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little-miss-dilf-lover · 8 months ago

Text

ROLES REVERSED.

tangerine x fem!reader — fluff/ comfort

summary. as the eldest daughter, you’re used to taking care of others. tangerine notices, and wants to be the one to care of you.

requested by @sdddoobydoobydoo here <3

word count. 1186

warnings. couple blood mentions. no established relationship

As the eldest daughter, you're naturally gifted with traits that stem from your role as the second parent: the ability to help and care and nurture and understand and peacekeep in ways most will never.

You appreciated your broad span of empathy, loving how easily and seamlessly you could help others. But it was tiring, and yet, it all you've ever known.

It was normal for you to sit on the back burner when it came to getting care, always being the one to give and never receive. It was why Tangerine took your interest more than any other guy before.

It was like all he wanted was to tend to you, love and care for you - do things for you. Something about him was so unlike the other men in your life; they'd let you exhaust yourself for them, let you work yourself silly, but that was not Tangerine. That's not the man he is.

He noticed how you seemingly always knew what to do, all this infinite wisdom and knowledge swirling inside your poor, tired mind. Anytime he was snappy, you'd assume he was hungry - heading into the kitchen to whip something up for him, or if you were public, always offering to buy him lunch. Anytime he stopped past yours, all battered and bruised, you'd fetch things from around your house to patch him up - wanting to mend him as fast as possible. Anytime he had that distant look in his eyes, you'd always sit him down - suggesting that he talk his problems over with you.

You always seemed to know what he needed - what anyone needed. And while he appreciated your simple, loving and, albeit, persistent gestures, he knew you needed the same treatment. Maybe even, more so.

He wanted to give you that care you give to everyone else, though he didn't want to step over the romance line. Well not yet, anyway.

Tangerine was over yours for the evening, the casual hangout designed for dinner. He had previously made you promise to keep it small, to not go overboard with the food. Though, when you started cooking the meals, you could not seem to stop - all the prior dishes making you question if it would be something he even liked at all. So, in your mind, preparing four different meals to choose from would be a safe bet.

"Sit down, would'ya? Stop faffing," Tangerine calls out to you in the kitchen, his arse parked on a dining seat you had previously directed him to.

"I'll be five minutes, ten max— shit... think we're looking at fifteen."

"You gonna let me help you?" he questions, getting ansty from his unhelpful sitting. He wanted you to let him help. "Give me something to do."

"Got it all covered," you call out, poking your head through the door to see him. You were frazzled, and you took on more than you could handle.

His head tilts softly, a faint tut of his mouth letting you know he didn't buy your lies. "Oh yeah?" he entertains your fib, eyes playful. "What was that all that swearing for then?"

You look down at your bleeding finger and subtly move to hide it - putting it out of Tan's view. "Dropped my teatowel," you shrug. "Pasta is almost cooked— so uh, that's good. Okay, then. Just pick at the bread there. Will be done soon."

You head over to one of your cupboards and search for something to stop the bleeding, a plaster hopefully. But all you can find is a lonely, crumpled-up one in the crack —all your others going to Tangerine's cuts and scrapes— and you sigh. Picking it up, you attempt to unwrap it, but your bloodied finger makes you lose your grip.

"You alright?" Tangerine asks, his stealth-like walk peeking up on you from behind. "What you doing?"

"Yeah," you hum, looking at him over your shoulder. "Just waiting for this water to boil," you partially lie, nodding to the pot on the stovetop.

"You're a shit liar," he scoffs in his usual way, walking to get closer to you. "What have you done?" he asks, voice reaching a pitch that can only indicate worry, his eyes glued to your finger.

"It's just a cut. It's fine— it'll stop in a minute," you deflect, acting casual as you fiddle with the wrapper, still trying to open it.

He shakes his head and inhales harshly, reaching for the plaster in your hand.

You protest, tightening your grip. "It's alright, I got it."

He shakes his head again, clearly displeased. He loosely holds under your hand, guiding you towards the sink, where he directs it under the water - trying to stop the bleeding quicker.

"Seriously, it's okay. I'll put—"

"Just," he interrupts, tone pointed, though it holds no malice. "Let me help you for chrissake."

You close your mouth with a snap, his comment halting any further dismissals.

He holds your finger under the warm, flowing tap, watching the water turn slowly from a soft orange and back to clear. He's quiet, silently taking care of you in the ways he's almost longed for. The moment when you finally allow his help - all of it feeling like a small step forward.

He reaches for a piece of kitchen paper and wraps it around your finger, drying it with his gaze focused down.

"Why won't you let me help you?" he asks quietly, his question cutting through the comfortable silence. It sounded like it was weighing heavy on his mind.

"What do you mean?" you question, unsure what he meant.

He glances up to look at you, head cocking to the side. "Come on," he chuckles faintly. "You know what I mean."

"I do let you help."

He's amused, or so you think. He was too hard to read. "Hardly… I want to do things for you. I want to help you. Why won't you let me?"

You pull your hand away and hold the paper compress by yourself - feeling embarrassed from his mild ridicule. "I always have it covered, that's all," you shrug. "I don't need help."

He could tell you were shutting yourself off, though he's adamant not to let that happen. "I ain't gonna disappoint you, you know that?" he says, words firm, but they were filled with something far softer: unexpressed, repressed love. "You look after everyone else... I want to look after you."

A soft frown-like smile lines your lips, and you finally look up to meet his eyes. He really meant it.

"Just give me a piece of cucumber to cut or a towel to fold— something," he attempts a joke - trying to lighten the mood. "Just let me be useful to you, yeah? Let me in."

You nod, even more progress.

"Good," he nods back, a faint grin spreading across his face. He reaches for the plaster, opening it as if it were nothing and grabs your hand - carefully holding your finger. "Now let's cover this fucker up before it gets all over your pretty top, hm?"

so independent reader coded

#tangerine #tangerine x reader #tangerine fluff #tangerine bullet train

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bamber344 · 4 months ago

Text

Birds Of A Feather

prev/next

masterlist

time for birb :)

got this one done quickly as I'd already written like a thousand words of it before i started writing that Viv chapter, so the groundwork was already laid

usually i would upload this in the morning (for me) but rn i can't be bothered to deal with all the faffing about so you're getting it now. wahoo yippee ect ect

side note, project genesis document is now at 100 pages including the taglist and all of my rambling notes, so that's pretty cool.

enjoy!

CWs: general violence, cigarette use, gun violence, knife violence. just a whole lot of action typical violence really.

Birds Of A Feather

The woman sighed, looking out over the city as the wind whipped through her hair. She brought the cigarette up to her lips and took a long drag, admiring the pink and orange sky coloured by the slowly setting sun. Say what you would about Tombguard; it was truly a beautiful place, if you knew where to look. Granted, the woman had never actually been outside of the city, so she didn’t have much frame of reference. Still, after spending the first nine months of her existence locked in an underground prison, the sight of any space big enough to spread her wings in was enough to bring a tear to her eye.

Things weren’t perfect, though. She was never completely safe from Andreas’ pursuit, and that wasn’t helped by the fact that she was actively antagonising him. Still, he’d be hunting her even if she didn’t fuck him over at every possible opportunity, so it was justified. That dickhead deserved everything she threw at him.

A dark figure flickered across the rooftop of the building opposite. The woman sighed again, taking one last puff to finish her cigarette and shaking her wings out. She didn’t want to have to do this, but it was the only way to keep herself and Hex safe. There was no doubt in her mind that Andreas had already told Jordyn to kill her on sight, even before she made a mess of the first assassination attempt. In an ideal world, they could leave each other alone and Jordyn could go on her merry, naïve way being ordered around by her ‘father,’ but that just wasn’t reality. It was kill or be killed, and the woman refused to let Andreas continue to have a hold on her life. Jordyn had to die for the two of them to live.

She cracked her neck and double-checked that her pistols were fully loaded before re-holstering them on her hips. She made sure her knives were secured against her thighs. The target was in sight. She pulled the mask over her face and stomped her cigarette out on the floor.

“Sorry, little sister. I’m not gonna miss this time.”

With that, she flapped her wings and took flight.

—

Something was wrong.

The afternoon was calm, and up until a few minutes ago, I’d been enjoying my time relaxing on the rooftops as the end to my patrol grew closer. As per usual, I’d been lounging on the edge of a building, watching all the people and traffic go by, but when I got up to make my way back to the facility, I was immediately hit with the sensation that something wasn’t right. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and I had to resist the urge to look over my shoulder as I ran from building to building.

I knew that feeling all too well. I was being watched.

I slowed down, landing on a rooftop and surveying my surroundings. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and as far as I could see, there wasn’t anyone around that was paying any attention to me. That didn’t mean I was safe, though. For all I knew, this was another one of the Godling’s attempts to get in my head. The pain that would usually accompany that hadn’t hit yet, but still. I needed to be on my guard, just in case.

