mindsets, actions and thought processes I’ve applied to build/rebuild my confidence in different aspects of my life. The goal of these 5 posts is for you readers to be able to apply relevant points to your own insecurities in order to combat them, and hopefully build your own confidence over time.

—————————————————————

So… we’re finally at the last post of the Confidence Chronicles. It’s taken its sweet (long-ass) time, but we finally got there in the end. Furthermore, it’s almost exactly a year ago since the idea for this series popped into my head, so this really has ended up coming full circle… albeit unintentionally. Not going to lie, it’s kind of a bittersweet feeling - it’s going to feel strange to not focus so heavily on confidence anymore, but on the other hand… I don’t have to focus so heavily on confidence anymore. Finally, I can bring my other post ideas that have been collecting dust in my drafts to life!

The funny thing is that although I started this series with a plan for what I was going to write about in each post, I never actually settled on what aspect of my confidence I wanted to end this series with. I figured that when the time came to write this, I would have a clear idea of what would be an appropriate note to wrap up the series on.

Of course, at that point in time I didn’t know that the latter half of 2019 was going to turn my life upside down. I didn’t know that I was going to find myself in a massive slump due to stress, confusion and anxiety over my career, my direction and purpose in life and my role in the grand scheme of the world. I know it all sounds very melodramatic and like an excuse to not apply myself to complete my projects - which might be partially true - but the truth is that these questions have been weighing on me for a long time. Long before I started working on my mental health, long before I started this blog, long before moving back to the UK. I’ve been able to ignore these feelings for a long time, but lately they’ve been making themselves extremely hard to avoid. I think that the reason lies in that I’m soon going to be on what society likes to call the “wrong” side of 25, and that I still feel like I’m figuring out where my life is going… i.e. running around like a headless chicken.

However, this blog has really forced me to confront my fears in a way that counselling or confiding in someone I trust ever could - simply because it makes me work through my innermost thoughts and feelings alone. Attempting to address deeply buried issues in order to make my peace with them so I can move past it has been a very triggering process, and also extremely reliant on trial and error.

When you make an error in your healing process, it can be devastating and a major setback in your daily life. But when you get it right… the pain and hard work all becomes worth it. Trust me. There is nothing more satisfying than thinking of a past situation that used to make you feel like you had the weight of the world of the shoulders, and realising that although it felt like it at the time, it didn’t kill you. Hell, you’d even be able to go through it again and be confident you can make it through again, if you had to. One day you’ll even be able to laugh at the situations that once tore you down, and with your newfound confidence be able to realise that at the end of the day… it wasn’t that deep (or, at least, not deep enough to kill you).

For this reason, I want to tie the messages from the previous posts of this Confidence Chronicles series together to make this post - confidence in your newfound confidence. Once you build a solid foundation of confidence in all aspects of your life, the next step is learning to adjust to the newfound energy, positivity and motivation that this confidence manifests itself as. I personally learned (and - in certain cases - am still learning) how to harness this “power” in the following ways:

1. Slowly but surely trusting myself to believe in my own capabilities.

Do you want to know something that’s funny but at the same time not funny? If not, tough sh*t because here it comes: despite writing so extensively about confidence, my own levels of confidence are somewhat unreliable at best.

As I’ve mentioned countless times before, I never write blog posts when I’m in a bad place mentally. In fact, every single post (except one) on here is written when I’m in a great mood, my mind is clear, my confidence levels are unbeatable and I can write about my bad times in an objective manner that doesn’t end up making me sad. A quick scroll through my past posts prove that it’s so easy to assume that I’m 100% over the hard things that I’ve written about on here, simply because I’ve become so good at realising my own past mistakes and how I should move forward. However, in reality, there’s usually not a day that goes by without the topics crossing my mind.

I’ve been told many a time by friends that while I’m excellent at giving advice and knowing exactly what measures to take to get over a situation, I’m not very good at applying said advice to myself. It’s very true, and very frustrating - reading my own posts back makes me realise that I already have the tools and capabilities required to be able to heal, but so far I only seem to be able to use these tools when I’m in a good place. For this reason, I struggle a fair amount with self-doubt in my authenticity as a mental health blogger, because what’s the point of preaching about self-love, self-care and bettering your mental health if your own mental health is in a complete shambles from time to time?

However, it’s not all bad, because the more I apply myself to think of solutions, apply said solutions to my own life and start seeing the benefits of constantly working on myself, the more confident I become that one day I’ll get to a stage where I can confidently write about my issues without this nagging feeling that I’m a fraud. Additionally, g-checking myself from time to time and making sure that I am actually following my own advice makes me increasingly more secure in the knowledge that I am extremely emotionally intelligent and do have enough experience to change my own life, as well as others’.

I think the main thing here is to keep on doing whatever it is you’re trying to improve upon, and allow yourself to appreciate how far you’ve come on your journey as opposed to solely focusing how long you have to go. Regardless of if you’re doubting your capabilities in the workplace, your body goals, your ability to adapt to new situations or your creative ventures - or a combination of all four - it’s important to acknowledge and celebrate your progress.

Giving yourself a well-deserved pat on the back and focusing on how far you have come since the beginning gives you the chance to fully appreciate the hard work you’ve put in towards bettering yourself - which leads to you gradually feeling confident in trusting the power in your own capabilities over time.

2. Stopping the negative self-talk.

As it so happens, I have quite a dark and self-deprecating sense of humour - and so do many of my friends and my sister. Calling myself and others every offensive name under the sun as a joke is something that used to occur on a near daily basis, under the guise that it was all harmless banter. I’ve literally been doing this for as long as I can remember, but the past few months or so, I’ve really been trying to stop for a few reasons.

The main reason is that regardless of how harmless belittling your intelligence and capabilities as a joke may seem, doing it on a regular basis can lead to you internalising these notions and gradually starting to believe them. Although I genuinely thought that I was mentally resilient enough to be able to separate jokes from reality, whenever I’d fall into a bit of slump the first things that would come into my head were the things I’d said about myself as a joke. They would sting a lot, because in those moments I would genuinely believe them.

“God, I’m such a dumb b*tch”.

“Ugh, when did I become such a d*ckhead?”

“I swear to God.... I f*cking hate myself”

“Oh, great, so on top of being a dumb b*tch - I’m also a fat b*tch. Excellent”.

The mad thing is that I’m actually laughing while writing this, simply because I’m in a positive state of mind and know that it’s all a joke. I know I’m neither dumb, a d*ckhead, or fat. Nor do I hate myself anymore. But as soon as that Sunday night sadness hits (I know you all know what I’m talking about!), there I am - trying to choke back tears because I’ve managed to delude myself into thinking that the above is, in fact, true. For this reason, I’ve also tried to stop doing it to my friends, because I’d hate to think that they may be internalising something mean that I’ve said to them as a jOkE.

It’s also interesting to think why self-deprecating humour comes so easily to a lot of us. I can only speak for myself and certain friends that are similar to me in this aspect, but I genuinely think it’s because we’ve - very sadly - grown accustomed to being verbally abused and/or having our weaknesses constantly being picked at during our formative years - either in our home environments, school environments, or both. Instead of devising healthier methods of coping with and eliminating these internalisations, we’ve become reliant on using humour as a source of escapism from our nagging insecurities cast upon us by people around us.

When I started seeing self-deprecating humour in this light, it actually made me quite sad. There I was, thinking that I should get into comedy for being so hilarious, when really it turned out to be just me being too scared to deal with my own insecurities. That’s when I knew things needed to change, and I’ve been working on this ever since.

Personally, the easiest way for me to reduce my negative self-talk has been to try to visualise how I would feel if a stranger (it used to be friends, but then I remembered that most of my friends are as tapped as I am) was saying it to me. I soon realised that if it had come from anyone else but myself or my friends, I’d be ready to throw hands over this literal verbal abuse. I am now trying my best to speak to and treat myself in the same way that a stranger or acquaintance would - with dignity, respect, honesty and with a regard for my own feelings (because, lo and behold, it is possible to be brutally honest and kind at the same time).

Of course, this is so much easier said than done - especially if you, like me, love a cheeky self-drag and dragging others (out of love, of course). However, this doesn’t have to mean that you can stop having fun - I’ve found that an eloquently worded drag meant to act as a wake-up call for me/someone else to improve my/their situation without having to resort to insults and name-calling is infinitely more creative, satisfying and efficient. Furthermore, I’ve found that g-checks that are based on constructive criticism as opposed to cruel insults give you a clearer image of how to improve yourself moving forward - which can only be a good thing.

Basically, just be patient and kind to yourself and others. Take on the constructive criticism received from yourself and your friends/family to work towards bettering yourself, and your confidence will follow.

3. Learning to trust the feelings of positivity and self-love.

This is by far the hardest one for me - and for good reason. When you’ve spent a large part of your teenage years and early adulthood believing that your capabilities and strengths are inadequate, that you’re ugly, that you’re not worthy of love and happiness, that your life has no purpose and that your family and friends would be better off without you, it’s nearly impossible to break free from this toxic downward spiral and to unlearn all of the behaviours and thought processes that have manifested as a result of these feelings.

The keyword here is nearly.

Obviously, I can only speak for myself, but I would like to think that this could be applied to others as well. When I started this jOuRnEy, I honestly thought I’d never get to a place where I genuinely love every aspect of myself. Despite this, I kept pushing myself through the extremely triggering task of unpacking my toxic feelings - until one day I suddenly didn’t have them anymore. Or, at the very least, they suddenly no longer hurt me. Seemingly out of nowhere... I felt okay.

The sad but still understandable thing about suddenly coming to terms with who you are, what you’ve been through and feeling confident enough to move forward is that you don’t trust the feeling at first. At all. You tell yourself that it’s just one of the little upswings before everything comes crashing down around you again, dragging you back to step one, and you try to mentally prepare yourself for said downfall to happen.

But it doesn’t.

Sure, you might have little dips every now and again. You know that healing isn’t a linear process, so you assume that these little dips will lead to you spiralling again. But, to your surprise, they don’t - and you find yourself picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, and moving forward with your life relatively unscathed and with more experience and wisdom than before. You start to get suspicious and a little scared because things are actually going alright for once. You’ve become so used to your life being so riddled with anxiety, insecurity, sadness and chaos and the good times being fleeting, that this new reality is extremely alien to you.

This is where things can go one out of two ways.

Either your anxiety kicks in and you start self-sabotaging in different ways because you’re afraid that the longer things are going well, the harder the fall is going to be - so you might as well save yourself the pain by not pursuing things that could allow you to be happy. Or, you are able to tentatively start trusting and accepting the waves of love and positivity as your new reality - making you find the strength and confidence to move forward despite the past pain and hurt.

Personally, it took several rounds of self-sabotaging before getting to the point of learning to trust the positive feelings and my confidence in all aspects of myself. I try not to beat myself up over all the opportunities I’ve turned down simply due to genuinely believing that I’m not good/smart/pretty/talented enough, but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t make me sad from time to time. However, the more time that passes I get more and more confident that new, even better opportunities will come up for me - and I’ll be confident enough to embrace them without any hesitation when the time comes.

To wrap up this whole Confidence Chronicles series, I want to leave you all with this simple but true statement:

It gets better - if you’re willing to put in the work.

Regardless of which of the posts resonated with you the most, I need you to understand that building confidence takes time. I would even go as far as saying that it’s a never-ending journey, and that the learning to fully love and trust yourself and your capabilities is a never-ending process as life progresses. However, the more you work hard on your own betterment, the easier and smaller the challenges that arise from time to time become.

My ultimate wish is that we all one day can get to a place where we can trust ourselves enough to be happy and confident, regardless of what life throws at us. That whenever things that would usually send us down that spiral again pop up, we can just take a deep breath, count to ten, and be confident in the knowledge that the situation no longer has power over us, and that we will easily be able to work through it.

Until that day comes - never stop fighting.

Love,

Liv

#selfhelp #goals #selflove #opinions #Empowerment

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avani008 · 6 years

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Four Seasons Meme: Devasena

For @ratnananda, @cassandor, & multiple (?) anon:

(Behind the cut because it is LONG)

Spring

the circumstances of his/her birth | favorite (or least favorite) family member | first word | happiest birthday | genderswap au

Jayasena wrinkles his nose. “That’s what all the fuss was about?” he must ask, youth making him candid.

“Hush,” says Mother; “You musn’t say such things about your baby sister”; and Jayasena knows that it’s important to look after her, that she must be worth something for Mother to go to all the trouble of having her, but at the moment, it all seems rather pointless.

“She took her time being born,” he observes instead, because Mother had been locked up in her chambers with her ladies with almost a day and a half--the longest he had ever gone without so much as a glance of her; if he’s honest with himself, it leaves him not a little annoyed to have lost so much of her attention.

Mother shakes her head fondly. “She wanted to be born in spring,” she explains. “Just after dawn on the first day of Chaitra. My little Devasena.”

That at least gives Jayasena hope that his sister is sharp as well as stubborn, to pick the nicest month of all to explore her new world; and, ignoring Mother’s grin, he leans closer to look at her with new interest.

Once a year, Devasena and her brother must travel south to visit their great-uncle, much to her loud protests. Aditya Varma lives on a sprawling estate far from the palace; and his insistence on seeing his remaining family is matched only by his stubborn refusal to leave his house. “He’s old, Devasena,” Jayasena reminds her, “we must make allowances”; but Devasena can’t see that any allowances can excuse the long hours of boredom while Aditya Varma rails at them of his hatred for anyone under the age of sixty, the smell of horses, the kingdom of Mahishmati, insolent children, loud noises, Mahishmati’s odious royal family, all foods that weren’t rice and bland sauce, cloudy weather, and--of course--Mahishmati.

“If I live,” she begs her brother when they leave, “to be so embittered, promise me you’ll kill me yourself.”

Jayasena’s mouth twitches, the one sure sign that he shares her exasperation. “If you’ll do the same for me.”

“Mine,” says Devasena: the first word on her lips, and her favorite. She is so proud of what she has learned, however, that she does not always use it correctly. “Mine,” she proclaims when pointing at the fine white throne that will be her brother’s someday; “Mine,” she announces when taken to see the calves in their pen.