A memory flashed through my mind; one of discarded feathers, and a suspect flying away after shooting me down.

I looked up.

All I could make out was a beak-shaped mask before my instincts kicked in and I flung myself backwards, out of the way of the hammer kick coming straight for my head. It cracked the concrete as it made contact with the floor.

I fell into a roll before hopping back to my feet, dropping into a fighting stance as I analysed my opponent. Based on their figure, they were most likely a woman, dressed in a tank top and some baggy combat pants, along with a heavy-looking pair of boots. Her arms were thick with corded muscle, her tan skin nicked with countless tiny scars. A large pair of black wings flared out behind her back, spread to show off their intimidatingly huge wingspan. Behind her bird-like mask, dark, thick hair cascaded down over her shoulders. She was about the same height as me, with a similar build, and based on the way that she dropped into an identical stance to my own, she knew how to use it. This would be no easy fight.

Kill the black-winged one on sight should you see it.

Father’s months-old command pierced through my mind like an arrow. Whoever this woman was, he wanted her dead, and I had a duty to see that order through. After all, she shot me. It was completely justified. She had to die.

A large part of my mind protested against the thought, but I pushed it down. I knew Father was watching. I couldn’t fail him again. I wouldn’t fail him again. Better to get it done quickly.

I whipped my hand forward, and a spike of shadow extended from the seams of my armour, heading straight for the gap between the woman’s fourth and fifth rib. It would be over for her in an instant. Painless, for the most part. It was better this way. My gut clenched as time seemed to move in slow motion, waiting for the countdown towards the woman’s demise to hit zero.

All of a sudden, she was moving, quicker than I could possibly have anticipated. She deftly stepped to the side, dodging the spike by millimetres, and flapped her wings, using the upward force to lift herself into a frontflip over my head. I spun as she landed and ducked my head to dodge another kick. The woman pirouetted as she backed up, pulling combat knives from the straps around her thighs. There was a single moment of tense stillness before she came at me again, stabbing and spinning back and forth with those knives aimed right for the unprotected spots of my armour like she knew exactly where they all were.

She had me on the ropes, backing up as I dodged this way and that, deflecting knives with my shadows when they came too close. I was far too focused on staying out of the way of her attacks to even think about focusing the darkness in my armour into any sort of attack. Maybe if it was nighttime, and I had shadows all around me to call on, I could put her down. As it was, I’d just have to do without the full use of my power.

I grabbed her wrist as she came in for another attack and twisted, pulling her over my shoulder and aiming to slam her onto the ground. She was surprisingly heavy at first, but that quickly changed as a rush of wind hit my ears and the woman’s weight shifted behind my back. She moved with my throw, twisting in the air as she came back into view and wrapping her legs around my neck. Her movement stopped as she hit the ground with her other hand, and suddenly I felt myself lift off the ground as the woman pulled a reversal, throwing me over herself and slamming me onto the concrete with enough force to rattle my bones even through all of my armour.

In my daze, I could just about make out the woman flipping back onto her feet and rounding on me once again. Something glinted in the light of the setting sun, and my instincts kicked back in just in time to roll out of the way of the knife coming straight for my face.

It snapped as it hit the ground where my head had just been, and the woman’s fist followed through hard enough to leave another cracked dent in the concrete. Just what was this woman made of?!

I threw myself back onto my feet and conjured a whip of shadow before she could get close enough to stop me. She lifted herself, discarding the now-useless hilt as she settled back into her stance. Her head cocked to the side, and my stomach dropped as my own voice came out from behind her mask.

“Well shit, Jordyn. I thought you’d be a pushover, but you’re not half bad. Still not as good as me, though.”

My shadows flared in alarm. “How do you know my name?”

The woman didn’t reply. Instead, her arm disappeared, moving faster than I could process, and reappeared with a pistol. She pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, and I stumbled back as each shot hit me in the chestplate and knocked more and more air out of my lungs. My shadow whip turned to dust as my concentration dropped from the sudden attack.

The woman didn’t waste her opportunity, flapping her wings to kick herself off and charging at me. She spun, and the last reserves of oxygen were expelled from my body as her steel-toed boot hit my side with the force of a train.

The hit sent me flying, flipping head over heels in the air as I flew over the edge of the building we were on and onto the roof of another. I landed in a sprawling roll, desperately trying to regain control of my body and my lungs while fighting through the pain of a few definitely broken ribs. Eventually, I managed to jab a spike of shadow in the ground to stop my momentum and centre myself. I tensed my abs, sucking in as much breath as I could as I got back to my feet. There was no time to process, though. She was coming at me again.

All I caught as I looked up was a flash of wings before something hit me in the face and I was sent flying again; this time, with a brand new scrape in the viewscreen of my visor. I refused to let the hit stun me again, forcing my body into a flip that landed me back on my feet. She wasn’t the only one with a good core.

I quickly glanced around, trying to ascertain where she went. She wasn’t hard to find now that I knew where to look; swooping through the sky, gliding her way around for another hit. She lined herself up and began her dive, speeding towards me faster and faster; one knife in hand. She wasn’t going to get the drop on me again, though.

I stanced up, amassing my shadows beneath my armour, fortifying my body as she came closer and closer. This might be the only chance I had left to get out of this. I had to time it right.

There.

I dropped and spun right at the moment of impact, sending my boot launching up into her gut like a piston, powered artificially by my shadows and strengthened by her own speed. Darkness shot out of my armour as I made contact, following the hit through with dozens of tiny blades that cut into her stomach and pierced through her skin.

The woman let out a gagging cry as she flew away, crashing into the side of a building with a burst of feathers and falling into the alley between. Relief washed over me. It had worked; for now, I was safe.

I knew better than to think it was over just like that. The woman was far too strong and clearly far too hell-bent on my death to be turned off just from one attack. I got lucky with that one; there was no way I’d be able to land a hit like that two times in a row, and it was becoming obvious that, as things were, I was outmatched. What I needed was a plan.

I turned to the west, looking at the setting sun. Its light was the only reason I wasn’t able to unleash the full strength of my power. Even if I ducked into an alley, the woman would probably have no trouble corralling me back onto a street, directly in the sunlight. What I needed was the complete darkness of night. I needed time. I turned to the east and I ran.

Adrenaline still coursed through my bloodstream, providing me with the strength needed to ignore my pain as I jumped from rooftop to rooftop, pulling myself along with shadowy tendrils where necessary. Only a few more minutes until sunset. I could make it.

Sure enough, I heard the beating of the woman’s wings against the air behind me, steadily growing closer. I knew my counterattack wouldn’t hold her back for long, but I was hoping to get a full minute out of it, at least. Oh well, there was nothing for it. I’d just have to evade her until the sun went down. Easier said than done, but I would manage. I had to.

More gunshots cracked off behind me. The impact against my back threatened to throw me off balance, but I stabilised, spinning mid-sprint and flinging spears of shadow at her to hopefully keep her at bay. I could hear her swooping back and forth and I zig-zagged in turn, trying to keep my movements unpredictable.

The hair at the back of my neck rose and I instinctively dove to the ground - just in time for the woman to blur through the space I’d just been in, crashing onto the rooftop just in front of me. We both jumped to our feet, but I was just a millisecond behind her, and she used that time to launch a powerful roundhouse kick right into my cheekbone.

My head whipped to the side, and everything around me suddenly clicked into high focus. The scratch in my vision was gone. I could feel the cool air on my face and in my sweat-soaked hair. The sounds of the city became loud and sharp; no longer muted by my helmet’s audio processors.

Oh, that was it. My helmet just came off.

Time seemed to move in slow motion as I watched it spiral through the air, flying over the edge of the building and falling into the alleyway, disappearing from sight. Father was going to be so mad with me.

Time sped back up and suddenly I was moving; flying across the rooftop as the hit knocked me off my feet. I landed in a sprawling heap, tumbling over myself before managing to roll onto my back, staring up at the sky. My vision spun as pain throbbed through my skull, and my neck angrily protested any attempt to turn my head and spit out the bloody taste of whatever had come loose in my mouth. By the feel of it, it was probably a tooth.

The woman appeared in my line of sight before I could recover, planting one boot on my chest and aiming her pistol straight at my face. My heart leapt into my throat.

She wheezed, clutching at her bloody abdomen with her other hand. “That… was a nice fuckin’ hit you got earlier. You’re pretty good, Jordyn.” She straightened out, putting her finger on the trigger. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, little sis.”

“W-wait!” I pleaded. All I needed were a few more moments. This wasn’t the end. “Wait, please… Who… who are you?”

The woman hesitated. A few tense seconds passed, and she shrugged. “Yeah, why not. That’s the big question, isn’t it? Who am I? I asked myself that a lot when I was in your shoes. All you need to know is that I’m someone that daddy dearest doesn’t like very much. Though, I’m sure you already knew that.”

“B-but…”

“Who are you, Jordyn? Can you answer that? If you can, maybe your story won’t have to end here.”

That… that was a trick, right? She clearly already knew my name. If I gave her the obvious answer of ‘Jordyn de Vygon,’ I was gonna get shot. No, she was looking for something else. I racked my brains, searching for some sort of clue.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this, little sis.”

“-daddy dearest-”

“Madeline Holmes, will you marry me?”

“Are… Are you me?”

I swallowed, praying to god my hunch was right. “I… I’m y-your sister. A superhero. I-I’m M-Madeline Holmes’... wife…?”

Silence reigned over the rooftop. The woman cocked her head to the side. “Huh. What gave you that idea?”

Not immediately dead. That was a good sign. “You… you called me ‘little sis,’ and… I had a dream, wh-where I was proposing to her.”

“Hmm. You’re not totally hopeless, I guess. Still, you’re a little confused. I’ll give you a hint: you’re not Madeline Holmes’ wife. I’ve had that dream, too.”

I frowned, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment in my gut. “Then… I was right about the sister thing?”

“Smart cookie. Say hello to your big sister. You can call me Maggie.”

This was all way too much to take in. Was this woman serious?! “B-but, if you’re my sister, why are you trying to kill me?!”

Maggie sighed. “I don’t want to, honestly. But I gotta prioritise number one, and Andreas would have sent you after me sooner or later, regardless of what I did. So long as you were just a mindless soldier following his every command, it was safer to just put you down. Now that we’ve had the chance to chat, though… I can see that you’re not totally under his thumb. You’re asking questions, you’re thinking for yourself a bit, instead of following blindly along with whatever he tells you. I might still have to kill you - we’ll see - but it’s a promising start.”

My head felt like it was about to explode. “S-so… You know who I am? Who I really am – the person I was before my injury?”

Maggie slumped. “See, and then you go and say shit like that, and you have me worrying again.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I wish I could tell you the truth, Jordie. I really, really do. You don’t deserve to live in ignorance, stuck under that bastard’s grip. But, if I tell you now, things are gonna go tits up faster than I can flap my wings, and I sure as shit don’t have the resources to help you when it does. You gotta figure it out for yourself. I’m sorry.”

…What? So, after everything, she just wasn’t going to tell me anything? I was this close to finally having some answers about myself, and she was just gonna keep them to herself?! Frustrated tears prickled in my eyes. “B-but, but why?! I don’t understand! Why can’t you tell me?!”

“I just told you why, dumbass. I get that you’re desperate for some answers, but that’s the best I can do for now. You want my advice? Don’t stop asking questions. Don’t take anything at face value. Andreas is gonna try every trick in the book to make you feel like you’re too stupid to understand anything, so why even bother wondering? Don’t let him. You’re smart, Jordyn. You’ve shown me that in this conversation, and during our fight. I know you can figure this out, just like I did.”

Maggie finally lowered her pistol, holstering it as she looked out over the city. The sound of police sirens echoed through the air, steadily getting louder. “I’ve stayed out too long,” she said. She looked back to me. “I’ll let you go this time, Jordyn. But if you come after me again, I won’t hesitate to blow a hole in your head, sister or not. Good luck.”

Her wings flexed, extending out to their full length. I realised she was about to fly away.

“Wait! What am I going to tell Father? He’s ordered me to kill you, I can’t just ignore that! He’ll… he’ll punish me.”

“Yeah, that’s a tough one. For today, the best you can tell him is the truth. I kicked your ass, and got away. If he’s in a generous mood, he’ll let you off. I can’t promise that, though. As for if he orders you after me again? Maybe that would be a good time to question why he wants you to kill your own sister so badly. Don’t actually ask him that, though. God, he’d whip you bloody for that. Just… think about it. See you later, Jordyn.”

With a gust of wind and a quick, painful burst of pressure from the boot on my chest, she was gone, disappearing into the night sky.

Oh. I’d totally forgotten. I was meant to be buying time until sunset so I could muster up the shadows for a surprise attack. Oops. In the wake of everything Maggie was saying, it just slipped my mind. I couldn’t say I was particularly upset about that, though. I had a feeling that that conversation had been more valuable than I could currently comprehend.

The sirens grew louder and I continued to lay there, contemplating what I’d learned as the pain from my injuries steadily intensified in the comedown from the adrenaline of the fight. I… had a sister. Why hadn’t Father told me about her? What else wasn’t Father telling me about? Why were things so clearly fraught between my two only family members? And why did Maggie’s voice sound exactly like mine?

The swelling from my throbbing cheek was starting to spread up to my eye, forcing it shut. Worried, I reached up and gently poked it. It felt about as good as could be expected, from a kick that knocked out a tooth and took my helmet right off my head; in that doing that really, really hurt. Ow.

I gingerly sat up, trying not to move my neck too much. Speaking of my helmet, I needed to find it, and quickly. The police would no doubt be here soon, come to investigate the gunshots, and I couldn’t let any of them catch sight of my face.

It was slow, painstaking work getting myself down from the rooftop into the alleyway, but I managed. Thankfully, my helmet stood out pretty obviously against all of the trash and junk, and I was able to retrieve it with relative ease. As soon as I put it on, Father’s voice rang through my ears. Hearing from him filled me with relief, but Maggie’s words still sat heavily in the back of my mind.

“Seven, what’s your status? Did you complete your mission?”

I swallowed thickly, trying to sum up the courage to lie. “I-I… I’m sorry, Father. I failed. She got away.”

Silence stretched on for a long, tense moment. Finally, Father spoke again. “Return to the facility at once. We will discuss this more once your injuries have been seen to.”

I nervously bit my lip. “Yes, sir.”

I could already tell. Father was not in a generous mood.

—

“Three cracked ribs, a fractured cheekbone, a missing tooth, and a nasty case of whiplash,” the medic said, reading off my diagnosis. “It was good that you kept the tooth in your mouth. We can probably find someone to stick it back in, but as for the rest of your injuries, the best I can suggest is taking it easy.”

Taking it easy sounded nice, but I seriously doubted Father was going to let me take another break so soon after my last one. Sure enough, his frown immediately deepened.

“You’re dismissed,” he said to the medic. They nodded their head and left without another word. Father turned to me.

“You’ve disappointed me today, Seven. All you needed to do was follow one simple order, but clearly I expected too much from you. It’s obvious that you’ve been neglecting your combat training. From now on you will be doing double training shifts every day, as well as double patrols for the next two weeks. Oh, and forget about getting your tooth back. Maybe I will reconsider once you’ve done something to earn it.”

With that, he turned and followed the medic out. I sighed, looking up at the ceiling, running my tongue along my teeth and feeling the gap in between my upper molars. Having to work double patrols through my injuries definitely sucked, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. I could survive that.

I tried to turn my head as I got up from the examination table, but a lance of pain shot through my neck and down my back. I gasped, returning to my previous position as gently as I could.

Okay, maybe this was a problem.

Double combat training every day with my neck like this?!

…Fuck. Maybe it would have been better if Maggie had just pulled the trigger.

—

Maggie landed heavily on the fire escape outside of her apartment, clutching her abdomen. Adrenaline had made it a bit easier to ignore during the conversation, but now that things had calmed down, the real damage that Jordyn’s kick had inflicted upon her was becoming clear. Every breath felt like needles stabbing into her ribs.

She lifted her shirt to check the damage. Aside from the absolutely gnarly bruise, the kick had somehow also left her with multiple bleeding lacerations. The little soldier was crafty with her shadows, that was for sure. One thing was clear, though: she needed stitches. Ugh, her favourite.

She shook out her wings, trying to work off the spare anxiety, and opened the window, slipping inside.

Diego was sitting on the couch when she entered. He turned to her, a conflicted but relieved expression on his face as he looked her up and down.

“So… Did you do it?”

Maggie shook her head. “Nah. I almost did, but…” She sighed. “Seeing her scared face looking up at me like that, it… reminded me too much of Hex, on that day back in the facility. I decided to give her a chance.”

Diego’s face relaxed into a smile. “I’m proud of you. You did the right thing.” He stood up, walking over and planting a soft kiss on her lips, one that she happily returned.

She pulled out of the kiss, resting her forehead on his shoulder instead, enjoying the warmth of his arms wrapped around her. “I wish I could believe that. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see how it pans out. Where’s Hex?”

“In her room, playing Minecraft on my laptop. She’s been waiting for you to come back.”

Maggie closed her eyes. “I’ll go say hi later. Right now, I should probably focus on patching myself up.”

“You want my help?”

“After what happened last time, I think I’ll just do it myself.”

“Fair.”

Taglist: @steelandblood @sapphicwhump @urnumber1star @alsolucakairomi @idkwhattodowiththisaltiamsorry

@iamheretohurt @anoyedartist @dontyoubleedoutonme @seastarblue @lettherebepain

@bacillusinfection

Bird lady! Maggie! Yay! honestly up until writing this chapter her name was gonna be 'Fila' but i wasn't loving that so i decided to change it. Her full name is Magpie btw :)

listening to the yakuza soundtrack is quite motivating when it comes to writing fight scenes I've found. makes the imagery play out in my head like a QTE or something. It's great :)

Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought in a comment or reblog, it's super appreciated! also let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist :)

see you guys next time for another Steve'o chapter. Ciao!