“What shall we do with you?” sighs her nurse, while her mother laughs, and Devasena--Devasena takes one look across the courtyard at the gleaming bows displayed in the armory.

“Mine,” she says, with certainty, and neither woman can deny her.

She can remember only the faintest of memories from her fourth birthday. The smell of her mother’s hair; her father laughing. They had gone for a picnic, she thinks, or perhaps her mind had added that later. Either way, she recalls sitting in the warmth of daylight, until a sunshower had sent them scurrying to the shelter of the trees. Father had swooped Devasena up onto his shoulders, and Jayasena tickled her dangling feet, and Mother dried her wet hair, still winded from their flight.

She can remember only the faintest of memories from her fourth birthday: that is all she needs to know she will never be so happy again.

Dhananjayan comes home to find the palace in chaos--a pity, since he so wanted to make a favorable impression on his new friends. Therefore his tone is somewhat clipped when he asks his brother what in the world has happened to send them scurrying about so.

Jayasena is grim. “More than you know, brother; the Pindari have declared vengeance against us, and our army doubts they can hold them off again, with their numbers so reduced-”

That is all right; that is what Dhanajayan was put on this earth for. “Leave it to me,” he assures Jayasena, and beckons Baahu-with-no-other-name and his uncle forward. “And while I’m at it, let me introduce you to who I met when I was away--”

Summer

fantasy | love language of choice | a pet or other animal companion| the decoration of their bedroom| fusion au

“You’re not a witch,” Devasena asks, uneasily, and Sumitra looks aghast.

“Certainly not,” she says. “I only--maneuver matters about somehwat; and truly what difference is there between brewing a poultice and a potion?”

Devasena swallows. “For one thing, it’s--I mean, the priests say magic is wicked.”

Sumitra pauses, and approaches her. “Devasena,” she says gently, hands on her sister-in-law’s shoulders; “do I seem wicked to you?”

No, never, not Sumitra; Devasena shakes her head, and Sumitra smiles. “Then come here and let me teach you what I know.”

Devasena has learned to judge a man by his actions. Touches can be manufactured, and words are eternally meaningless; gifts are nothing more than bribes to purchase servitude. The problem is finding someone who satisfies her standards. Even those who present a facade of genuine selflessness and strength are proven otherwise before too long--and she trains herself to treat all suitors with suspicion.

(Sometimes, she wonders if she would have seen even her Baahubali with disfavor if he hadn’t thought to come before her in disguise.)

“Crown Princess,” says the cowherd; “there is no one else.”

For a terrible instant, Devasena’s mind goes blank with panic; the next, she struggles back to some semblance of calm. This is nothing she has not been taught before, but--it’s only--well, she’s never done so alone before. But fear changes nothing; she guides the laboring cow to the ground and grits her teeth.

The calf, when he is born, is a fine specimen; when she’s asked what he shall be called, Devasena smiles and suggests, “Madhvaiyya.”

Devasena sniffs at decadence. Her rooms are to be kept simple, she tells anyone who will listen: only the simplest of surroundings, open windows, and a curtain to keep away errant insects during their slumber. Try as she might, though, a princess cannot escape prosperity entirely; her sheets are still silk, and the cool marble floor warmed with braziers. Devasena tells herself that if she had any choice in the matter, she would refuse it as soon as possible.

(Years later, in her cage, Devasena laughs and laughs at her younger self.)

Her parents had been soulmates. Devasena knows that even though she barely recalls them. She can bring to mind the sound of her mother’s voice and the laugh lines carved in her father’s face, and not much else besides. Her brother, however, remembers well enough for both of them, and he is generous with his memories.

“It was not,” he tells her on nights when she can’t sleep, “that they were always of one mind—in fact they disagreed quite often! But the world burned bright around them when they were together, and the palace shone with their happiness. All Kuntala prospered from it.”

Devasena hugs her knees and tries not to squeal with satisfaction. Such behavior is undignified for a Crown Princess, in particular the sort of Crown Princess who would have to foster such an impressive reputation that her soulmate should be drawn to her as soon as possible. And that achieved, they could get on with the important business of bringing as much joy to Kuntala as her parents had in their day.

It is perhaps not the most well-thought of plans.

Fall

the one person/cause/ideal they would sacrifice everything for| storms| nightmare | the lie(s) he/she has told | hero/villain reversal au

It isn’t that she’s selfish, quite the contrary: Devasena would sacrifice herself and her happiness in a heartbeat if she thought it would make any difference.

“Baahubali” would make for a pretty answer, but it is not quite true. She might be carried away by romance as any other woman; but it is not enough to make her forget who and what she is.

Kuntala would win her praise, but even that cannot be accurate--Devasena

No, instead it’s liberty she holds dearest to her heart.

Her parents argued once.

Only when they thought she and Jayasena were safely asleep, of course; they had no way of knowing that Devasena had tiptoed to their chambers. Even now the memory reminds her of nothing so much as summer storms, the sharpness of her mother’s voice, the rumble of her father’s. She does not know what caused the disagreement, or how even long it lasted; only that it ended, as all storms must. When she wakes, they are there, together, smiling at her, and she remembers them standing closer beside each other than ever.

It’s from them she learns not to fear quarrels and debates in love.

She sees Kuntala in shambles, its river running bright with blood.

She smells smoke in the distance, and the stench of burning flesh-- a satisfaction that terrifies her worms its way into her heart.

She hears the clank of chains and the jeers of a strange crowd.

She feels her fingers clutching for something--someone--beloved and finding nothing.

“Only a nightmare, my darling,” soothes her nurse, and Devasena, reassured, slips back into sleep.

As a rule, Devasena lies badly. Her morals are as straightforward as the direction of the arrows she shoots: she has no patience for prevarication. Besides, when she expects nothing less than perfect honesty from everyone around her, do they not deserve the same in return?

Still, she thinks she can make an exception just this once, when Jayasena peers at her, worried, the day after the disastrous seemantham; “You do not wish for me to stay longer with you? You believe all will be well?”

Devasena forces a smile. “Yes,” she replies, “I am sure it will.”

Kuntala has not the manpower nor the machinery nor the money to stand up to Mahishmati, but Devasena knows all too well that a pretty face can work wonders where the strength of thousands cannot. It is not difficult: a few languishing looks, pretended ignorance as to the appearance of the future King of a neighboring country, and Devasena has the betrothal she wants. And this, too, a few sharp words, and Sivagami Devi lashes out, forever branded as unreasonable in her son’s regard. A few more delicate suggestions, a few more inadvertent misunderstandings, and her husband will have no choice but to take the throne for himself, free of the Queen Mother’s influence, or die a declared traitor.

Baahubali will be the future of Mahishmati, Devasena knows, but he is hers; and through him, the rest of the Empire will rest in her hands, as well.

Winter

haunting | tarot | then and now | gods and mortals | reincarnation au/historical era swap

Devasena goes mad on the third night she spends in the cage. She is never certain why. It could be because of the glare of the sun on her face during the day, or because of the lash of cold rain against her sunburned shoulders at night. It could be because of the crusted blood on her feet, left both by labor and the touch of the Queen Mother’s hand. She finds she does not care, can’t bring herself to care, because thunder rumbles and lightning slashes the sky, and her dead husband is sitting before her on the opposite side of her cell.

For an instant her heart leaps. There had been a secret plan by Kattappa to save his protege, she hypothesizes wildly, or it had all been a lie to break her spirit on Bhallaladeva’s part — but the eyes of Amarendra Baahubali are sad when they find hers in a way they never were in life, and she knows. Devasena has never been able to hide from the truth; that has always been her blessing and her curse. And today, apparently, it has driven her mad.

That doesn’t stop her from giving into instinct and stumbling forward into his arms. The best thing about being mad is that his skin feels warm against hers, almost as though he were still living flesh instead of a spirit who loves her too much to leave her. The shock of it, the familiarity, sends fresh tears down her cheek, hot and bitter, and after a moment, she recovers enough to recognize the sounds coming from her mouth as, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you-

She sees a representation of Strength one day: a strange one, a woman standing with a lion tamed at her feet. It is not the Great Goddess, who rides the fierce beast with pride; this woman eyes the creature with unease.

“She holds the bindings firm nonetheless,” says the merchant who sells the image, as though she can read Devasena’s thoughts. “You might learn much from her, Crown Princess.”

That seems unlikely, but Devasena purchases the picture anyway. When, much later, she eyes Bhallaladeva’s rooms and armor, and the beasts emblazoned there, she realizes at last the warning that image contained.

Then Devasena walked this hall with her wrists heavy with chains, and her heart ablaze with anger and shame; now she walks no less slowly, although she’s unimpaired. Years of captivity have left her with a limp, and she’s all too aware she slows down her son’s procession to the throne. Shivu looks as though he would stare down anyone who protests, however, even were it her, and so she keeps her silence.

Then Devasena walked this way, a humiliated princess who was learning what it was to hate. Now, as Queen Mother, she dares hope she might have the freedom to learn to love again.

They think of her husband as a god these days. The stories grow in number: Baahubali had the strength of ten men—no, a thousand! Baahubali was blessed with precognition; Baahubali could no more dream of doing wrong than the sun could rise in the West. Devasena knows all too well how her Baahubali would have hated it, but she will not take this from the people of Mahishmati; they have already lost so much.

They think of her husband as a god, and someday soon, only Devasena will remember that all he wanted was to be mortal like them.

Best of all Devasena loves lazy mornings. She wakes early, as is her habit; but there is something glorious about letting her eyelids drift shut as she listens to her husband’s soft snores. Outside the window, the city comes to life; but not one of the thousands of lives out there depends on her as they once did.

The children are asleep, the morning only just begun, and Baahubali is in her bed. Devasena is content.

#baahubali #devasena #four seasons character meme

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danieldrylie · 7 years

Text

An Inauguration Carol, Part I

It was the night before the inauguration, and while ungratefuls prepared to rally and voice their frustrations, the President-elect, Donald J. Trump, stood in front of a window in the presidential suite of the Trump International Hotel. At the table beside him was a plate, knife, fork, and a large taco bowl—a special meal prepared just for him. He loved authentic Mexican food.

He looked out across the city, like Caesar after a conquest, but instead of armor, he was dressed for battle in a silk bathrobe and matching slippers, with “DJT” embroidered along his chest in genuine gold thread. Instead of a sword, he held a phone. It was an older phone, because he found the screens on the newer models were too large, and he needed to be able to reach his thumb across the entire screen quickly in order to Tweet down judgment on his foes.

He was alone in the room, the television was on, and he switched back and forth between watching episodes of The Apprentice recorded on VHS and the news. He listened to the news while staring out the window, until he heard a commentator or pundit say anything negative about him. The seventy year old man would lumber across the room and push the VHS tape back into the dusty VCR, which one of the maids brought to work from her attic for Donald Trump.

This continued into the early morning hours. His wife, Melania, was sleeping in an adjacent room. She told Donald she preferred to do so in order to leave him undisturbed. There were few cars running along the streets below while the city slept, and Donald imagined he was in Florida, where he would much rather be.

While he fantasized about the rolling greens in Mar-a-Lago, away from national security briefings, he heard a horrid noise from one of the bedrooms next door. He left his window, and pressed his ear against the door. His shaking hand clutched the small brass doorknob—which he custom ordered especially to feel comfortable in his hand. The undersized brass doorknob did not feel comfortable now as he flung the door open, hoping at least to surprise whoever was making the noise.

The room was empty and the noise stopped. Donald thought for a moment that he must be dreaming, and perhaps the taco bowl was causing him to be restless in his sleep. He thought it must have been a strange dream, since he usually dreamed that he wasn’t sleeping alone. It could have be an alternate dream, if not a fake one. If it was a dream, then the news might be especially kind to him, since they never were while he was awake. He closed the door and ejected the VHS, hoping Anderson Cooper would deliver the praise he desired, even if it was fake praise.

He reclined on the chaise, and waited eagerly for the silver-haired reporter to appear on the screen, but the sound of the television drowned out as the noise returned. Donald pulled a blanket from the bed, and clutched it like a child would a stuffed toy.

“It must be a dream. It has to be a dream. I have the best dreams. This is a bad dream.”

It was a familiar noise, one he heard from someone who he hired as an instructor at Trump University. It was a circular saw. It couldn’t be the instructor, even though he went back to contracting after he stopped teaching economics at TU. In between spurts of buzzing, he heard metal dragging across the floor.

“This is a dream. A sad dream!”

Just then, the bedroom door began to flow, much like the ocean, or Donald’s hair in a gentle breeze, although not as artificially. The center of the door protruded and took the form of the face of a man, until the whole door stretched like putty, and the entire figure could be made out. It wore large work gloves, a tool belt, and was bound with a chain running from head to toe with caulk guns hanging from the links.

“Donald!”

“Who are you? You’re not serving papers, are you?”

“No, Donald. I am your contractor.”

“The one who took economics in high school? He was good with numbers. Not as good as me. I’m the best with numbers. China is good with numbers too. We’re getting beat by China in numbers.”

“No, Donald. I am the contractor you didn’t pay!”

“Which one?”

“It doesn't matter. I am here to warn you, Donald.”

“I don’t need a warning. You need a warning. You’re the one who needs to be warned!”

“Donald, you did not honor our contract. You must honor your deal with the American people.”

“You know, it was not a very good deal. The contract was not a very good deal. I will make a better deal. Nobody is asking if Hillary had a deal in her emails. I’m not saying that Hillary emailed the deal. Some people are saying that. We’ll see.”

The figure receded into the door, each of its features becoming less defined as the spectre pulled back, until only the outline of its face remained.

“Honor the contract! Honor the contract before it’s too late, Donald!”

Soon, the figure was gone entirely, and the door took its original form again, with white trim and gold inlays, and the undersized brass knob. The President-elect did not know what to think of the ghost, but was disappointed that the Secret Service escort outside did not take the ghost out on a stretcher. The Obama secret service was in shambles, he thought. He considered Tweeting at the Secret Service, making his displeasure public, but decided instead to scold the agent himself, and perhaps command the hotel staff to erect a brick wall in front of the door to keep spectres out in the future.