#project genesis whump series #whump series #whumpblr #whump #whump writing #living weapon whump #creative writing #writeblr #original fiction #winged character #superhero whump

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ratofthemedievalsewers · 1 year ago

Text

Danse Macabre

Astarion x M!Tav / Astarion x M!Dark Urge

TEASER - Can be read as a stand-alone

A03 Link: Danse Macabre

Warning: Vague explicit content

Dain gave a frustrated huff as he threw the strip of leather he was attempting to use as a hair tie into the dirt beside him. This had been his third and decidedly final attempt at tying his hair up; wanting to keep the mix-matched strands of snow and onyx out of his eyes while he fought. He ran bony, calloused fingers through his hair, freeing the now mostly tangled waves from each other.

“What a mess.” Dain spun round at the sudden sound of another’s voice, dagger unsheathed from the hilt that always sat snugly on his lower back. He lowered it when he recognised Astarion’s bright white curls, the colour reflecting the moonlight like a dulled mirror. “What is it you’re even trying to do?”

Dain felt a frown twitch on his face in the slight embarrassment at being caught, ‘noble hero of the grove’ defeated by his own head of hair. “... I wanted to tie my hair up… it keeps getting in my eyes when I fight.” He always felt himself struggling to speak when it came to Astarion, with every word the vampire spoke his mental self was on his knees taking in each drop the other provided like he was a beast dying of thirst.

He thought himself vile. Some sick, twisted part of him knew, without a doubt, that he would be dead in the other man’s hands if they had met in Baldur’s Gate during Astarion’s slavery to Cazador. Found wanding in the night-blanketed streets, it would only take a few honeyed words and Dain would follow him like a lost puppy, drunk on false love to the very clutches of the Vampire Master. He was a simple, easy-to-manipulate fool, his soul lost and his memories along with it.

Maybe he should be glad someone else had found him first.

“Why not cut it shorter then? Save the faffing about and getting all in a huff.” Dain looked at Astarion as if he had just punched him directly in the stomach, his face contorted in a look of obvious disapproval at the suggestion. “Alright, alright. No need to get your knickers in a twist.” Astarion gave a dramatic sigh and sat himself behind Dain, the other’s shins pressing firmly against his back, trying to get as close as he could to the other.

Dain did not stiffen as he did with the others’ contact, Astarion’s touch never burned in the way others’ did - instead it felt like silk, the contact tingling but never in a way that was unpleasant. It was a sensation he had never felt before and he craved it and hated it in equal amounts. Dain’s mind, for reasons he himself did not know, found himself refusing the smallest touches of another, but with Astarion it was the exact opposite. He would never ask though, for that would show his weakness to a predator that was seeking the cracks in his “hero” facade.

“Brush,” It took a moment for his mind to come back to reality. He passed the wooden comb he had begrudgingly borrowed from Shadowheart a few hours prior. Astarion took it, cold, undead fingers brushing against his gloved ones. Granted, the gloves were quite possibly the reason he was struggling so much, but he had become accustomed to always wearing them that taking them off made him feel as if he were naked.

Astarion began with the ends of his hair that rested just past the middle of his back, where his waves became closer to loose curls, slowly working his way up. Dain allowed himself to get lost in the little tingles another brushing his hair caused at the base of his skull, a suppressed shiver travelled up his spine and he felt his shoulders begin to lower as he relaxed. Then there were gentle fingers at the back of his neck, pretending they needed to manipulate his hair in order to properly run the comb through. Then the comb was running slowly, languidly over his scalp and then all the way to the very ends before repeating the motion. Over and over.

Dain felt himself start to lean back to the presence behind him - he stopped himself before he was fully laid in Astarion’s lap. It scared him a little; that he fell so easily into the roll of prey when it came to the vampire. Maybe it was his scent, a trick of his smile, something magical in his aura that anyone could fall victim to? No, the others weren’t falling so easily into his arms, the root of the problem began within Dain.

Was it a problem?

He gave it a little consideration, yet the only conclusion he came to was that he did not truly care. Dain would willingly, even happily let Astarion drain him utterly and completely whether he held him like a lover or like a boar he found sleeping in the alcoves of the forest they had set up camp in. It was shameful and exhilarating all at once.

Dain found himself tilting his head to the side as an offering, words of ‘Are you hungry?’ no longer needing to be spoken between them. Astarion let the comb fall through Dain’s hair one last time, the tangles being loosened many minutes ago. Both of them had been lost in their own minds it seems.

“You sure?” Astarion spoke just above a whisper, as if his words would disturb the surface of the lake that sat in front of them, its surface having acted as a mirror for Dain before Astarion had supposedly come to his rescue. Those same gentle fingers brushed away the few strands that had stubbornly laid themselves across the junctor of Dain’s neck.

“Only if you are.”

Dain heard Astarion shift behind him as he uncrossed his legs to rest on either side of Dain’s. With another’s arms wrapped around his middle, he pushed himself backwards into Astarion’s body; he felt the other’s chest against his back, cold seeping through both their camp shirts, unsure who it belonged to.

“You are always so cold, yet your blood runs warm.” Astarion spoke against his ear now and Dain had to suppress the shiver that threatened to pass over him, the other felt the way he tensed and a small, wolfish smile played on his lips. A hand moved from his waist and fingertips caressed up his throat in faux consideration before his whole hand wrapped around his neck and softly guided his head to the side. “I could only describe your taste as nectar, crafted by the gods themselves. Cruel gods no doubt… for to give in to my desires and have all of you would kill you… and I would forever be left without the very things that caused my addiction.”

Astarion placed a gentle kiss on Dain’s neck, a small apology for the pain that came next.

This time Dain could not hold back his reaction. He heard the moan leave his lips before he even realised it was his, and felt his back arch from Astarion’s chest before he could hold himself still. Astarion let out a gentle hum as the taste of his blood wet his tongue, the hand that sat comfortably on Dain’s hip moved to rest low on his inner thigh, applying the smallest of pressures to where he knew Dain desired but would not ask nor seek it. Astarion wanted him to give in to this little dance they played, wanted him to fall complete victim in his arms.

It took every peice of Dain’s will to hold his own hips in place. His breathing became airy as his mouth fell slightly open and the vampire’s venom began branching out like roots within the earth. He could feel its tendrils curling and twisting through his veins; up his neck, down his chest, gently burning as it moved. If his blood was not being slowly drained from him he would blush; the tips of his ears, cheeks and across his nose turning a soft lilac against greyish skin. A tender heat settled between his legs as the sensations begin to overwhelm him.

Astarion brushed his thumb over Dain’s heat, the pressure barely noticeable through the albeit thin leather of his trousers, but Dain keened, a long exhale parting from his lips. He took what was offered to him and savoured it. He would not ask for more.

Dain felt his body begin to go limp as he became bloodless; he barely had the energy to move his hand that had been gripping the dirt below them. He tapped Astarion’s lower thigh twice, a signal they had silently agreed on to mean ‘no more’. Another moment and the vampire pulled away, licking the twin little dots of blood that began to pool at the opening of Dain’s wound.

Astarion was a little dazed with his stomach now full. He propped himself up with one arm behind his back, the other now removed from Dain’s thigh to hold him around his chest, hand over where his heart should beat, keeping him upright as the other leaned against him. Through his foggy mind, Dain felt another tender kiss placed on his neck, just above the bite the vampire spawn had given him.

“Full?” Dain asked, somewhat breathless himself.

“Sated,” Astarion whispered in response, slowly guiding Dain to sit upright, holding his shoulders in case he fell back again.

“Now… back to your hair.” Dain gave a small chuckle, brain barely functioning with what little blood was left in him trying to keep his cogs turning. The gentle caresses against his scalp returned, but only briefly as Astarion began the plait his hair, gathering more hair as he went so it would follow the curve of his skull before running down his back, preventing it from possibly swinging and hitting Dain in the face if he were to quickly turn. Although, the idea was somewhat amusing. “I’ve never seen someone with hair like yours.”

“You’ve said better lines.”

“I’m not trying to flirt, darling.” He could feel Astarion’s eye roll as he spoke. Dain reached for the leather tie he had thrown to the floor earlier as Astarion reached the end of the braid, but when offered Astarion ignored him and pulled his own leather band from his wrist and wrapped it around the end of Dain’s hair. “I swear it's darker, especially after our little clash at the goblin camp.” Dain gave a simple shrug, mind still too drowsy to think clearly. After a long pause where he assumed Astarion was thinking, he finally spoke again, breaking the awkward quiet that had begun to settle. “My dear, you are a mystery to the fashion world.”