The handle on the door to the hall was not one his custom orders, and he hated how it felt, cheap, and so large, bordering on unwieldy. He opened the door and peered down the hall. The agent was not there. He exited the suite, and placed his hands on his hips, giving an audible “humph”. While he considered what kind of punishment would be given to the derelict agent, the hall changed. The paint melted down the walls, the carpet sunk into the wood floors below, and the fixtures evolved into an older style, which the elderly man had not seen since he was a child.

The sound of laughter echoed through the hall. It was a sincere, jolly kind of laugh, which he was not accustomed to hearing. A low, booming voice called his name. Donald began to sweat, and large droplets tinted with artificial tanner flowed down his neck, staining the collar of his robe. The voice called again.

“Donny!”

“Who-who’s there?”

“Don’t be afraid, Donny!”

“I’m not afraid. I’m never afraid. You’re probably afraid!”

A fog rolled in from the stairwell. It was tinted with reds and blues, like a light show, and it swirled around until a large figure was composed in front of him. It was a heavy-set, middle-aged man. He wore horn rimmed glasses and a hat—like the one Donald remembered his father wearing—and a long, wool overcoat hung down his frame, leaving only the cuff of his pin-striped suit and black and white oxfords showing underneath.

“Chris? Why are you wearing that, Chris? You never knew how to dress. I dress great. I bet your tie is too short.”

“I am not Chris Christie, Donny.”

“All fat people look the same. I never cared for fat people. I like beautiful people. I’m just attracted to them—to beautiful people.”

“I am the ghost of inaugurations past. Come with me. We don’t want to miss the event.”

The ghost reached his hand out to Donald.

“No. I don’t hold men’s hands. I don’t hold them—men’s hands.”

The ghost grabbed Donald by the hand, and the hall disappeared into darkness.

#writing #writers on Tumblr #fiction #satire #politics #donald trump #charles dickens #inauguration #fake news #alternate facts #donald trump's hands #anderson cooper #the apprentice #funny #me #my writing

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sumigakure · 7 years

Text

Just For The Night

Prompt 15 of the Sumigakure 2017 Event

Pairings: hints of Tobirama/Kagami

Rating: T for language

Summary: Kagami decides to backpack across Fire Country after completing his degree. It’s definitely an eye-opening experience.

Kagami hitched his backpack higher and glanced nervously between the eerie hostel in the middle of nowhere and the directions Torifu wrote in his near illegible scrawl. Why, oh why, did he wait so long for the next leg of his journey? It’s so creepy here at night and he’s pretty sure something crawled out of the swamp behind him.

Backpacking across Fire Country is looking to be my worst decision yet, Kagami thought, shivering. He squeaked when something large squelched behind him and darted for the door, frantically jiggling the handle and throwing himself through. He sagged against the door, heart pounding.

I should have listen to Danzo and his stupid statistics! he wailed internally. Not that he ever listened to Danzo when he started another paranoid rant about various death and grievous bodily harm statistics but the point remains—

“Are you alright?” A smooth voice cut across his internal panic.

Kagami looked over at the check-in desk and promptly lost whatever he was about to say, whatever panic he was previously feeling, and his heart for good measure.

Leaning— no, lounging on the desk was the hottest man Kagami had ever seen. Just, the hottest, okay? Hotter than Fire Country’s annual forest fires, even.

He was tall, evident even though he was bent over. White hair— hair like starlight, Kagami thought dreamily, with eyes like heart’s blood and tattoos like streaks of passion. And he smirked like he was somehow aware that Kagami’s besotted inner English Major nerd was waxing lyrical about him.

“Are you alright?” Angel From The Heavens Bedecked In Black asked again.

Kagami closed his mouth and, well, he intended to walk gracefully to the desk but just kind of…shambled over instead. Somehow, all the feeling had left his legs. And his arms. And the rest of his body too. He transcended the material plane from hotness overload.

“Uh,” He coughed awkwardly, voice embarrassingly high at first, “yes?”

Angel From The Heavens Bedecked In Black quirked a brow in amusement, twirling a pen in those long, elegant fingers that gave Kagami thoughts. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

“Yes?” Kagami said, before flushing and saying more decisively, “Yes. I’m— I’m alright.”

“Excellent,” he said, and that smile was all pearly teeth. Kagami hastily suppressed a whimper. “Are you checking in? It’s a bit busy tonight but we do have some rooms available.” He leaned forward and his smile turned conspiratory. “I’ve been told our accommodations are to die for.”

Oh gods. A hot man was smirking at him like they were sharing secrets. Be cool Kagami, be cool.

“Uh, single bed. Overnight. Please?” Kagami managed. What are words? What are sentences? What is coherency in the face of perfection? Oh gods, he’s an English Major with a fancy degree and everything! He should be better than this!

“Name?” Those elegant fingers stop twirling their pen and come to rest on a ledger. There was a bit of brown ink spotting the corner it seems.

“Uchiha Kagami.” This was easy, he could do this, the routine of checking into hostels and motels was one he had down pat by now.

Angel Bedecked In Black hummed appreciatively, like it wasn’t destroying the structural integrity of Kagami’s knees. “It means reflection, right?” He looked up from the ledger through his lashes. “It suits you. You have very expressive eyes.”

Kagami could hear the last of his dignity wail its deathcry in the distance, and he didn’t care at all. He was too busy trying to swoon discreetly. Angel Bedecked In Black was hot and smart!

“I’m Tobirama,” the Angel introduced himself, “it’s nice to meet you.”

“N-nice to meet you too!” Kagami stuttered, “I like your name too!”

Oh hell, what did he just say. Oh hell, Tobirama was looking curious. Better commit, Kagami thought in despair, why did I do this to myself?

“It means the space between two doors, yeah?” Kagami drew on every inch of his fancy English degree for the bit of bullshit he was about to say. “It, um, it speaks of possibilities?” He winced at his own lame comment.

Instead of losing all interest, Tobirama looked intrigued.

“I’ve never thought of it that way before,” he said, shifting his weight onto his elbows, his chin on his knuckles, and peered at Kagami like he was something fascinating and unknown.

Kagami willed himself to stay cool.

It was all for naught when the front door opened and he jumped like a startled cat. He turned in reflex and squeaked in alarm as something big, blue, and gilled trudged into the lobby trailing pondweed.

Tobirama tsked irritably, “Really, Kisame? I just mopped these floors.”

“Sorry, Senju, was running a little late,” Kisame shrugged cheerfully. “‘Sides, I think it lends a certain aesthetic, you know?”

As the two fell to bickering Kagami was distracted as, unbidden, the image of Tobirama with a mop rose in his mind. Those elegant, strong hands firmly wrapped around the handle, shoulders flexing under that thin, black turtleneck, maybe even the sleeves rolled up to his elbows?

He squeaked again as a blue, gilled face suddenly loomed right in front of him, dispelling his happy fantasy.

“Hey, a newbie!” Big and blue— Kisame? — grinned and holy hell, those were sharp teeth! “Sorry about startling you out there, I guess it is kind of dark out,” He scratched his cheek sheepishly, looking so genuinely contrite Kagami automatically reached out to pat his shoulder before his brain caught up.

“It’s okay!” Kagami smiled weakly. “I might have overreacted anyway.”

“Nah, you should always treat suspicious things in the dark like threats to your life,” Kisame gave him a thumbs up and changed the subject while he was still gaping. “Hey, this cranky ass isn’t giving you a hard time is he?”

“I am perfectly capable of being civil, Kisame,” Tobirama growled, and wow, Kagami had no idea you could feel sounds with your spine before. This night was turning out to be very educational. “I’m running a successful hostel in case you missed it.”

“From lack of competition maybe!” Kisame laughed. “Certainly not your customer service, crankybutt!”

Tobirama narrowed his eyes, and at this point Kagami felt like he really needed to intervene before his Angel Bedecked In black became his Demon Bedecked In Black. He’s not sure that would be a deterrent actually.

“Tobirama’s been really nice to me, actually,” Kagami hastily interjected, “but, um, thanks for making sure I’m okay? Again, I mean.”

“Oho! Has he really?” Kisame looked disproportionately delighted at this information, Kagami felt. Then Kisame rocked back on his heels, still grinning, “I’m just gonna…leave you to your cutie then. Hope you survive the night, kid!”

“I’m twenty-three!” Kagami spluttered. Curse his babyface! And curse everyone who pointed it out. He sulked.

Kisame just winked at him and sauntered down the hall, whistling cheerfully.

“Ignore him, Kagami,” Tobirama patted his arm and his mind immediately blanked. “Kisame has a strange sense of humor.”

“Um, okay?” Kagami said helplessly, watching as Tobirama opened a drawer and pulled out a room key.

“Come on,” Tobirama said, laying a hand on the small of Kagami’s back. “Your room’s over here, just past the lounge.”

There was something strange about these hallways, Kagami noticed, faintly, under the hyperfocus on the hand on his spine, something strange that ate sound. He noticed this because the short hallway leading from the lobby to lounge— and how was this place even big enough for a lounge? It looked so tiny outside —was completely, creepily quiet while the lounge was raucous and loud as several people argued at the top of their lungs and someone was either slamming on a piano or something large and eldritch was moaning in pain.

Luckily for Kagami’s sanity it turned out to be a piano. Unluckily for Kagami’s sanity it was a fucking grim reaper doing it.

“Get away from that fucking piano, Hidan, my ears are bleeding! You’re paying to have them replaced you little shit!” A tall— man? —a tall man covered in stitches roared at the furious skeleton throwing a tantrum on the piano.

“SHUT IT, BITCH! YOUR SCIENCE-BORN ASS IS BLASPHEMY IN THE FACE OF JASHIN!” Hidan screeched, somehow, even though by all rights he shouldn’t even have vocal cords.

“You’re blasphemy in face of silence, un! Shut the fuck up!”

Was that…? Yes, it was. There was indeed a pretty, blonde someone huddled in the chandelier like their life depended on it.

Tobirama ushered Kagami to his other side and banged on the door until he had their attention. “There are other guests in the building, show some common courtesy and keep it down!” He hissed.

“Why don’t you tell it to him!” The tall, stitched man pointed at the cackling skeleton angrily.

“You were all making a racket, Kakuzu,” Tobirama said levelly. “Deidara, get off the chandelier, you’re going to get clay in the joints again.”

Hidan threw his scythe at Tobirama who didn’t even flinch when in buried itself in the doorway. Kagami yelped and ducked, then furiously tried to pretend he hadn’t

“Lord Jashin’s going to fuck you up in the afterlife, Senju!” He cackled.

“I wish him luck getting me there,” Tobirama sniffed.

Deidara flopped onto the ground, bending in ways that were distinctly inhuman before straightening up, “Hey, is that a newbie, un?”

“Uh, hi?” Kagami waved weakly over Tobirama’s shoulder.

Deidara grinned widely, and perhaps a bit manically. “We didn’t scare you off, did we?”

“No?” Kagami said uncertainly, glancing at Tobirama for comfort. He was in dire need of comfort because he’d left his happy zone in the last town he visited.

“That’s the spirit!” Deidara gave him victory salute, “Or, heh, the necromancer, rather,” he said with a sly glance in Tobirama’s direction.

Tobirama’s expression went flat.

“Kakuzu, control these idiots,” He ordered and Kakuzu immediately bristled.

“Like hell! I don’t have to listen to you!” He snarled.

Tobirama closed the lounge door with a ‘hmph!’ Yet more angry screaming was heard inside but it was muffled now.

“Does he really have to listen to you?” Kagami asked, edging a bit closer.

“Of course, he’s my cousin,” Tobirama said, instantly shifting from annoyed to soothing. “Parts of him,” he muttered, but that was just Kagami’s imagination, right? Right.

“Ah, here we are,” Tobirama directed them to an innocuous door right across and slightly down the hall from the lounge just like he said. An innocuous door that led to an innocuous room with an innocuous bed. Kagami’s knees went weak for reasons other than Tobirama.

“Thanks for escorting me, Tobirama,” Kagami turned to smile at him, “I’d have hated to get lost.”

Tobirama smiled back. “It was no hardship. I didn’t want the other guests to give you any trouble. Some of them are more unruly than others.”

Kagami chuckled weakly, “Oh, no worries. If anything happens I’ll just scream.”

“Not quite how I envisioned you screaming for me but I suppose needs must,” Tobirama tugged on a frozen Kagami’s curls with a teasing smirk. “I’ll see you in the morning Kagami.”

Kagami stared at the closed door, trying not to hyperventilate. This hostel, it was all too much for him. He scrambled for his phone and frantically dialled a familiar number.

“Shisui! Shisui, you will not believe this! I just met the hottest guy!”

Backpacking across Fire Country is looking to be his best decision yet.

#sumigakure #pandafleur #sumigakure halloween event 2017: prompt 15 #Sumigakure Halloween Event 2017 #rank: b #rated: t #submission

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safrona-shadowsun · 7 years

Text

Handle With Care

A delivery had made its way to the Courier’s doorstep sometime in the night with nothing more than a brief set of instructions that read as follows.

“For the Gravekeeper in the Ruins of Lordaeron.”

Enclosed was an intricately hand-crafted tea set to either replace or add to the weathered table setting in the ruins. Although it was a kind and genuine gesture toward the Gravekeep, there was more malicious intent embedded in arranging for the Courier to deliver it personally.

(Image Source)

Stepping fresh from the bath, Safrona stilled in her bare steps as she felt the evening breeze flow against her, the sheen curtain of the balcony of the Ledgermaine suite billowing gently to draw her attention fully. “I know I shut you…” she chided the glass door in a mutter, stepping over to quickly rectify the mistake. Yet another surprise awaited her in the form of a simple chest, tied off elegantly in a crimson ribbon. “Really….?” she questioned incredulously, already searching for the smooth, magic-tinged metal of her datapad. Apparently someone waited until the dead of night to prompt the Courier for delivery. No notification, no organization, no return address.

Annoyed as she was, her work ethic took precedence. A package was in need of transport, and she had been trusted with its care, personally. Lifting the lid of the chest to assure someone was not trying to use her services for something too incriminating, she was almost amused to see the finely crafted tea set within, tuxedo black and ivory bone. Paying little mind to the details of who she was delivering to, Safrona re-dressed in her riding robes and drew on her scarlet cloak, setting out to fulfill the payed request.

It was only when the Scarlet Courier landed, when she found herself wandering through nameless gravestones in the Ruins of Lordaeron that she began to see less strange a circumstance in delivery, and more herself being moved like a pawn upon a game board for another’s amusement. As the fog would divide to reveal the lone shambling figure of the Forsaken Gravekeep, Safrona felt a bit of bile make itself known in the back of her throat. Someone made a cruel move indeed…

What tasted worst was the familiarity, the way the dead grass crunched beneath her booted feet, the sick-sweet smell of peacebloom that still tried to grow under the permeating fog of death, spoiling the natural. The ethereal chatter of Lost of Lordaeron was at first inseparable from the creak of branches, or the rustle of leaves, but her darker, driven senses were drawn in to hear them as more, too aware of what became a lament, a whisper, a question. The Gravekeep was listening too, head tilting, before turning slightly to pull Safrona into the view of those haunting, lantern eyes.

Vacant yellow eyes, illuminated like fireflies. Safrona looked away.

This was ridiculous. The thing should have been in the ground, Safrona thought, as she had intended just a few scant years ago. Dead. Forgotten. Was this some mean-spirited meeting brought on by Bwonsamdi? Had she erred since her joining among the Perished, earned some punishment to be drawn here, made to face this? Was it a test, then? Were not the Undead abominations in the eyes of Bwonsamdi, even? Her frame of thought continued to spin silently, make sense of the intention, the delivery, seek guidance beyond the weeping sound of forgotten souls. There had barely been anything left of Annaliese Handhour to resurrect in the first place, burned as she was to rid all sign of the malefic Sha, and yet someone saw it fit to put some mockery of her together…somehow. A soulless construct, perhaps meant to be put to rest again. Perhaps this was her task, setting things rig–

“~~Hello~~” the Forsaken greeted in her resonant singsong, snapping the Courier out of thought. The thing spoke. And smiled her split-cheeked smile, pallorless. Shambling forward to stand before the staring Courier, the Keeper’s ragged garments hid the mismatched state of her form, though her ungracefulness did not seem to lessen her strange cheer. All that held its touch of deathly elegance was the veil of shadow that was her spectral hair, and the train of Lost of Lordaeron that followed her steps. Still, despite her state of undeath, Anna’s face had always been prone to gentle expression, and it was no different than now. “My ghosties tell me we have a visitor! It’s not quite so often we have the living he–”

“You have a delivery,” Safrona stated quickly, firmly, devoid of her usual practiced smile, fingers balled tight into fists at her side.

“A…delivery?” Anna echoed.

A gesture behind the elf confirmed the answer. “A delivery.” The Voidwalker that accompanied her in the Glades set the gifted chest down finally, and for some reason she could feel her hold on it weakening, as if her magics were lessened in the closer presence of the Keeper. Or perhaps she was simply worn, ready for sleep hours ago. Habits for the living. She watched with dwindling patience as the Gravekeep inspected the beast of the Void that served her, rather than the box.

“Oooh now, you aren’t quite a ghost, are you?” The Voidwalker was of course largely unresponsive as Anna tittered, terribly interested in how it came to be. Forsaken blinked at Hathkath, and the Voidwalker stared back blankly at Forsaken. At long last, the demon uttered a single line with all the deep baritone it could muster, a touch of befuddlement in its own voice, as if it were to convince itself of the following: “I am the Voiiiiiiiiid….”

“Ooh dear,” Anna murmured, blinking once more owlishly, perplexed. “Maybe you’re more a haunt than I thought…”

A deep inhale and slow exhale, and Safrona dismissed the demon, “Just… open the box, alright?”

Straightening as much as her disheveled parts would let her, the Gravekeep seemed to murmur coercively to the ground she stood on. Then, padding her bony fingertips together in a delightedly silent clap, both Courier and Keeper watched as assisting skeletal hands broke the surface of the soil to crawl up the sides of the chest to unlatch it for their requester. “Oh marvelous…marvelous and…!” There was an unneeded gasp as the gift inside was revealed, Anna reaching in to delicately take the handsomely crafted tea kettle in hand. “These are….new?!”

“…you could…have opened the lid yourself,” Safrona informed with a slight frown as the deathly hands waved their goodbyes, and dug themselves back into the earth below the Gravekeep’s feet. “That was…really just….”

“Lovely!” The Gravekeep finished blithely, now beaming as she brought out a teacup in the other hand. “Oh look at this then! Not one. Single. Crack! Hehee…”

“Little miracles, I suppose,” the Courier replied a little dryly. “And, business is at its end, I suppose. So I’ll be on my way, yes?”

“Oh no! No no, you’ll have to stay. And have tea.” Anna nodded to confirm this rather sagely. “You did do such a marvelous job…delivering this to me! That…is what you do?” A little titter. “Madam deliverer! Allow me to repay the kindness with some tea!”

“…not a tea drinker.” Her decisive walk away was hindered by the dozens of skeletal hands following in her wake, trying to grasp to her feet, echoing the desire for her to stay.

“But you muuust! Simply must! I have a lovely rose hip tea you’ll be dying to try!”

In the land of the Forsaken, what were innocent words from the Gravekeep was cause for concern in the Courier. “Sweet shadows fine, fine…as long as you’ll let me put some whiskey in the cup, because…trust me, I need it…”

“…whiskey. Is that a sort of tea as well…?”

“….gods help me.”

{ A challenge to write, certainly. Saf will be…disturbed for a while afterward – I expect there will be some impressions too. I look forward to see what @sanguinesorceress has in store for these two next… }

{Mentions of @theperished-wra }

#IC #Safwriting #The Courier and the Gravekeep #The Conniving Sorceress #Alot of thought put into much of this #{Also Anna cracks me up}#submission

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slushblock · 7 years

Text

Fell - Chapter 2 - Notes...

Okay, so I really wasn’t planning on continuing this so soon, but I had a fairly meh day at work that was only survived by the fact that about half of this - in particular, the dialogue - wrote itself and kept me amused. You’d be surprised how often that happens with my writing; or maybe not, considering how infrequently I do it.

When I said it wouldn’t be a continuous story, I more meant it wasn’t going to be a day-by-day gradual thing. There are still a few more things to do before I feel it’s sufficiently tied in with the rest of my stuff.

Weather’s cooling down so maybe I can draw responses again soon. Until then, have a thing. It’s a bit longer than the other one but that’s because it’s mostly banter.

Axl woke up. Not to grass and the canopy of a strange, magical forest, but to the familiarity of his own bed and room.

At least, as familiar as a bed and room could be that he’d built himself over a week ago, in the matter of less than a day. He still didn’t quite believe it, but he’d stopped constantly questioning things after the third night.

He rolled his eyes and sat up, examining his arms and chest. Yep, all still intact. Just like every other time, yet he couldn’t shake the habit of checking. Even his dark gray armor had little more than scratches in it, and those were just because he was bad at making good looking armor.

It also felt nice to be dry. Axl glanced to the window, at the pouring rain he was just out in. He never liked the rain; he liked it even less when he had to wear armor, and even less with the ridiculous giant killer fish that came out during this weather.

He kicked his legs over the bed and stood up, reaching into his coin pouch and depositing whatever he had left in the bank on the dresser. Stretching his arms over his head with a yawn, he headed down the stairs to the workroom. An anvil and forge were located conspicuously in the center, on a reinforced stone floor, with a brick chimney to vent the forge’s heat and smoke.

The guide was sitting by the forge, reading a book and seeming oblivious to Axl’s arrival. Axl scowled, but appreciated it. All the better to not get some snide lecture as he went to sit himself down at one of the other tables. He picked up a small book of his own, a journal he’d started to keep, and flipped it open, jotting down a quick note. “Fell. Again. Of course,” me muttered, sarcastically, before tossing the book back down on the table with a hefty sigh, kicking his feet up.

Axl looked over at the large clock he’d built. 7:24 pm. Good. It was about time to head back down, anyway. Not that he wanted to be out there in the rain again any time soon. He reached into the small bag at his waist and pulled out a strange, shiny scroll, unrolling it and going over its contents for a bit, to make sure he had everything he needed before descending to his inevitable something-th death in the caverns below.

The clock ticked, almost slower for the wait, after Axl put the scroll away and stared at it. He knew he could go down now, but he needed some time to collect his bearings and remember his paths.

Tick… Tick… Tick… There. The minute hand hit 30 and Axl stood up. He didn’t have high hopes, but it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Maybe he’d find something genuinely worthwhile one day.

However, just as he was about to kick open the trapdoor by the loom, the guide looked up sharply and snapped his book shut. The sudden movement caused Axl to pause and glance over, just as the other man stood up and quickly walked over to the door. Axl flailed slightly and reached into his bag, pulling out a silver sword that had no business fitting in a bag of that size, looking manic, “I swear to GOD if you’re letting in wet zombies-!”

“Don’t swear to the gods here,” the guide smiled as he pulled the door open, “You’ll regret having ever known they existed.”

Axl was ready to fight, but instead of a soggy, shambling corpse, a girl in her late-teens stumbled in.

Where she stumbled in from was anybody’s guess, but Axl’s best guess was from a grungy punk rock concert. Or, at least, a grungy punk rock garage. Leather jacket, fishnets under ripped denim pants, very, very short white hair, and a few too many piercings. Most notably, though, was a bright red, if beat-up v-shaped guitar hanging off her shoulder with a rose-and-thorns strap, which couldn’t have been good to be poured on by the rain like it was.

“What… the crap,” she gasped for breath, ignoring the fact that she’d just run into a stranger’s cabin in the woods to begin shouting, “Were those... zombies?!”

“A shining welcome to you, too,” the guide smiled, as he closed the door behind her. As if to accentuate her question, a loud scratching and snarling could be heard against the wood of the door and the walls outside, though it was soon drowned out by the gradually strengthening downpour. The girl gave a start, suddenly very keenly aware that she was being stared at. She looked around, bewildered.

Axl held up a hand in a half-wave, expression awkward, “Uh… hey.”

The girl took a moment to absorb the scene around her, from the utilitarian furnishings including but not restricted to an anvil, a loom, and a sawbench, but to the strangely nondescript guy who’d let her in, and the armored dork with his hand up, “...Okay, am I going crazy?“ She began, before a realization clicked, “...What are you wearing?” She peered at Axl’s armor, “Is that… lead?”

“No!” Axl reflexively snapped at the ludicrous question, before realizing he was in a ludicrous world, and she was, in fact, correct, “...Well... ...Yeah. Sort of.” He put his hand behind his head, embarrassed, “Doesn’t really feel like it, though.” He gestured with a thumb over to the guide, “Stronger than copper. Genius over there said it was stronger than iron, but I never found any-”

The girl just stared at him, looking somewhat mortified. This man was a loony.

The rain punctuated the uncomfortable silence like an inelegantly long string of ellipses, before Axl decided to break it in an ever so slightly more awkward fashion, “So, uh…” He held up his arms, gesturing toward her in a half-shrugging manner, “...Who... are you?”

The girl sighed heavily. Okay, he was a loony, but at least he seemed like a genuine and mostly harmless loony, “...Aura. Just call me Aura.”

“Actually,” The guide piped up, having returned to his seat by the forge, book in hand, “it’s Anna Paulette-Rhodes Anderson.” He smiled, wryly, opening his book and beginning to read it, “Aura’s her stage name.”

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa!” Aura threw her arms up as she whirled to face the other man, looking horrified, “Cool it with the creepy-”

The guide idly flipped a page, not looking up, “Her band name’s None of Your-”

“Okay, holy crap, STOP-” She unslung the guitar from her shoulder, gripping it tightly and looking just about ready to wield it as a weapon, “How do… Who are you!?” When she got no further response, she turned to Axl, eyes wide, “Who is this creep!?”

Axl felt a little bad for her, but at this point, he knew how she felt a little too much to correctly display his sympathy, “Hell if I know. He hasn’t told me, either.”

The girl’s eyes darted between them, before she relaxed, slightly, hesitantly slinging the guitar back over her shoulder, “Fine, whatever,” she tried to ignore the man who had returned to reading his book and pretending to be oblivious, and turned to Axl, “You?”

“Axl,” he began, before shooting a glance over at the guide and adding, “… Colin Eyre,” before the smarmy fellow could add it for him.

That was enough to get Aura to relax fully “...Haha, cool,” she mumbled, running her hand over her hair, “Axl, like in Guns ‘n-”

“-Don’t.” Axl snapped, before looking apologetic, “...Yes. My mom was a huge fan.” Saying that, though, his face contorted in realization, “...Ugh, I haven’t even thought about…” He pulled his helmet off and held it under his arm, running his armored fingers through his hair, “I’ve been gone so long, everyone’s probably worried sick… I’ve been dying so much I didn’t even think about-”

Aura tensed up again, “Wait, what?” She sounded genuinely shocked, somehow more than before, “Dying!?”

“Yeah, I… ...o-ohhh…” Axl trailed off, expression going grim, then worried, then very, very uncomfortable as he took in a sharp breath through his teeth, ”...oh. Right.”

He knew things looked weird but the tension in the room made it feel like it had just gotten a lot worse, and it was already pretty bad, “Look it’s hard to explain, but… Ever since I got here, I…” He began, before his own thought process derailed him on a sudden tangent, “...wait, how did you get here?”

She hesitated, glancing sidelong at the guide, who continued to say nothing, but his insufferably knowing smile said more than words. “Well, since there’s no hiding anything from King Stalker Creep over there anyway,” Gritting her teeth, she finally managed to hiss out, “I was setting up to play at a venue and,” It almost seemed physically painful for her to admit, “Well, okay, shut up, fine, I usually steal crap from the venues I play at, and while I was rummaging through the drawers in the dressing room I found this weird mirror, and-”

Axl’s expression darkened as he looked towards the ground, “Another one…” He mumbled, almost inaudibly and not meaning to interrupt her story, but doing so all the same. Aura blinked.