“Thank you… I think.” Dain stood as Asatrion did, swaying slightly on his feat like a common drunkard. “We should get back to the others before their minds start cooking up something nefarious.”

“No doubt they already have, everyone here has such simple minds.” Dain gave him a deadpan stare, crossing his arms to further his lack of amusement. “Apart from you, of course.” Astarion tucked one of the stubborn, pale strands that refused to be tied up behind Dain’s ear, a crooked grin plastered on his face. It was Dain’s turn to roll his eyes.

*****

Teaser 1

#baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #astarion x male reader #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x male tav #astarion x dark urge #astarion x male dark urge

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mina-scribbles · 2 years ago

Text

of gods & monsters

Summary:

Since the dawn of Olympus, Titans have become nothing more than footnotes in divine history, leaving them to roam the earth with no purpose for eternity.

You are the primordial goddess of love, and in present-day Greece, in the golden time of the Olympians, no one utters your name anymore. But occasionally, someone remembers, or the Fates suddenly decide that you have some purpose left in the threads of your immortal life.

It is one of those occasions where you find yourself called to a cave where a monster lies with his fresh kill.

Forgotten as you are, you are still the goddess of love, and to love is what duty tells you to do.

Notes:

I got the idea from references that say Eros is the primordial god of love, but then replaced him with Aphrodite. Just--y'know, creative liberties, and whatnot.

Hurt/comfort & angst & feels ahead. This is purely self-indulgent faffing as I loved the thought of having someone comfort Seraphim in a non-sexual way, you know? So, nothing spicy at all. Just--softness.

Unbeta'd btw, so yuh. Hope you enjoy !!

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

The sharp tang of blood greeted you the moment you stepped into the cave.

You’d seen this before - scattered intestines, cracked and jagged parts of a skull, a femur here, an ulna there, a spine torn in two strewn across the cavern floor - yet you still couldn’t hold in a gasp.

This of course drew seraphim’s attention, who knelt by the mangled remains of his uncle, a puddle of blood under his knees.

Quicker than any human, he rose to his feet and whirled around, teeth bared and eyes ablaze. In one bloody hand, he clutched his bident, both tips still gleaming crimson.

This should’ve insulted you, made you bristle. Any god, titan or olympian, would have struck him where he stood for even daring to defy powers greater than himself, a puny human desperately trying his hand at godhood. it was pathetic, really.

But at your core, you were what creation intended; you were the personification of love and all its nuances - the warmth and chaos of it all, the unconditional acceptance of the insanity that came with loving and the loved. this was your essence since you dawned alongside the universe, birthed long before the concept of humanity was even imagined; the primordial goddess of love, a titan of no equal. Even when you’ve been made obscure and obsolete, this was still your duty as divinity.

And so, standing before seraphim now, soaked in gore with his humanity barely visible anymore, you saw.

Somehow, he did, too. his features grew less sharp, transforming his snarl into a grimace as he leered at you. “Another god.” He spat the words like a curse.

“Titan,” you corrected. “And I mean no harm.”

Recognition dawned on his face. But you’d seen this before - recognition for the sword but not its wielder. This time, however, you refused to let disappointment settle in your stomach. It wasn’t his fault.

Neither of you moved. Your gaze darted to his crimson-tipped bident, and he to your form. The questions were easily recognizable in his eyes - who were you? why were you here?

With a breath, you decided and stepped forward. Seraphim watched you approach. Your dress trailed behind you, red blooming along the white, silken hem.

When you were a foot away from him, you extended a hand between you. “Come,” you said. “You need rest.”

He eyed it like it was a snake about to strike.

So you tried again. “Take your rest before Hera finds you again.”

At the mention of the goddess’s name, Seraphim growled, and you gasped when the cold tip of his bident pressed under your chin. This forced you to look up into his red gaze, your stomach churning at the miasma of bitterness and revenge swirling within them.

“Gods, titans, you’re all the same,” he spat. “We’re nothing more than playthings to you. like pawns on a board that you move and summon to your liking. when have any of you answered our prayers? where are any of you when we beg for your aid, your mercy?”

With a snarl that rivaled his, you answered, “Am I not an answered prayer? Have I not come at a moment of need?”

“You all come when you please.”

“I come when I can,” you hissed, unable to quell your outrage. What do you do when you were nothing but mythos? When the best you got was a passing thought because you were merely a footnote?

When they came, the prayers came few, until eventually there were none.

People had more faith in rocks and earth. You? Your existence was too irrelevant to even question.

Your tongue was a weight of all the spite and bitterness festering within you, the antithesis of your essence. You could’ve said more, could’ve made him see all that you had seen. But that would shatter him irreparably, and you couldn’t do that. that wouldn’t be very lovely, not when you were love itself. Not when you were supposed to love.

And you wanted to love in spite of it.

You were the chaos of it all, and so you understood. And with you, he would, too. In time.

So for now, quietly, you added, “Trust me, boy, you are not the only one the fates have abandoned.”

This—this broke him. His eyes dimmed and his form slumped, as if the weight of his bident suddenly became too heavy. Then, as if just seeing for the first time, his gaze darted all over himself, at the blood smattered across his chest and over his arms.

“I—“ he began, features rapidly shifting between grief and anger, and when he couldn’t decide, he finally, finally looked at you. “Hera will come looking for me.”

“She will.”

You read emotions as one would read letters on a page. And with his realization came the brief flash of fear -- bitter and sharp -- before emptiness took its place once more. Beneath it all, however, was the undercurrent of anger, a steady thrum while everything else ebbed and flowed.

A pause, and then, in a whisper, “He’s dead. He’s really dead.”

When you touched his cheek, images played in your mind — a mother and a boy against a world of greedy men, of gods and prayers, of swords and blood, of a yawning hopelessness and a desperation like teeth chewing through flesh.

All these just past a void, a wall of nothingness acting as a barrier between the memories and the red haze of anger facing the world. monsters hiding monsters.

“I know,” you answered just as softly, pressing closer. seraphim leaned into your touch—not out of want but out of necessity, and oh how your skin tingled. To be wanted. To be needed. And when he stepped further into your space, a soldier laying his burdens as seraphim rested his forehead against your shoulder, your very soul thrummed. Your arms wrapped around him, one hand carding through the hairs in his nape while the other trailed down his arm, to the hand circled loosely around his bident. "you need rest."

Hot breath fanned against your collarbone. "And in exchange for rest?"

Seraphim's muscles grew taught under your touch. A man awaiting judgment.

Skin to skin, the images became clearer, the sensations stronger--of your muscles straining to keep you standing, of hard rock digging into your knees as a force pushed you down.

You grit your teeth. You wanted, yes. But not that. Once, maybe. But not today. Not for a long while.

Cupping his cheek so he gazed up at you, you said, "Nothing you would not wish to give. And I have nothing I wish to take."

With your thumb, you swiped at the blood on his cheek. His skin was warm to the touch. Maybe, maybe, he was human still.

His gaze darted over your features, your eyes, your lips, and you barely stayed the shiver creeping up your spine as you pulled your hand back, allowing him privacy to his thoughts, for here was a man frozen in awe at the face of kindness.

"I will be a better god," you swore to yourself as a fist clenched around your heart.

Seraphim seemed to gather himself as he rose to his full height. His free hand twitched at his side before slowly taking yours.

"Where do we go?" He asked.

"Wherever you wish."

Together, you walked in contemplative silence toward the mouth of the cave. High above, the sun's glare was brilliant. It warmed your skin, and glimpses of a chariot burning across the heavens flashed in your mind. Most knew the sun god by another name. You knew him as a titan. And for him, for them, you would remember.

Seraphim pulled you from your thoughts when he said, "I do not have a place to come home to."

His skin shone like obsidian in the light, the smattered blood gleaming hotly as the red marks along his skin. "There is a wooden hut not far from here. It's not much, but it can be home." If you would like.

It remained unspoken, but when he squeezed your hand, you knew he understood.

#blood of zeus #seraphim x reader #seraphim x you #blood of zeus - seraphim

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trollwizard · 1 month ago

Note

gimme your most fun fact on sigurd

a fun fact and a scary fact on bea

two fun facts and a weird fact about caurra

and for fafnir

a fun fact, a secret, and her most controversial opinion!!

go go gogogogo❗‼️❗‼️❗‼️▶️⏩⏭️🍾🥂🍻

this is gonna be a long one I guess!! follow sigurd under the cut for more

2a) Fun fact about Bea: her Lusus is a virgin queen of a bigger species of bee than her hives are! but it still bosses her hives around as like, a higher level queen. as she's packing up for her upcoming move, she's the bee that is letting everyone know to be back at the hive on time or they'll get left behind.

1) Funnest fact about Sigurd: something not mentioned often but is implicit about him is the fact that, as a cusp, he doesn't have gills! Just the dinky little finny ears. He's got the lung capacity of a seadwelling mammal though so he often freedives to visit seadwellers. this leads into the true fun fact: he has an oxygen tank for safe scuba diving, but he only really wears it when hes taking merle somewhere as a redundant backup in case hers has a problem. he's a huge worrywart but he can't possibly let her find out.

bea!!