“Heh, I guess you found one too, huh?” Her eye and cheek twitched slightly, vaguely annoyed but also somewhat relieved that she wasn’t suffering this alone. Speaking of suffering... “Well, whatever. What’s this you said about dying, again?”

“Oh, right… It’s kind of hard to explain, but…” Axl helplessly gestured over to the book on the table, “Well, I guess that’ll explain it. Sort of.” He put his helmet back on, a little too roughly and with a quiet “ow” before adding, “It should at least give you an idea what you’ve gotten yourself into…” He paused, looking at her confused expression, before feeling guilty, “...completely on accident.”

Aura shook her head and dropped her soaked guitar on the ground, string-side to the table with a twang that made even Axl cringe and whisper “oh god” before she shrugged and muttered, “Don’t worry about it, it’s an old piece of crap anyway.” She picked up the journal. On the cover was scrawled, in awful handwriting, the words “Death Notes”.

“Great, a friggin’ weeb,” she mumbled under her breath as she opened it. And frowned. The handwriting inside wasn’t much better.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” she idly dismissed, before quickly glancing across a few pages. Her eyes narrowed a bit, unsettled but with an appropriate amount of morbid curiosity, “You know, I can’t help but notice like a third of these just say “Fell.””

“Look,” Axl shot, defensively, before adjusting his glasses, “...Look, my prescription is at least three years out of date, and it’s dark down there. Even WITH torches.”

“Uh-huh,” she didn’t believe him, as she started looking a bit more closely at the more unique entries, “What’s a chasm creatur-”

“-purple place, ”Axl cut her off, looking momentarily mortified, “dontwannatalkbouddit.”

Aura’s eyes went slightly wider, before she half-rolled them, “Oookay,” she continued to read, “...Slime... bats... piran-… ...’Giant effing spinning skull’-” she snapped the book shut, “-look, are you kidding me?!” Aura slammed the book down on the table, only to shudder at a particularly loud gurgling hiss and rattle on the door from outside.

“I mean… just listen to what’s going on out there. You saw it yourself on your way in.” Axl’s expression was genuinely pained, if only because it hurt to not be believed after he’d gone through all that himself, “I’m not joking.” He gestured to the door, shoulders drooping, “It’s been like that every night, and that’s not the worst of it here. I really wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, but it’s how I gotta live, now.” His head lowered to match his low shoulders, “And how I, apparently, gotta die.”

“And you… remember every death?” The girl seemed to be warming up, somewhat horrified to think about what that must have been like considering some of the more… detailed entries she’d managed to catch a glance of, “Like, you wake up... and remember how you died?”

“Yeah,” he forced an apologetically pained smirk, adjusting his glasses, “My death perception really sucks.”

After a brief pause, Aura rolled her eyes with a groan, whispering to herself, “Oh, son of a-”

“Oh come on!” Axl slapped his thigh, the loud clang from the metal on metal making him go “ow-!” again, only slightly louder this time. Taking a moment for his ears to stop ringing, he continued, “After watching your innards become outards at least four times in about a week, what other way is there to cope than to try to find a way to laugh about it afterward?”

“I can think of a few things..,” Aura scowled. She still felt very bad at how very honest this guy’s words felt, but at the same time it was all way too far-fetched for her the more she thought about it, “Ugh, I can’t believe this. This has got to be some kind of elaborate joke. A really bad one.” She pulled out her phone; a slick black smartphone, and tried to turn it on. It wouldn’t. “Oh, come on- are you KIDDING? I JUST charged you!”

“Hah, feel my pain, I thought the same thing,” Axl threw his arms out to the side in exasperation before pulling out his own dead phone to hold it up, while looking at hers, “Man, that’s fancy-looking. Where’d you get th-”

“Whoa, WHOA, let me see that!” Before Axl could muster any exclamation of resistance, she rushed over and snatched the old flip-phone from his hand to examine more closely, “Holy crap, this is ancient. Why do you even have something this ol-” She turned it over to see the stickers on the back, “...You have… Dragon Ball Z stickers… on your phone.”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with th-”

“Oh my-” She quickly thrust the phone back in his direction, eyes wide and staring off vaguely in the direction of the ground. As he took the phone back, she clutched the side of her head with the hand that was holding it, “Holy crap, you are a weeb. I’m stuck in an actual goddamn zombie apocalypse with a friggin’ weeb.”

Axl scowled a bit, though more out of confusion than actual offense, “Look, I don’t even know what that is, but I can tell from your tone it’s an insult and I’d really rather you didn’t-”

Aura stared at him, palms up in an exasperated gesture, “How could you not know? You don’t look that much older than me!”

“That…” Axl half-mimiced her posture and hand movements, feeling rattled, “...doesn’t mean a thing-??”

Aura groaned frustratedly, rubbing her forehead, “Frigging- I guess it makes sense that you don’t have internet with a phone that crap-”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea!” the guide suddenly piped up from his seat by the fire, causing both of them to jump. They’d gotten so engaged in their conversation - mostly due to Axl being genuinely thrilled to get to talk to another human who seemed to have come from the real world, as irritated as he was getting with the way the conversation had turned - that they’d forgotten he was there. “Why don’t you, Ax, say what year it is?”

“How does that-?” Axl started, but cut himself off with a sigh, seeing the guide’s condescending smile and head-tilt, “2008.”

“...You’re out of your mind. It’s 2014.” Aura moved her hand from her forehead to her face, mumbling under her breath, “Sweet merciful Horus, why am I stuck with this-”

“Wha- No it’s not! It can’t be!” Axl tried to bring his own hand to his head, only to clang his helmet and look extremely startled and displeased by that before taking the helmet back off and dropping it on the table for the time being, “I know this is magic nonsense land, but there’s no way I was here for that long!”

“Never said you were,” the guide interjected before going back to his book. He seemed very amused by the banter as he chuckled to himself. Both Axl and Aura glared at him, at least coming to one unspoken agreement in that neither of them liked him.

“Forget it, I shouldn’t be surprised by anything anymore,” Axl droned, frustrated, throwing his arms up before reaching into his bag, “Whatever. I suppose if you’re going to hang here, at least for a little while, I might as well build you your own room…”

“First, what makes you think I want to stay here, second, how the Hell do you just build a roo- what is that?” Aura’s indignance was cut short upon seeing Axl pull the scroll out of the bag, which seemed far too small to contain it.

“This?” Axl looked down at it quizzically, as if only just then registering that it didn’t exactly look like an average run-of-the-mill tool, “It’s... hard to explain…” He unrolled it, turning it around to show Aura. There were a number of small symbols, almost like pictographs - a few accompanied by rune-like numbers - scattered about the strangely reflective paper in a grid, “You probably have one, yourself. Just reach into an empty pocket or whatever while expecting it, and it should be there.”

The girl didn’t even think to believe such a claim, but just to humor this crazy man, she did just that. She was surprised to find that she did, in fact, possess such a scroll, “What the-?” She opened it, and furrowed her brow upon finding it was empty; just a strangely silvery, grid-like framework. “What is it?”

Axl shrugged, “Some sort of weird bag-of-holding thing. Extremely useful, as you could guess,” he gestured over to the guide with his head. Though still feeling tense and uneasy, he could at least appreciate that the earlier argument had diffused into this, “It’s one of the few objects Mr. Smart-Alec over there can’t explain in depth and with any certainty.” He closed his own scroll, but didn’t return it to his pocket, instead holding it in its rolled state.

The guide added idly, not to be shown up, “The working hypothesis is that it’s somehow linked to the mirrors that brought you two here.” He held up his hands with a strangely accepting smile, “I may know nearly everything about this world, and then some, but certain mysteries are still hidden from even me.”

“Yeah, well,” Axl shrugged, “I don’t think it matters how or why it works, just that it does.”

The guide half-nodded before regarding Aura, “When you arrived there were some tools nearby for you to pick up, but you probably missed them looking for shelter from the rain and zombies.” He pointed in the direction of the door with his thumb, “When the morning breaks, you might want to go back and get the-”

“Don’t bother, that stuff’s crap anyway,” Axl mumbled as he began to head up the stairs, “I have enough leftover materials to probably make you some better stuff. Hell, there’s a silver bow and some arrows in that chest by the anvil,” he pointed, “Made it for myself, but turns out I’m a godawful shot, but who knows, maybe you’ll be better.”

As the strange, armored man disappeared to the higher floors, Aura plunked down on the chair, feeling defeated by absolutely everything. With a sigh and an idle kick at her guitar, she picked up Axl’s journal of deaths and started reading through it again… this time, more thoroughly.

Was this what she had to look forward to..?

#the wall of text has awoken #long post #terraria #still waiting for someone to catch what this is actually about 83c #or... rather...#i've outlined the major events #and it looks like there will be three more chapters #of indeterminate length #fell story

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inktae · 8 years

Text

limbo

↳ guardian angel au (reposted)

◇ pairing: taehyung | reader ◇ genre: angst ◇ word count: 10.418 ◇ warnings: alcohol mention, violence

Am I dead?

The first words that rise above your cloudy thoughts find their answer immediately, eyes slowly opening as they grow accustomed to the colors, too bright, too vibrant. Almost resonating in your ears, the images twirl in seamless waves, gradually forming shapes and lines as you blink repeatedly.

The world unveils right in front of you, and even though the scenery feels familiar, there’s something outlandish about it, about the way the people walk and speak and laugh, as if the world that you used to hold between your fingers was snatched right out of your hands. You feel like an intruder, like a watcher of the humans that walk past you without giving you a second glance.

You suppose that in some way, you are a watcher. The memories you hold of the afterlife are faint and blurry, as if coming back to the human world made them break into tiny pieces, glimpses of unearthly shapes and colors. You still managed to hold onto some small remnants of the other world, words and fuzzy reflections forming in your mind as you try to recall the conversations you had with the ethereal beings, whose faces you’re unable to remember.

The only thing you know is that you’re dead, and that the human world does not belong to you anymore.

“Taehyung, hurry, let’s go,”

The harsh, whispered words are too loud in your ears, and you turn towards the source of the voice, your previous confusion only growing bigger as your eyes fixate on the boys that are exiting a store in hurried steps. Your eyes zone in on the tallest of them, dirty blonde hair caressed by the wind as he gives his two friends a bright, boxy smile.

“Don’t give me that look,” the tall boy says, almost tripping as his friends push his back to briskly walk away of the store, feet thumping loudly against the sidewalk. “I’ve done this a thousand times — I won’t get caught now.”

You follow them, your legs dragging you on their own as you keep your eyes on the back of the blond. Your steps almost falter every time someone walks through you, and even though the sensation is new, it’s not surprising— it’s as if you know it’s supposed to be like this, as if your soul already accepted its new ghostly form before your mind did.

The pull you feel towards the tall boy is not bizarre either, and even though the thoughts in your head are barely starting to make sense, you know it’s the right thing to follow his steps as his friends drag him through the crowded streets of the city. After a few minutes you find yourselves in a secluded alley, dark and filthy looking, a place you would have avoided like the plague during your living years.

The tall boy sneaks one of his hands under his jacket while the other two wait anxiously, almost jumping on their spot. Your gaze follows his teasing movements as he finally pulls out two packets of cigarettes, reflexes acting fast as he quickly steps away from the grabbing motions of one of his friends.

“Nope,” he mutters, smirking at the grumbling boys. “You gotta pay.”

One of his companions take a step towards the blond, who doesn’t even flinch under the cold gaze of the other. “What the fuck? You said we only had to watch your back—”

“Hey, I was the one that stole this,” he lifts his eyebrows, wiggling the boxes with one hand as he extends the other with its palm up. “Money. I’m charging you half of what they actually cost, come on.”

The other two look at each other for a couple of seconds, a dejected look appearing on their faces. It contrasts with the tall boy’s satisfied grin as they give him the money, and this time he allows the other two to take the cigarettes out of his hand.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you guys. Hey, you could share one with me— where’re you going?” the grin on the blond’s face vanishes as the other two start to walk away, not without throwing another glare behind their back.

“Fuck off,” one of them says, leaving the tall boy completely alone as they merge with the rest of the pedestrians that hurriedly stride down the packed streets, disappearing in a heartbeat.

The boy sighs, and it’s with a sudden wave of warmth that you realize it’s only you and him now. The thought makes you bite your lip nervously, your chest fluttering dimly as if you still had a beating heart under your ribcage.

Suddenly surrounded by an eerie silence, you allow your eyes to examine his figure profusely, from the disheveled blonde strands to his long lashes and alluring dark eyes, the smooth slope of his nose and his soft looking lips that are pursed in a tight line, his previous smile completely gone. The boy is wearing a jagged leather jacket and equally dark jeans, and it’s with a long sigh that he takes another package and a lighter out of his back pocket, quickly lighting up a cigarette that he starts smoking smoothly. He inhales the smoke slowly before exhaling in quiet, practiced movements.

You don’t know why there’s a sudden tightness in your lungs, stiffening and constricting and almost making you believe that you need air to breathe. You haven’t dared look at your own body yet— only able to focus on the boy in front of you as a strange, darkened cloud floats around him. It’s denser than the smoke he filters through his pursed lips, and something about it makes you want to take a step back and avert your eyes.

You do neither. You choose to stay frozen instead, gaze going back to the boy’s eyes that seem to be focused somewhere faraway from here, too immersed in the thoughts that have materialized in the air, almost choking him as they swirl heavily around his lean frame.

It should feel strange, how you suddenly know exactly what to do, but your movements are natural and your mind’s at peace as you lift one of your hands, hesitantly, slowly, your thoughts finally turning clearer as your eyes take in the image of your transparent, ghostly hand softly touching the boy’s shoulder.