3a) Fun fact about Caurra: we all know the pirate thing is just a fun stylistic choice. Caurra gets seasick if she's on a boat. she rocks up to most ship events with a bag of ginger chews in her pocket and a flask that she says is the hard stuff, but is really just spearmint tea.

2🐝) A Scary fact about Bea: while Sigs has strength proportionate to his size, Bea is true to her hymenopteran roots and can easily lift him. she's easily the strongest troll in the cast and has dealt with unsavory parties before using her bare hands. she can crush a watermelon between her thighs. and your skull. if she felt so inclined. she does not tend to disclose any murders she has committed as she finds them a necessary evil in troll society and prefers not to dwell on it.

caurra......

3b) Another fun Caurra fact: she knew she'd end up big as sin from her lineage, so her hive was built with that in mind. Very forgiving doorways and high up cabinets. but that brief time she was a youngin she was like, "man if i end up being a short king this is gonna be so embarrassing" as she needed a fold out stepladder for everything in her home

3c) A weird fact about Caurra: what isn't weird about her??? despite her casual air, she's very counter culture and off-putting to other royals. what kind of rich royal blood lives in a pond? anyways she has definitely tried fish food more than once. she keeps forgetting that it's nasty.

fafnir time

4a) fun fact about fafs: her favorite psychic trick truly is the sudden harvest one she picked up. she'll pull all the plums off a tree at once, crop up all the carrots in one crack, or pluck a bulk batch of berries in a big bang. HOWEVER she does lose her grip right after the tug so she will immediately drop all that food and might send it flying. so it's best you just have her pick fruit by hand.

4c) her most controversial opinion? she doesn't think ancestors mean anything, despite her dabbling in genetics. like yeah you'll get their horns and maybe their abilities but it's total bullshit to think you'd end up like them. she believes strongly in nurture vs nature, an odd view for a troll to have.

4b) a secret... she doesn't have many of those! she's very impulsive and doesn't keep secrets well bc she tends to say what's on her mind. that said if she thinks she has to, she'll lie about stuff but she's super bad at it. You can tell if fafnir is keeping a secret because she simply will not say anything. just tight lipped about everything to avoid giving anything away. do not trust her with surprise party planning.

embarrassing secret that everyone who knows her knows? she still will wear karbals clothes and pretend to be her in the mirror. she thinks it's funny.

which is rich coming from her. she was just a few months away from snapping and eating her lusus like her ancestor nidhoggr did.

#fafs chats #sigurd speaks #bea talks #caurra chat #ask blog #homestuck

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highqueenofelfhame · 2 years ago

Text

IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME COMING. I didn't mean for this to go a whole year without an update. I'm so sorry. I hope this 4.5k chapter makes up for it somehow <3

masterlist // fafs masterlist // rowaelin

As soon as he took that first deep breath upon waking up, Rowan knew he was being watched. Maybe that was thanks to all his years as an agent for the bureau, or perhaps it had to do with the months he had spent with Aelin that had honed that instinct into a sharp blade. Regardless of what had made him develop the sixth sense, he knew that when he opened his eyes to the soft light filtering through the cracks of the curtains, there would be a golden gaze pinning him to the bed.

Instead of looking at her, he reached across the bed to rest his hand on her thigh. Rowan could tell she was sitting with her legs folded up like a pretzel, her hands in her lap while she watched him. He moved a fraction of an inch closer until he could easily press his lips to the spot just above her knee.

"Rowan?" The tentative sound of her voice had him cracking open an eye to look up at her face. A deep crease was set between her brows while she worried her bottom lip in thought.

"What has you awake so early?" This soon after waking, the lilt of his accent was heavier, his tone deeper and more gravelly than usual.

"It wasn't you, right?"

"Baby–" he started, pushing himself up on his good arm to a sitting position. He shifted so they were sitting knee to knee, one of his legs dangling over the side of the bed so he could move closer to her. Aelin looked away as she licked her lips before shaking her head. "Look at me, love."

"I know. I know you didn't; I just–" Her eyes found his again, and she huffed out a sigh. It sounded like she had been carrying it in her lungs for years. "Somebody found out. They found out, and they told her. But everyone I know is dead except for Elide and Gavriel, and they think I'm dead. Even if Gav put it together, I can't see him spilling everything to Maeve before talking to me to see what the hell happened to me all those years ago."

Digging her palms into her eyes, she took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. Rowan counted the seconds, his thumbs brushing in soothing circles over her tan skin. It was something he had been thinking about non-stop since everything exploded in the bureau lobby. Even as the bullet pierced his shoulder, he tried to make sense of everything that had come to light.

How had Maeve known? It definitely hadn't been Gavriel. At the very least, her uncle would have approached him before going to Maeve. It didn't make any sense for him to find his long-lost and assumed-dead niece and go straight to his boss. Rowan knew firsthand that the deaths of his sister-in-law and her husband had plagued him. He was one of the few people that Gavriel had ever talked about it with, him and Aedion never having fully given up hope that maybe she was out there somewhere. It wasn't something he voiced frequently. Those admissions came after everyone else had left the bar, and it was just the two of them sharing a beer in silence after a difficult case. No, it definitely hadn't been Gavriel.

Who then? Aelin was right. Essentially everyone from her childhood was dead now. All her confessions had happened in places where he knew they weren't being recorded. By that time, he himself had become paranoid enough that he checked all the pens in his pockets, his cufflinks, and the buttons of his shirts, even to ensure nobody had slipped a device somewhere in his clothes. If they had been recorded, it would have been inside his apartment. But he would have known about that, too. He checked regularly and had frequency blockers hidden in every room.

If working for the bureau taught him anything, it was to always be on your guard and that a healthy dose of paranoia kept you from being surveilled.

There was Elide, but Rowan had a strong feeling that any of her suspicions would have ended with Lorcan beating down his door in the dead of night in search of the truth. She wasn't even an option, not really.

Who, then? Had Arobynn Hammel let the truth slip to Maeve before his heart had been ripped from his chest? Did Maeve have eyes and ears everywhere that whispered back to her, even when they were sure no one was listening? It seemed far-fetched, but he knew his boss had her moments of being ruthless. But if she'd known the truth since Arobynn, why did she wait so long to tell Aelin she knew? The window of when she found out and when she spoke with Aelin had to have been a small one. Nothing else quite made sense.

Rowan looked back at the woman he loved, her eyes fixed on his face while he processed every bit of information they knew. All he could do was shake his head and rest his brow against hers.

"I don't know. I wish I could give you more than that, but where it stands right now, I have no fucking idea. We will figure it out– all of it. Who told her, what kind of jeopardy it puts you in, what our next steps are. We will figure it out together."

There was a determination in her eyes that was admirable. And though he could tell she wanted to push back about something that he'd said– he had no idea which part– she nodded slightly and repeated, "Together."

~*~

Hours later, Aelin was sitting on the floor in front of the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Despite a warmer day outside, a fire flickered in the fireplace. Watching the flames dance and twine around one another was a welcome reprieve from the near-constant headache she'd had for the last few days while trying to make sense of everything.

In the kitchen, Rowan hummed quietly while preparing dinner. The aroma of garlic, basil, and lemon was strong throughout the cabin. It felt bizarre that this felt like the most normal night she had ever experienced in her whole life. The sounds of dinner being prepared, a man she loved making everything with care. The reality was that it was the furthest from normal, considering she was on the run from the FBI. It was only a matter of time before she was found, captured, and dumped into a prison cell for the rest of her life. It made her stomach turn to know that the same thing would happen to Rowan for harboring a fugitive of her caliber and committing treason.

"I don't understand how this has become my life," she said aloud, and Rowan ceased his movements. The water turned on, followed by the sound of him washing and drying his hands before lowering his body to the floor beside her. "I don't mean I don't understand exactly how I ended up here. I understand that part. What I don't understand is how my life got here."

"You mean how you ended up an assassin in the first place." He shifted to drop his arm around her shoulder, and Aelin quickly turned into him, resting her face against his chest. It always surprised her when he understood what she was trying to say, even if the words were twisted and confusing on their way out of her mouth.

"How did I go from living in a mansion surrounded by family and friends, my father gearing up for a presidential run, having tea parties with my very best friends, or running through bonfires on Beltane with flowers in my hair to this?"

"What do you remember about that night?" The night she'd spent so much time running from, one that her brain had blocked out almost entirely. Aelin sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes still locked on the flames as she chewed on it for a moment.

"Not much," she admitted. "I've never talked about it out loud to anyone before, either. But it really isn't much."

"Do you want to go over what you do remember with me? Maybe something will spark, and we can work backward to figure out what is happening now." Only with Rowan would she ever talk about it, the night that ruined her life. Perhaps she had emerged from the ashes like a phoenix, but everything she had wanted to be before died that night. So she had become something else entirely. Something horrible that her friends and family would be ashamed of and would judge. But he wouldn't.