Taehyung’s shoulder. He doesn’t know you, and he probably never will, but his name feels warm and familiar, and you can’t contain yourself from whispering it, a soft murmur that makes some of the heavy mist start to vanish.

Taehyung blinks, snapping back to reality as he glances around, searching for something he’s unable to find. His lips part slightly in deep confusion, a faint frown between his eyebrows as he tries to make sense of the unusual, almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere.

“Taehyung,” you repeat his name, a little bit louder this time, and even though he’s unable to hear your voice, you know a sixth sense inside of him is stirring, flickering, the murky fog turning clearer until there are only hazy remnants hovering weakly.

Taehyung’s eyes are not so dark anymore, and you know the stifling, heavy thoughts he was drowning in have gone back to the back of his head, hidden again as he focuses on the present.

He lets the unfinished cigarette fall to the floor, stepping on it briefly before exhaling a shuddering breath.

“Huh,” he says softly, and your nonexistent heart flutters again when the ghost of a smile makes his lips twitch.

When Taehyung leaves the lonely alley you follow him again, your feet almost floating above the pavement as your eyes focus on the comfortable sight of his tall figure. He walks energetically, as if ready to go through another day as the natural lights of the sky reflect on his darkened sunglasses.

And even though your memories are a fuzzy jumble in your head, even though the images of your previous life are mere patches of broken pictures and the brief encounter with the afterlife is locked away in some hidden place of your chaotic mind, there’s one thought that’s clearer than the day, emerging from the shambles as you hold onto the certainty and the steadiness of your new feelings: you’re Taehyung’s guardian, a steady, reassuring shadow whose only purpose is to protect him from his own mind, one that holds thoughts both dark and brilliant.

The smile that curves your lips feels warm and genuine, and a faint thought in the back of your head makes you wonder if this is the first time an honest smile lightens up your face.

Being a spirit suddenly doesn’t seem so dreadful anymore. Not when you have a mission, one that concerns a boy that feels familiar and strange at the same time, a boy with a radiant grin and saddened eyes.

And you know that as long as you’re able to clear his ripples of sorrow and make him smile, you’ll be just fine.

“Taehyung…”

After twelve months since you became his guardian, the soft whisperings of his name have now turned completely vacuous, no trace of the faint recognition that usually shone in his eyes whenever you pronounced the word. Now he completely avoids your unearthly presence, and you feel like you’ve turned into nothing more than a small, annoying fly that buzzes around his room, unable to make a sound as you desperately try to get his attention.

Taehyung’s trashing his bedroom recklessly, looking under his bed, opening every drawer, throwing the clothes to the floor as he looks through his wardrobe. He can’t find what he’s looking for, and a nagging thought presses at your mind as the realization hits you, chest clenching painfully— you thought you couldn’t feel any pain as a spirit, but Taehyung seems to turn you more human than ever as your eyes follow his hasty movements, the frustration making your eyes burn as you try to work out a way to calm him down.

“Fuck— fuck him,” Taehyung mutters under his breath, eyes gleaming with fury as he leaves his wrecked bedroom. You follow him hurriedly, heart in your throat as he descends the stairs of his house so fast you fear he might trip and fall.

You thought Taehyung’s darkened aura was bad, but one glance at the living room makes the boy look collected in comparison. You know you’d be coughing up your lungs had you been alive, the smoke clinging to the walls as Taehyung’s father and his friends drink and smoke nonstop. Empty bottles are littered around, some of them broken, and the dangerous pieces that are sticking out make the scene look like hell on earth.

A man with bloodshot eyes and a bottle of beer on his hand stops cackling as he notices Taehyung’s fuming presence from his spot on the jagged couch. “The fuck are you doing here? Go back to your room, kid.”

“Did you take my money?” it’s the only thing Taehyung asks, and the low words laced with danger make a cold shudder run up your back.

The man — one you’ve come to identify as Taehyung’s father, even though you refuse to call him a parent— smiles drunkenly, bloodshot eyes shining with something malicious, and the dark shadows are so thick you have a hard time focusing on his face.

“It was never yours to begin with,” the man slurs before lifting the bottle to his mouth, forgetting about Taehyung’s presence almost immediately.

You approach Taehyung in less than a second, because the fog that surrounds him is swirling frantically now and the way his eyes seem to turn void scares you to no end— but not even the light of your fingers brushing his shoulder are able to diminish the darkness. You call his name again, not knowing what to do— and even though your voice is stronger this time, trying to overcome the strident laughs of the living room, Taehyung doesn’t seem to acknowledge the ghost attached to his side.

He blinks instead, and the smile that slowly starts to curve his mouth is anything but happy.

In the past twelve months, Taehyung’s led a reckless life— always getting himself in precarious situations that only manage to enhance the instability that has always surrounded him. Stealing, drinking, fighting, spray painting any empty surface he can find during lonely nights— Taehyung’s eyes seem to turn unfocused during times like these, when life gets the better of him and makes him snap, and not even Taehyung seems to know exactly what he’s doing: the only thing he knows is that it distracts him, that it makes him feel good, throwing away the consequences as he follows danger and lets its stinging fangs sink into his body.

Only your touch has been able to make him come back to reality, making him blink as the wickedness of his eyes slightly vanishes. You clear his mind of nightmares during the nights, and never let go of his arm whenever his father’s around. It seems to give him some sort of tranquility, and even if he never acknowledged you directly, you always knew he felt your presence, even if he never understood what it was. It was a reassuring thought, how Taehyung’s subconsciousness was aware of the touch of light that always tried to protect him.

Because above all else, you wanted him to be safe, to be happy.

But right now, as you watch the heavy storm consume him as he turns around and goes back upstairs, you can only try not to choke on the guilt, on the frustration that makes your hands shake and your legs buckle.

You can only follow him silently, eyes turning blurry at your inability to help him. Because Taehyung doesn’t know you’re here anymore, as if he finally let go of the hope he used to cling to desperately, finally giving up to the pain that’s been trying to drag him down for so long.

“Taehyung,” you murmur again in a shaky voice, knowing it’s completely useless. The boy’s somber expression makes your heart break into a million pieces as he registers his father’s bedroom, smile appearing again when he lifts a set of keys from the bedside table.

“No, Tae, don’t—” your words vanish when he all but runs out of the room, and you hurry behind him as he jumps down the stairs, long legs taking him to the entrance of the house in mere seconds.

You can hear his father screaming for him as Taehyung closes the door loudly, and your eyes widen when Taehyung quickly approaches his father’s car.

Fuck, he really is going to do it. You gasp when Taehyung’s father suddenly walks through your body, wobbling towards his son as a series of profanities escape his mouth. Taehyung’s locked himself inside the car already, and you have no other choice but to join him in the passenger seat, the fear freezing your ghostly form as Taehyung quickly starts the car. You jump when his father suddenly punches the window next to you, a yelp escaping your mouth as Taehyung starts to drive away from the house while laughing loudly.

The sound is melodic and raspy, and it would have made you smile in any other occasion. Right now, the only thing you can do is stare, wide eyed, as Taehyung drives recklessly through the narrow streets of his neighborhood, one that wasn’t very secure to begin with. Taehyung’s stopped laughing, eyes glinting as he watches his darkened surroundings, eerily calm as the night sinks in.

It doesn’t take you long to notice that his hands are trembling, fingers holding the steering wheel tightly as he tries to slow down the frantic pace of his breathing.

“Taehyung, please, you have to go back,” you beg quietly, touching his knuckles in a soft caress. Even though you can feel his skin faintly, Taehyung barely blinks, oblivious to the spirit beside him that tries to hold his hand desperately.

He keeps driving, and you can only hold your breath as the fear threatens to overcome your senses, because the danger that surrounds him tonight is darker than ever and you know that if you don’t do something this might end in a tragedy you don’t even want to think about. The lights flicker furiously in your eyes as Taehyung reaches one of the main streets of the city, abruptly parking in front of a store you immediately recognize.

You curse under your breath as Taehyung gets out of the car, walking calmly towards the story with his hands buried inside the pockets of his leather jacket. You bite your lip anxiously, deciding not to follow him because you know exactly what he’s about to do, and you know it’s impossible to stop him at this point.

You’re useless, the thought is painful and sharp and prickles at the corners of your mind, and you can’t help but wince, hands turning into fists as they rest on your lap. You’re fucking useless.

Taehyung comes back five minutes later, immediately taking out the liquor that was hidden under his jacket. Your eyes widen when he opens it instead of letting it fall on the passenger seat, taking a long gulp of the transparent liquid that makes him shut his eyes tightly as it burns down his throat.

Stealing alcohol is something you’ve seen him do uncountable times, giving up after too many times of trying to stop him without a chance— but driving and drinking is a first for Taehyung, and it makes cold sweat gather on the palm of your hands as the ghost of a heartbeat thumps painfully against your chest.

“Taehyung,” your voice comes out powerful in a way that sounds strange even to your own ears, and your eyes widen at the way his grasp on the bottle falters before he takes another long gulp.

The desperation rises in your throat as he closes the bottle again, letting it fall right on your feet before he starts the car again. You continue to plead, your voice rising in volume as Taehyung starts driving sloppily. His hands aren’t shaking anymore, but his gaze is sleepy and unfocused, and even though you don’t need to breathe the air feels almost suffocating, your lungs compressing as the restlessness makes your thoughts grow heavier, louder.

You thought you couldn’t cry, but there’s a warm wetness clouding your vision as Taehyung drives mindlessly, getting further and further away from the centre of the city as he drives through lonely, dark highways where only the lights of the car allow you to get a glimpse of what’s outside. The poorly illuminated pavement seems to continue endlessly as the monotonous scenery turns into a blur outside of the window, its gloom almost as heavy as the one that seems to cling to Taehyung tightly.

You hold onto the seat when Taehyung suddenly starts to increase the speed, lips pursed in a tight line as his movements turn firm and intent, as if he’s deliberately seeking the danger, the rush of adrenaline that pumps through his veins and makes him feel something that’s not pain for once in his life. Taehyung suddenly sways slightly and your mind’s reeling, senses heightened as the rumble of the motor rings in your ear too loudly, and every cell in your body is screaming at you to move, to scream, to stop Taehyung for once and for all, because it can’t end like this, it just can’t.

Taehyung’s life is in your hands, its delicate strings tangled between your fingers, and to hold such a beautiful, precious existence is almost too much for your weak, vacant being— but you need to do something.

Your heart’s clenching so painfully it’d probably give you a heart attack if you were alive, and even though you feel like you’re drowning in your own sea of emotions you still grab Taehyung’s wrist with a strength you never knew you possessed, its firmness surprising you as you hold onto him for dear life.

“Taehyung— stop the car right fucking now!”

Before you know it the car’s halting to a stop, his feet pressing the brakes so abruptly you’re both almost thrown away of the car. You can almost hear his heart thumping erratically as a dense silence starts to swell in the cramped space, and then he’s looking at you, really looking at you, his clear, startled eyes bugging out as they regain their focus, sobering up almost instantly.

You blink confusedly, trying to grasp the situation as you swallow thickly. Taehyung’s still looking at you, and this is definitely not something that’s supposed to happen— but you can feel it, and when you look down at your own hands they don’t look transparent anymore, but slightly more solid, as if you were actually made of flesh and not dust.

When you look back at Taehyung, he’s still staring silently, mouth finally parting to say something.

“Park on the side of the road!” you blurt out, and you’re surprised at the way your voice sounds— high and defined, as if you had been speaking underwater this entire time.

He immediately listens to your words, closing his mouth and silently parking on the side. His hands move with hesitation as he stops the car, fingers grabbing the steering wheel tightly as if needing something to hold onto.

He’s staring at you again and you thought you’d never feel the power of his gaze on your face— you knew his eyes were intense, that there was a spark in them you didn’t see on anyone else, but being on the receiving end of his gaze makes you shake noticeably, diverting your own eyes as you feel the strokes of embarrassment crawl under your skin.

And even though the memories of the other world are still fuzzy— you still remember the rules before becoming a guardian, clear and firm in your head as your own brain recites them over and over.

This is forbidden. You remember, body tightening with certainty. He can’t see me. He shouldn’t see me. They’ll take me away from him—

“Please, go back home.” your words are small but pleading, and you ignore the way your voice wavers as another cold wave of mortification tickles your back. You let your instincts take over, and it feels almost natural to go back to your previous state, turning into the spirit you’re supposed to be.

It’s almost relieving, and it’s now that you realize how much effort you were putting into letting him see you— it feels tiring, and you’d close your eyes for a few minutes, but Taehyung’s still sitting completely frozen in the driver’s seat, and when your eyes find his again you can't bring yourself to look away— even though he can’t see you anymore.

Taehyung seems to react a couple of seconds later, blinking as his mouth parts again.

“Wait, come back,” he says, eyes still wide and searching. “Are you still here?”

“Yes,” you whisper, knowing he’s unable to hear you now. You bite your lip as he lets his back fall back on his seat, taking a deep breath as he fixates his eyes on the empty road.

And then he just laughs. He’s chuckling, a light and ecstatic sound, full of relief, and his eyes are shining in a way you’ve never witnessed before.

“So I wasn’t crazy, after all,” he mutters, the smile almost permanent on his lips as his shoulders continue to shake softly with contained chuckles. “Or maybe I’ve gone completely nuts now.”

He looks at the place you’re sitting again, and you’re too stunned to react, sitting completely still as his eyes try to find something in the empty spot. “Can you show up again? Please. I’ve thought about this moment too many times— you can’t leave me hanging now.”

…He knew about me. You were always aware that Taehyung was more perceptive than the normal human, that he wasn’t supposed to react to your touches so vividly— but the look full of joy on his face is almost impossible to understand, as if he was expecting for you to show up sooner or later, to look at you in the eyes and give you that wide, boxy grin of his that always managed to melt your heart.

Taehyung sighs, licking his lips before he grabs the steering wheel again. “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re with me— but I always felt some sort of… reassuring presence by my side,” you can see the ghost of a blush appear on his cheeks, spreading to his neck and ears as he looks at his own hands pensively.