Aelin turned so she was leaning against the couch, her arm propped on the cushion with her fist against her temple. Rowan mirrored her body language, reaching out to lace the fingers of their free hands. A silent reminder that he was there, he understood her, and he would follow this path with her to whatever end it may have. The thought alone made her want to cry, but she swallowed her emotions.

"The night that my parents were murdered, I was sleeping upstairs in my bed. Every night I went to sleep snuggled in a mountain of stuffed animals. Most of them came from when my dad went on business trips. He always brought one back for me. I had to have at least twenty stacked on top of my bed, dozens more littered around my room. I rotated them out frequently so that none of them would feel lonely having to sleep by themselves." Rowan's lips had curved into the smallest of smiles, his thumb making circles on the back of her hand. He was there. He had her. She was not alone, and she would not be afraid.

"I remember having a hard time falling asleep that night. I'd been to my parent's bedroom twice because I thought I heard things. It was a big house; it made a lot of noise. My mom repeatedly promised me that everything was okay, and she and my dad tucked me back into bed. I remember still feeling unsettled and scared. Like something was wrong, but I didn't know what. I couldn't place my tiny finger on it then, but I would hold my breath to see what I could hear in the silence. Once, I heard soft voices, which my mom said I was just hearing the two of them talking downstairs. I heard footsteps, but again, they were still up and getting ready for bed. I was just hearing them."

Aelin paused then, tears already filling her eyes and threatening to slip down her cheeks. Not once had she said any of this out loud. Nobody had ever heard this part. With Rowan, she could do this. She could say it aloud despite her throat burning from trying to suppress her emotions. Maybe it was time she let them out. Had she ever really grieved? Those first few weeks at the keep, maybe. But Arobynn had quickly shut down her wildfire range of emotions some months into her training when he decided she should be over it by now. With a deep breath, she found it in herself to continue.

"I slept a little bit that night, but it was that kind of sleep where you hear everything around you. Somewhere between being awake and dreaming. At first, I thought I was dreaming. But I heard my mother begging someone. Her voice had so much raw fear; I will never forget how it cracked when she said my name. As scared as I was, you think you're invincible as a child, you know? So I snuck downstairs, tip-toeing down the hallway to their bedroom. And then I just… froze. There was enough moonlight to see my dad completely limp on the bed. Something dark was on his skin and the sheets, running down his arm and pooling on the floor. His eyes were staring at nothing.

A man had my mom's hair gathered in his hand; her head pulled back with a gun to her temple while she begged and begged. But she wasn't begging for herself; she was pleading that he let me go. Over and over, she just kept saying let my baby live, please don't hurt her. And then she saw me standing at the door, and the last thing she said was my name before the gun went off. I have never heard anyone's voice sound so panicked and full of terror. My mom slumped against my dad, and then I turned and ran. At some point, I slipped, banged my head on the ground, and I don't know what happened after that."

Aelin only realized she had fully begun to sob when Rowan pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her tightly. While she was talking, she had registered the sounds of gasping, sharp breaths, and broken words, but it hadn't registered that it was coming from her. When she started talking, it all started pouring out. One broken word after another until her shirt was soaked with tears. On the one hand, it felt so good to finally get it out and tell someone what had really happened that night. On the other, it shattered her into a million pieces to recount those events.

The papers had gotten it all wrong. Most of them said it had been a quick assassination. Aelin didn't know how fast it had happened for her father, but the man that killed her mother had stood there and listened to her begging for her daughter's innocent life for long enough that Aelin had made her way downstairs and heard the end of it. That she saw the end of it. That it was burned into her brain no matter how hard she tried to shut those images out.

Aelin still had nightmares about it.

Rowan didn't say anything for a long while, just holding her and stroking her hair while she let out every emotion she had kept locked in an iron cage in the back of her mind. Emotions she had been trained to keep a firm hold on for nearly her entire life. Arobynn used that against her, beating her down until she had become distant and cold. Only when she had met Rowan did any of it start to slip out, and she had spent months hating herself for it. Aelin had always known from the time she started to get to know him that he would be her unraveling one way or another. He would either throw her in prison or make her feel alive again. At the time, she couldn't decide which was worse.

"I know that there were two men. I saw a second one when I turned to run. But after that, I didn't know anything else until I woke up in a bed in the keep. Arobynn never talked about how I fell under his 'care.' For a while, I thought it was just an orphanage. That I had been found and taken there while I was unwell. It didn't click until I was a few years older that it certainly wasn't the case because I would have woken up in a hospital before I got taken anywhere, and then I would have been taken to my aunt and uncle. I just remember seeing all these papers about how I was missing and presumed dead. Arobynn would show me news footage of Aerin and Gavriel begging for someone to just let them know where my body was so they could bring me home."

Her tears felt cool against her flushed cheeks, even as Rowan chased every one of them away with calloused fingertips. The memories of her aunt, uncle, and cousin standing on the porch of their home, desperately asking for her return. They hadn't known if it would be her alive and well, or if it would be her dead body. It had not mattered. Her family just wanted her back. Wanted to keep or safe or lay her to rest next to her parents. The image of Aedion's young, tear-streaked face floated to the front of her mind, followed immediately by his unseeing eyes the day she had shown up at the crime scene to find him dead.

It was all too much. The murder of her parents, her upbringing to become the underworld's most deadly assassin, that she was now everything her parents hated about the world. All of her friends that now lay six feet under simply because they were tied to her in some way.

The guilt had been gnawing at her bones since it all started. Aelin would give absolutely anything to trade places with them. The cost didn't matter. It would have been better if she were the one that was dead because if she had died that night, at least everyone she loved would still be breathing.

Throughout the years, Aelin had kept tabs on each of them, knowing they would do incredible things. They all had done their best to put something good back into the world. Dorian was nothing like his father, doing what he could to speak out and back his words up with actions to pave a better way for the rest of the world. Aedion had spent countless hours working with underprivileged youth in Big Brother programs right up to his death. Even Sam was taking steps to better his life until he was killed for trying to run with her.

Nehemia… gods, the things she could have done if her life hadn't ended so shortly. She had been a beacon of hope to so many, her charity work speaking for itself. It was only about doing everything she could to help people in need, including raising money through the Lotus Foundation, one her parents had helped her create to build housing in underdeveloped parts of their home country, Eyllwe.

Yet she was the one still living. She who had taken countless lives, that had so much blood caked onto her soul she would never be clean. It didn't matter what she did going forward; it didn't matter the circumstances of how it all happened. Aelin was the one that lived, and she had brought so much shame upon everyone in her life.

There were no bright sides to her friends being dead. That she would never have to face them, never have to tell them the truth, though… She was too much of a coward to ever have looked any of them in the eye after the life she had been forced into.

"Do you remember anything about the men that killed your parents? What they looked like?" Rowan's voice stirred her from her thoughts, soft, deep, and lilting. His thumbs still brushed the tears that fell from her cheeks.

"The men Maeve captured and convicted were the ones that did it. I know that for sure. I could never forget Cairn's face. His accomplice is harder for me to piece together, but he confessed after Cairn ratted him out to avoid the death penalty. I only saw him for a brief moment before I fell. If the wrong people had been convicted, I would have hunted them down and killed them myself." And she would have. Those lives would have been two of the few she held no remorse over, and it wouldn't have been quick. It would have lasted long enough until some of the grief had eased in her chest. Until she wasn't so scared to look back on her childhood memories anymore.

"That case got her the appointment for FBI Director." Rowan lifted the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe the snot gathered in her nose and upper lip.

"She deserved it for that. Even though I had just turned nine, I was hyper-aware of what my life was turning into by that point. And seeing justice brought down on them… it brought some relief. Not much, but enough to know they were behind bars. I would have preferred the death penalty for them both, but at least there was a confession." Aelin shrugged her shoulders. It was true. She would have killed them after her arrest if she had been in the same prison. Clearly, the gods had other plans for her, though.

"Is there anything else you can piece together?"

"Right now, no. But if I have any eureka moments, you'll be the first and only one to know."

Aelin had been waiting for Rowan's apology. The one that came from a place of empathy, that made her feel like she was pitied. But it never came. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. The gesture said more than words ever could. That he understood, that he hated the shitty hand life had dealt her, that he stood with her. That he was there.

And that meant more to her than any words ever could.

~*~

Whitethorn had been right. In the days after Sardothien's arrest, he had gone on and on about how it was too convenient. It didn't make sense that she was just a whisper in the wind and suddenly became so sloppy in her work that boxes of evidence had, literally, been dropped on the steps of the FBI headquarters.