“I was sure of it for a couple of months— but then forgot about it, because… let’s face it, the thought of some sort of good spirit trying to help me was just… ridiculous.” he laughs again, but this time it’s dry and short. “I don’t know if you’re still here, but… seeing you look at me so worriedly, like you actually cared… it felt— it felt nice,” Taehyung swallows, and you imitate the gesture as the emotions start to swell in your chest. “I just— I wanted to say thank you, I guess.”

You contain the urge to grab his hand, forbidding your body to materialize again as a pleasant warmth spreads through your soul. “Taehyung…”

“Fuck, what am I doing, speaking to myself,” Taehyung laughs again, voice light and void of its previous deepness. Even though the new blitheness that seems to surround him and the way he’s beaming brightly appeases the nervousness in your heart, you still don’t let your guard down as Taehyung goes back home, watching the road cautiously as he drives less recklessly. You allow yourself to relax when you finally arrive home, looking at the driveway of the house warily as Taehyung steps out of the car with the bottle in hand.

You flinch when Taehyung’s dad opens the main door, his bloodshot eyes throwing daggers at his son, who walks up to him lazily without a single trace of fear on his expression.

His father seems to be containing his anger, chest lifting as he inhales sharply. “What the—”

His voice vanishes when Taehyung gives him the bottle, and the man takes it confusedly, the delight gradually flushing his cheeks as he stares at the brand.

“Good job,” it’s all his father says, and it makes you feel sick, but he’s letting Taehyung inside without any complaint and you can’t deny that it makes the relief lift all the pressure from your shoulders.

You float behind Taehyung as he runs up the stairs, unable to ignore the shift in the atmosphere as you watch him silently, eyes following his figure as Taehyung lets himself fall on top of the bed.

His eyes are fixed on the ceiling and there’s a tiny smile dancing on his lips, and you can only wonder if he’s thinking about what happened mere minutes ago, if he’s thinking about you and the sound of your voice, and the feeling is pleasant but forbidden, as if you got a taste of something you were not supposed to enjoy, a sin not many guardians allow themselves to indulge in. Taehyung’s eyes flicker around the room, ignoring the mess on the floor as they travel around every corner he can find.

“Please,” he says, voice deep and small and your knees would definitely buckle if your body wasn’t completely weightless. “Come on… just one more time. I need to know I’m not crazy.”

The temptation is strong— vibrating under your skin as your instincts beg you to materialize again, if only for a couple of seconds— but you stay completely still instead, letting Taehyung’s eyes overlook your invisible form over and over, trying to find you urgently, almost frantic in the way he concentrates sharply in his own betraying vision.

He lets his head fall on the pillow after a couple of minutes, finally admitting defeat in a long, deep sigh that leaves his lips.

“I won’t give up, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says suddenly, lips twitching in a playful smirk that makes you flush. “I’ll make you show up again,”

His words hold no trace of threat or dark menace, but rather a lighthearted competitiveness, one that makes you smile back even though he can’t see it.

“We’ll see about that,” you reply, your words getting lost in the darkness of the night.

“What do you think will look better on me?”

You lift your gaze from the book you were eyeing —a physics book he left open on top of his desk and hasn’t touched in three days— to look at Taehyung, immediately averting your eyes when you notice he’s only wearing boxers.

You know you should be used to the sight by now— after all, you’ve been living with him for more than a year, and you’ve accidentally faced some things that have stayed burned in your mind even though you’ve always tried to give him as much privacy as possible.

But now that Taehyung’s aware that you’re with him every hour of the day, it’s as if he does it on purpose now, his teasing gradually escalating as the days pass, the hours taking your patience as it is slowly reduced to ashes. You never thought he’d take the game so seriously, but it’s been almost a month since he pronounced those words and there hasn’t been a day that he’s faltered from his plan, always smirking at the empty space as he silently beckons you to come out, teasing and prodding as he waits for the day you finally snap and tell him to stop.

You can’t deny it— the temptation is like a heavy, unrelenting force that keeps tugging at your chest, and it’s both amusing and frustrating to look at him talk to the walls as he tries to find your transparent form, or the way he arrives from class with a tired look on his face as he spills words of hate and irritation while he talks about his continuous failures— it’s during those moments that you truly have to resist the urge to whisper him words of encouragement, choosing instead to touch his back lightly so the knots on his shoulders start to disappear.

You come back to reality when Taehyung calls you again, letting his hands rest on his hips as he looks around the room. You glance at the two outfits that are laid out on the bed: one of them is completely black, and the other one is pretty much similar except for a bright red jacket and a choker.

You bite your lip as you try to push down the sudden sourness in your throat— you remember, again, how Taehyung mentioned earlier in the day that he had a date tonight, eyes glimmering in excitement at the prospect of taking a pretty girl to dinner. Your feelings are still divided about the matter, but you ultimately choose to smile at the lack of dark clouds disturbing his thoughts, watching happily how his skin flushes pleasantly as he stares at the two outfits.

“Well?” Taehyung presses, and you hesitantly approach him, standing in front of the bed next to his tall figure. You can almost feel the warmth emanating from him as you slowly touch the black outfit with one of your fingers, allowing a slight breeze to caress the fabric.

It’s almost imperceptible, but Taehyung still catches the movement with his quick eyes, a wide smile extending his mouth. Very few times you let him see small glimpses of your presence, but the way his eyes light up when you do definitely outweighs the risk you’re putting yourself through.

“Good choice,” he winks, making an involuntary giggle escape your lips. You immediately stop yourself, feeling your skin heat up as you recognize the lukewarm feeling that sits contentedly on your chest— emotions that are slowly changing and stirring, completely different from the platonic protection you felt during the first couple of months.

You immediately shake off that dangerous train of thought, knowing it won’t do you any good to dwell on it. Choosing to focus on Taehyung instead, you placidly look at the smile that hasn’t vanished from his lips, heart swelling proudly at the fact that you’re the one that provoked such cute, dazzling gesture to brighten up his features.

A couple of hours later the sky’s gone completely dark, totally cloudless and allowing you a clear view of the fulgent moon as it pours its dainty light on Taehyung’s eager footsteps. You follow him as he hurriedly walks towards the address he was given, black boots thumping against the sidewalk as he looks around the quiet, unknown street. For some reason there’s a heaviness that’s clutching to your body —or whatever your transparent form might be— and you can’t seem to shake it off, no matter how many times you convince yourself that Taehyung seems happy, excited, no suspicious darkness around him as an easy smile curves his lips casually.

You tense up then Taehyung finally stops, a frown settling on your face as you stare at the house Taehyung’s gaze is focused on.

He looks at the address on his phone again, shuffling on his feet as he looks at the place dubiously.

“Huh. She didn’t tell me she’d be having a party today,”

Indeed, the noise the house is producing manages to break the silent harmony of the whole street, bursting through the walls even though the door and the windows are closed.

All of your instincts are begging you touch his shoulder and to share with him the wariness that’s crawling at your back, but you hold yourself back, knowing that there are some matters you just can’t meddle in. Besides, it’s probably nothing more than the reticent jealousy that you’re trying to push down in earnest. Maybe nothing bad will come out of tonight, maybe Taehyung will fall in love, maybe not— whatever happens, it is none of your business.

You notice Taehyung gulping loudly before pushing his phone inside of his back pocket. “Okay,” he mutters, and you’re not sure if it’s mostly to himself rather than words directed to you. “Okay. Let’s go inside.”

You follow him, stopping when he rings the bell a couple of times. You doubt anyone will be able to hear it with how stridently the music is pumping, but seconds later there’s a girl opening the door and she’s smiling at Taehyung widely, face reddened and eyes glistening as she grabs at Taehyung’s wrist enthusiastically.

“Tae! you came!” she says loudly, dragging him inside, and you don’t miss the charming smirk he gives her. Something tugs at your chest and you don’t move, not even when the girl closes the door shut and forbids you to look inside.

You know you should follow him, hands almost shaking with the urge to stick to his presence— and even though your invisible heart is throbbing you force yourself to stay still, not to give in to the feelings trying to pull you inside.

Not wanting to keep raking your head with silly thoughts, you decide to wander around, eyes looking up at the vast sky as the faint sparkle of the lonely stars wink at you in the distance. Just like you always do when the night’s too deep and Taehyung’s sleeping peacefully, you let your mind explore the confines of your still confused brain, trying to rescue memories that are probably not there anymore.

Your previous life as a living human being has vanished almost completely, and it can only make you wonder if you were someone gentle, if you were important to anyone, if your personality was anything like the way it is right now— you can only rely on the small déjà vus and the random reminders of your favorite color or your favorite smell, suddenly flashing in your mind during casual mornings as you follow Taehyung on his way to school.

The memories of your brief time in the other life —as you like to call it, even though you have no idea where or what it is— are no better. You only have a brief recollection of someone or something assigning you to Taehyung, inserting all the rules you need to know inside your wiped out brain. It’s puzzling and frustrating and only the image of a certain hearty laugh and boxy grin is able to keep you from going delirious, because his warmth has always felt like home even though you know you’ll never remember yours.

You don’t know how much time passes —maybe a couple of minutes, maybe an hour— but then the door’s opening again and you know it’s Taehyung before dragging your gaze towards him.

Except you weren’t expecting to see him like that— rough hands grab him by the shirt and throw him to the floor brutally, and Taehyung’s covered in blood and the other boy looks even worse, the thick liquid covering half of the face of the stranger as he threatens Taehyung with a deadly glare.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he hisses, loud enough for you to hear. Taehyung snickers and it only enrages the boy even more, and two other people have to stop him from stepping on the blond.

You’re next to Taehyung in less than a second, bewildered eyes tracing his face and hair and body as you search for any worrying wounds. His mouth is full of blood and he has to spit a couple of times to get rid of it, and one of his eyes is already swollen from a punch you didn’t witness.

A strong wave of guilt makes you feel nauseous, your weakened spirit shaking as you stare mutely. Taehyung’s smirk seems to be glued to his face and you hate it, knowing that it’s only a defense mechanism, that he probably wants to avert his eyes from the people looking at him pitifully as he gets up slowly, trying not to show how painful it is.

You want to help him get up, but then he’s pushing someone away, and your eyes fly to the guilty looking boy that’s still extending his hands in front of him, as if trying to protect himself. You immediately recognize him as the boy that hangs out with Taehyung the most— Jimin.

“Fuck off,” Taehyung murmurs in a rough voice, spitting out more blood. “You were laughing along with them.”

“I…” Jimin stutters, blinking as he takes a step back. “I’m sorry—”

The small, remaining audience calls Jimin back— and the boy doesn’t hesitate to leave Taehyung alone. You don’t pay the others any attention, still slightly trembling as Taehyung tries not to wobble while he walks away from the house. You immediately put a hand on his shoulder, begging to the heavens that he’s able to feel your presence even though you know that he always tries to avoid you when he’s feeling upset.

Taehyung doesn’t show any signs of recognition as he continues to walk away, ignoring the insults and threats thrown at him as he drags his feet aimlessly. You stick to his side, trying not to let your own screaming thoughts overwhelm you as they reprimand you over and over— you should have stayed next to him. You shouldn’t have left him alone—

Taehyung walks and walks until he’s put enough distance between him and the house, and even though you don’t recognize the place you’re in, a sigh of relief escapes your mouth when you spot a small park for children a couple of meters away. Taehyung doesn’t hesitate to sit on one of the benches, and you can almost feel the sudden chilly air of the darkness, too stingy and dry as it breezes through your translucent figure.

Taehyung’s breathing heavily and you can only try to remain calm, kneeling in front of him as your hand touches his tousled hair, his face, the bruised eye and the bloody lips. You trace your fingertips as if they were feathers, as delicately as possible; and even though you can’t feel his skin as if you were a real human being, the softness and the warmth is still there, real and alive and glowing as the night.

But your touch is useless, and it doesn’t take you long to notice the pitch-black shadows, darker than the sky and heavily alarming. They grab at his arm and attach themselves to his back, and you’ve never seen them grow so quickly, Taehyung’s eyes turning vacant in a way that makes you quiver in terror.

“Taehyung, Taehyung—” you murmur his name in a rapid, desperate whisper that his senses don’t catch. The shadows are still spreading and you can only keep your hands on his face, willing down the urge to materialize as you channel all of your light towards him.

“Uh…” he suddenly murmurs, blinking as he looks around lazily. It makes you snap up, hands freezing. “Are you there?”

You let your hand fall on top of his as it rests on his thigh. “Yes.”

Taehyung waits a couple of seconds before sighing, licking his dried lips as he puts his hands on top of the cold bench. He looks up at the sky then, frowning, ignoring your frenzied figure and the swirling, dense darkness around him.

“I don’t even feel anything. Is that weird?” he asks, biting his bottom lip before letting it go, wincing at the sharp pain. “I guess I’m just giving up.”

You shake your head, pushing down the anxiety that’s trying to cloud your mind. “No, you can’t give up.”

The fog seems to linger over the two of you now, intimidating and strong and you can only ignore it, focusing only on the empty, disinterested gaze of Taehyung’s dark eyes.

He smiles then— and the sight makes your chest ache, coldness seeping through your filmy limbs as your emotions threaten to break you like weak, thin glass. It makes you want to scream, how your hands and your voice are unable to do anything, every instinct inside of you crying out for the pain and the hurt that never quite leaves his face, no matter how much he smiles or laughs.

It’s as if your own body acts on its own accord, and you don’t realize you’re sitting on the floor with your eyes fixed on your hands until you feel something touch your chin, the contact so soft you barely feel it. A hesitant finger lifts your head and you can’t contain the gasp that escapes your lips, goosebumps rising all over your skin when his eyes connect with yours.

He’s staring at you with the same glint of wonder you saw on his face that first time you materialized, and his intent eyes focused on yours makes you stop breathing even though you never really needed it in the first place.

“Finally,” he sighs, lips quirking, and he still doesn’t look happy— far from it, but his eyes are not vacant anymore and the mist is not as suffocating as before.

“Uh— I shouldn’t—”

“Please,” he takes a hold of your wrist, and even though your body’s not as solid as his, the touch feels overwhelmingly real and it makes you shiver pleasantly.

His stare is more intense than ever, and it’s enough to keep you from disappearing again. Taehyung’s fingers are gentle on your skin as they let go of their grasp, touching slightly before letting you go.

You can only look at each other for a while— even though he’s the one that should be freaking out, you can feel yourself trembling slightly as you try to keep your emotions in check, not knowing how to react as his eyes bore onto your face in a way you could only dream about for the past few months. You flinch when he lifts one of his hands, and your eyes widen when he takes it as a bad sign, eyes filling with guilt as he retracts his arm.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to— oh, okay.”

You have to avoid his gaze, unable to handle the heavy flow of emotions as your hand grabs his own tightly. His fingers are long and soft and it can’t compare to your limited imagination— you have to ask yourself if it’s possible for something as simple as this to feel so right, even when it’s not meant to be, even when he’s alive and you’re not.

Taehyung grasps your hand just as firmly, and you notice the glint of a smile from the corner of your eye. “Thank you. Please— don’t go so fast this time.”

You nod timidly, eyes focused on the beautiful golden tone of his hand holding yours as if his life depended on it. You look back at him when you feel slightly prepared, but his wide eyes on your face still manage to startle you, and it takes you some effort to bury the shyness that’s trying to overcome your body.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, and you want to hit yourself the moment the words leave your mouth. Of course it does. Taehyung chuckles dryly, stopping himself when the smile stretching his mouth makes the wound on his lip open again.

“It’s okay, I’m used to this— but you probably know that already.”

You hate to agree with him, because it couldn’t be closer to the truth. But many times you’ve helped him cool down so he doesn’t end up in a bloody fight— and the reminder that you might have avoided it tonight is still pulsing and vivid at the front of your mind. The guilt is strong and heavy on your shoulders and it makes you look down at your intertwined fingers, eyes focusing on the calming way his thumb caresses up and down your almost translucent skin.

“Hey,” he mutters soothingly, tugging at your hand gently. “Come here, sit next to me.”

You join him on the bench, trying not to smile at the way he still hasn’t let go of your hand. You can feel his arm against yours, brushing slightly and sending tickles under your skin, light and refreshing, and you have to contain yourself from sliding closer. You look at his profile instead, at the tiny scratches on his skin and the pursed lips, at the way he’s trying not to show any more bleakness now that you’re by his side.

“Tell me what happened,” you say after a few quiet moments, and Taehyung blinks, looking at you confusedly.

“You weren’t there?”

You flush in embarrassment this time, looking ahead as you feel his burning gaze on your face. “I just… I wanted to give you some space—”

He snorts at that, and you can feel the way his shoulder shakes slightly in a quiet laugh. “So that’s why I couldn’t hold myself back,” he sighs again, sounding more tired than ever as he blinks at the sky. “The girl… she just wanted me to get some alcohol for her and her friends.”

You immediately know what he means by get, and it makes you tense up, holding your breath as you wait for him to continue.

“I refused, I wasn’t in the mood for that— then her boyfriend came up and insisted some more. He got on my nerves, we fought— but it was too many people against me,” he laughs, a humorless sound that’s just as murky as the dry night. “Even my best friend turned his back to me. That— that was…” his voice seems to fall flat, unable to continue as the words get stuck on his throat.

Your movements are slow and hesitant as you let your head fall on his shoulder, and you can only hope the closeness gives him some sort of comfort, a warmth you’ve always tried to provide for him even though you’ve failed so many times. It’s ironic— how you’re supposed to be his protector, but instead he’s always the one that makes you feel consoled, like you belong here even though this is not your world anymore. Taehyung still hasn’t let go of your hand and you don’t mind how he holds it tighter, a grasp that’d be painful if there was still blood circulating through your veins.

“It makes me wonder if I truly have a place here… if I’ll ever be able to do something good.”

His words hurt you deep, like a lacerated wound in the middle of your chest that’s too profound to heal. But you let him speak— you let him spill out the words that have been hidden for too long, getting lost in the bitter atmosphere as they take Taehyung’s dark shadows with them, emptying out all the venom that had settled in the dark corners of his mind.

It’s not enough, because years of pain are not easy to mend, but the grimy ghosts are gone for now and suddenly the air’s not so biting anymore.

“Tae,” you say after a few minutes of silence. A slight blush is still coloring his cheeks, tainting his skin since the moment he started venting. “Let’s go home.”

Your hands are still joined as you both leave the unknown neighborhood, the surroundings almost turning blurry as you soak in the addictive glow of Taehyung’s reassuring proximity. He only speaks up to ask for your name, the only thing you’re sure of since you died— and the way he smiles even though his lips still hurt makes you glad you still held to that knowledge, one that you never gave much importance until now.

Taehyung’s house is empty and the fact that his father is probably at some bar drinking his worries away goes unspoken— he takes you upstairs towards his room, and your ghostly form is almost buzzing with anticipation, finally letting go of his hand as he opens the windows to allow the fresh breeze to slither its way inside.

The moonlight reflects on his face and for a second he doesn’t even look human, an almost unearthly glow illuminating his skin, and even with the wounds and the scratches you can’t help but stare in muted wonder, fervently wishing he was able to see how beautiful he truly is—

The words escape your mouth and you don’t regret letting them out, making him stare at you in surprise for a couple of seconds before a breathtaking smile extends his lips.

“I don’t know if you can see yourself— but you’re pretty cute, too.”

Taehyung lets his body fall on his bed and you quietly take a seat on the chair of his desk, eyes tracing his lean body as he turns his head to the side, facing you with a subtle smile on his lips.

“Y/N,” he tastes the name on his tongue, and the way he pronounces it makes a shiver run down your back. “What were you like? when you were— um, alive.”

You feel yourself flushing, words short and concise as you share what little information you have— how your memories are fuzzy and broken, how you wish you remembered your family and how you died, and Taehyung listens intently even though the words tumble out of your mouth awkwardly, not really used to talking about yourself and your strange but ruptured life.

Taehyung shares, too— and time seems to fly as he shares his worries, his pain, the things he loves and hates, how he still doesn’t know what to do with his life even though he’s about to finish high school, how he misses his mother that left years ago and how his father is even more broken than he is. Taehyung speaks and his voice is deep and calm, and you’ve never wished more for time to stop right in this moment, with the moon high in the sky and the stillness as a comfortable companion, only you and him and the faint concerns that seem so far away.

You don’t know how much time passes, but his eyes are droopy and giving you a look you’re not sure you comprehend, one that makes your temporary body heat up in a way you never thought you’d feel again. Hours have passed since you materialized and you’re starting to feel a tug that’s trying to take you back, to make you vanish again— but Taehyung’s gaze seems to hold you in place, acute and penetrating as he gets up so he sits on the edge of the bed.

“Will you stay with me, Y/N?” he asks, swallowing thickly as his fingers dig into the mattress. “I know it probably sounds stupid, but— I don’t think I could handle it if you moved on.”

Move on. The knowledge that you’ll have to leave the human world one day is so firm in your head it’s almost scary, and you can only hope it won’t happen yet, not in many years, not while Taehyung’s still alive in this world, laughing and living and struggling. You nod, feeling confident in your answer.

“Of course I’ll stay.”

He extends his hand then, and you don’t hesitate as you get up and take a few steps towards him, stopping when your legs are grazing his. His hand takes yours and he lifts it to place a soft kiss on top of your knuckles, which makes a fiery tingle warm up your skin.

“Taehyung—”

“Wait, let me enjoy this moment,” he smirks then, lips curving in that playful grin you’ve seen so many times now. “You’ll probably disappear again sooner or later. I need to remember how you feel.”

He’s looking up at you and it’s almost too much to handle, how his tired eyes still manage to glow with intensity even though the drowsiness is overtaking his body. You bite your lip, allowing yourself to touch his soft blonde strands carefully— just like he said, you’ll disappear soon: it’s unnatural for you to stay like this, and it’s finally taking its toll on your spirit.

“Come closer,” he murmurs. Your breath hitches and you have to hold onto his shoulder, feeling your legs buckle slightly as he beckons you to lean towards him.

It is wrong, but it feels so right when one of his hands places itself on your lower back, pressing hesitantly as you allow him to push you closer. You feel almost dizzy when his forehead brushes yours, and you wonder if he can feel your hand shaking as he holds it steadily.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question is like a soft breeze against your mouth, the sound barely audible as his lips form the words tentatively, almost nervously.

“I don’t know…” it’s not right, it’s not right, but he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing he can see and you’re melting against him, your body turning numb and your soul warming up.

Taehyung licks his lips, noticing the way you imitate him. “Just a little?”

He smiles again and it’s impossible to resist him this time— the nod you give him is enough for his hand to reach the nape of your neck, where he caresses tenderly before he leans up and you lean down— lips connecting in a solid but eerie touch that’s not quite real, but it makes you sigh nonetheless, and Taehyung’s exhaling too, as if the soft brush of your mouth is enough to leave him breathless.

Time stills and flies at the same time, and you don’t know how you find yourself lying on your back on top of his bed, Taehyung hovering above you as his eyes try to absorb the sight in front of him, as if he still can’t believe you’re here, with him, that he can see you and touch you, as if he just entered a bizarre but placid dream he doesn’t want to wake up from.

Lips connect again, more fervent this time, and the way his mouth molds against yours feels too natural, sharing gasps as his lips finally part as they shyly try to deepen the kiss. You allow him, too far gone to resist the way he cradles your face between his large hands as he tilts your head so he can kiss you more profoundly, the slickness of his tongue making you shudder as you feel his chest grazing yours.

He’s holding himself up from pressing his body flush against yours, and your arms move on their own as your hands put pressure on his back, making him gasp as he finally allows his body to slowly touch yours until you can’t feel anything but him. It’s too much, the touches too heightened after being deprived of them for too long— but Taehyung’s like heaven on earth and you’re not sure the other world can compare to the feeling of his soft lips and the way his heart beats crazily against your chest.

You don’t know when or how it happens— but you should have seen it coming.

Suddenly the tug is too powerful and you’re not sure if it’s your own soul begging to disappear or if it’s something else, but you’re unable to stop it, and the last thing you see is Taehyung’s startled expression and his flushed cheeks before the darkness takes you away, pulled away so harshly only the remnants of a painful whimper stay floating around his darkened room.

The next events that follow are too hard to describe— there are lights and tall figures hovering over you as you feel your soul being stripped bare and examined, hands revolving your memories as you writhe in blind pain. The thought of Taehyung is the only thing keeping you sane as you repeat his name over and over, begging for them not to take him away, to take your name if they want, but not the image of him or the sound of his laugh.

You don’t know how long it takes them to let you go. Might have been minutes, might have been hours. But sooner or later your mind’s finally left untouched, and Taehyung is still there, and you can only cry in relief even though there aren’t any tears clouding your eyes.

When you open your eyes again you’re in Taehyung’s room, and there aren’t any traces of him anywhere.

You swallow thickly, the illusion of a headache making you feel slightly dizzy as you look around with a frantic look on your face. His room looks as messy as it always has, but there’s something missing, and the inability to pinpoint the subtle difference almost drives you crazy, eyes finding the darkness outside of the window before you settle your gaze on Taehyung’s desk.

His phone is there, left completely untouched, the screen shining as it shows five missed calls from his father.

The next thing you notice makes all the air you were holding escape your mouth in a trembling breath.

“Ten days,” you mutter, feet staggering as you try not to lose what little sanity you have left. It’s been ten days since the kiss. “Shit, shit.” your hands shake as your mind finally makes sense of the situation: they found out, they took you away, they punished you and took away the only thing that made Taehyung escape from the dark shadows.

You try to materialize, but it’s completely useless. You’re not surprised, but it still puts a pressure on your chest that you can’t get away from, almost asphyxiating. It makes you want to disappear even though you’re already invisible, like the soft breeze that barely manages to make the leaves flutter.

“Tae,” you whisper, leaving his room to face the darkness of the empty house as you float downstairs.

You didn’t think you'd find him so fast, but your eyes widen at the sight of a dark figure walking quietly towards the main entrance. He’s wearing a heavy-looking backpack even though it’s late at night, and when he turns around to look around the house, you don’t miss the bags under his eyes and the paleness that has made the golden tone of his skin start to vanish.

“Tae,” you repeat, voice breaking. He sighs, pursing his lips in a tight line.

“I… I guess this is the last time I’ll call for you,” he says, voice echoing as it breaks the stillness of the house. “Maybe you moved on— I’m not sure what happened, but… it made me realize that it’s also time for me to move on.” his lips twitch as he tries to smile unsuccessfully, blinking as he tries to adapt his gaze to the darkness. “I’m leaving for good. I have to try and find somewhere that’s better for me… I don’t belong here.”

“I’m here, I’m here,” you say, but you know he’s not able to hear you, not anymore.

“Y/N…” he says your name, and it’s like a blow to your chest, compressing it even more. “If you're there, please, just…”

You’re next to him in a second. It’s not easy to put all of your emotions into a single touch, but one look at Taehyung’s face makes it easy to brush your fingers against his shoulder as you let your feelings burst out.

You never thought you’d be able to feel blind happiness like this, but you’re pretty sure the emotion that’s swelling in your chest comes pretty close. Taehyung blinks, recognition flashing in his eyes before a fond smile brightens up his face, and when he blinks again is to avoid any tear from escaping his eyes.

“You came back,” he whispers, voice filled with hope. His eyes are shimmering with mirth and he’s breathing shakily and you don’t even want to think about the days he had to spent without your presence next to him, because him believing that you decided to leave his side is too painful to bear.

But that’s not important anymore— what’s important is that he can feel the touch on his shoulder and that you didn’t move on, that even though the feelings for each other go unspoken they’re still thick and heavy in the air, almost tangible in a way you will never be.

Taehyung smiles, and you smile back. And for now, that’s more than enough.

#look what I decided to repost :))) I reread it and deemed it decent enough #btssunshinenet #bangtan bookclub #kwritersnet #taehyung angst #taehyung scenarios #bts angst #bts scenarios #writing

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