Raking through every piece of information that they had on her, he could see that clear as day. For years their department had chased a ghost, someone quick and silent. There had never been a drop of her own blood, a single hair that fell off her head. No fingerprints, no saliva. None of her DNA packed under someone's fingernails from a struggle. They didn't even have proof that it was her at all, actually. They only knew that the legendary assassin was a woman based on one witness account, and the woman had been so old and frail and unsure of her account that it would have been inadmissible in court.

All of her alleged crime scenes had been scoured with a fine-toothed comb. They knew it was murder; that much was clear. But Celaena Sardothien had dozens of aliases, hundreds maybe. He was sure of that. Yet the "proof" they had received in a box full of her fake passports and IDs seemed too good to be true. None of them led them anywhere; it was like she'd never touched them, never used them at any point. Anyone could pay someone to make fake identification, and what they found in those boxes was so blatantly fake that it wouldn't fool anyone.

Her case was a puzzle that he was dying to solve. Usually, he loved cataloging evidence that led to a trial. Sure, they would have to find and capture her again before she saw her day in the courtroom, but he enjoyed this part of the work. Except for right now, when not a single loose thread took him anywhere at all. The woman simply did not exist.

With tired eyes, he pushed away the file he'd been reading and turned to another that kept him up at night. Lorcan wasn't usually so personally invested in the cases they solved, but the look in Gavriel's eyes when he found out his son had been murdered still haunted his nightmares. The sounds of the sobs that broke free from his throat were the sounds of a soul dying. Gavriel had loved his son with everything he had, and Lorcan almost couldn't forgive himself for having to be the person that broke the news.

Flipping open the Ashryver file, he scanned the evidence log and accompanying photos. When he got to the images of Aedion's lifeless body, he started to flip faster, not needing to see the pictures to remember them in vivid detail.

Just as he was about to skip the last one, a close-up shot of his face and neck, Lorcan's fingers froze against the glossy page. In the photo, Aedion's glassy eyes stared at the cloudy sky. Eyes that were a bright turquoise, his pupil rimmed with gold. They were dimmer now than they had been while he was alive, but…

But he knew those eyes. Not just because they were a strong trait of the Ashryver gene pool but because he had looked into them himself. Yes, he had met Aedion several times at various get-togethers and holiday parties. But his eyes were identical to a different pair he'd become all too familiar with for the last several months.

Then there was his face. Gavriel's son favored him strongly, but there was a softness in his features that he had spent months looking at on a different face. A woman's face. The same shade of golden hair, though in these photos, it was sticky with dried blood.

Lorcan pulled his laptop closer to him, quickly opening a tab and sending his fingers flying across the keyboard. It was probably the fastest he had ever typed, and he had never been so impatient for the single second it took to get hundreds of images back from the search result.

He clicked on the third photo down, one of a small family standing on a stage. The man and woman waved to the crowd while the young girl beamed where she stood between them. No older than seven, her little hands clasped her mother and father's tightly.

Rhoe and Evalin Galathynius pictured with their daughter, Aelin, on Vice President Galathynius's presidential campaign trail in Perranth.

A few weeks ago a conversation of Lorcan arguing with Rowan about Celaena's involvement in Elide's attack had him pushing back from his chair. Ice slithered up and down his spine, blood turning cold as he recalled one specific thing that Rowan said to him that he hadn't caught in the moment because he was so upset and worried about his fiancee's life.

Rowan had called her Aelin. Said that Aelin didn't have anything to do with what happened to Elide. He vividly remembered feeling bothered by the conversation afterward, that there was something between the lines that Rowan hadn't been saying plainly with words, but perhaps they were there. Whitethorn had been so fiercely sure that Celaena didn't do it, didn't have it ordered, had clean hands where Elide was concerned. He might be a raging dumbass for dating a woman with multiple charges of murder to her name, but the man was not stupid.

Lorcan's eyes snagged on another image, a group photo of two dozen or so people. Standing in the front were five children. All of them were dressed in their holiday best, standing before a towering Yulemas tree covered in glittering ornaments and twinkling lights. They appeared to be gathered in a great hall of sorts. Everyone in the picture shared wide smiles as they looked at the camera.

In the middle of the group of children was a young girl with long dark hair wearing a red and green plaid dress. A bright red bow gathered some of her soft curls from her face. A face that Lorcan would know anywhere because not only had he seen hundreds of childhood pictures of her, but he woke up to that face every godsdamn morning.

Elide's arms were looped through two other girls, one with long golden hair and fair skin, the other with black hair in carefully woven braids, her skin dark. The three of them wore similar dresses, the color being the only thing different about them. The blonde girl on her right had a silver and dark green dress, while the one on her right had a dress of purple and silver.

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was on Elide's right. That was factual. Beside Aelin, Aedion Ashryver stood with his arm thrown around her shoulders. Dorian Havilliard and Chaol Westfall were on the other side of Nehemia Ytger. Behind them were their parents and friends of their parents. All of them gathered before one of the famous Galathynius family Yulemas parties.

It wasn't just Aelin standing beside Elide, though. That thought clanged through Lorcan hard. He felt it in every nerve and bone of his body; he had never been so absolutely positive of something in his entire life.

Celaena Sardothien was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, a girl long since presumed dead to the world and everyone that loved her.

Holy gods.

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a-student-out-of-time · 1 year ago

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Teach me your massive writing nerd ways, senpai!! 😫

(For real though, hope you get better soon ^^)

//Thank you ^^

//I'm not really an expert in this department, but here's Sixteen Steps on how I oversee the Fangan writing process:

Decide on your story's theme first and foremost. What's the major conflict? What ideas are being put forward and challenged? How will your Killing Game's story, character and environment reflect these? Are you sticking with the classics (Hope vs. Despair, Truth vs. Lies), something similar but new (Trust vs. Doubt, Growth vs. Stagnation, Redemption vs. Corruption) or are you going with something completely different? All of these can and should play a role on the nature of the Killing Game itself.

When you've decided on what kind of story you want to tell, work on the characters. Your characters shouldn't just be there to die and crack jokes, they should be an active part of the story and their arcs should ideally reflect the conflicts and themes. You also are not bound by the archetypes used in canon and can vary it up however you want.

Character arcs: Have them. Even with characters whose fates are sealed and they aren't going to die, there's no reason not to allow them some degree of growth and change in the time that they do have. Their arcs can even naturally conclude with their deaths in trials or the like, which can vary from them choosing to save someone else to one final act of spite against the rest of the group.

You are not bound by the almighty outline. You're also going to need at least a general idea of where you want your story to go, but it's okay to provide yourself with a degree of flexibility. Who's going to survive? Who isn't? Why? What are the motives? Are they doing anything besides just faffing around waiting for the next murder? Maybe your ideas will change, just make sure you can smoothly integrate those new ideas without upsetting the flow and clues you've established.

Small moments are more important than big ones. Moments of characterization in the plot, like vulnerability, small confrontations, even casually-provided pieces of dialogue can do more for your characters than just having them die horribly/dramatically or them revealing something major in or after the trial. FTEs should be supplemental, not the place you dump all their best/worst character qualities.

Characters should communicate. You shouldn't define characters purely by their relationship to the protagonist or to one other character. See how many dynamics and interactions you can come up with, and how you might be able to include those into the story. Diversifying interactions opens up a lot of potential new dynamics and story opportunities.

It's okay to be a LITTLE self-indulgent. I say this because I got flak for saying writers shouldn't let their self-indulgence overwhelming their fangans. I will clarify that it's okay if you want to include something just because you want to include it, as I have in my own writing, but if you want a murder method/execution/confrontation/what have you in the story, please at least integrate it in a way that makes sense. If you don't, it's going to feel jarring at best and actively harmful and disruptive to the story at worst.

Your setting should feel like a part of the story. The place where your cast is trapped shouldn't feel like a featureless prison with setups for murders, it should have an active role in the situation and clue us into the story. Is it run-down and grungy? Unnaturally clean for an inhabited space? Is it dark? Is it colorful and lively? What's keeping them from leaving? What do they find as they explore?

Avoid stereotypes about mental health. If you're going to use DID, Schizophrenia, Autism, OCD, depression, PTSD, Bipolar Disorder, any personality disorder, etc., PLEASE do your research before you even think about writing a character with any of these. Mental health being equated with violence is grossly exaggerated; people with these conditions are more likely to be victims of violence, not the perpetrators. Please don't make a character built out of negative stereotypes just for the sake of drama or making the story "interesting." A good character is vastly more interesting than another Genocider Syo knockoff.

Idiot Plots are Unacceptable. There's a fine line between a character making a bad decision because of pride, fear, miscalculation, or any sort of understandable flaw, and them making one because the story needs them to in order for a murder to happen. Your characters can make all the right decisions that they reasonably could, and still ultimately fail. That often makes the antagonists seem much smarter and more threatening.

Do not overly focus on the rival. If you've ever heard someone say that villains are more interesting than heroes, that person is probably just bad at writing heroes. Your protagonist does not have to be boring and your rival doesn't have to, and preferably shouldn't, be the most important and well-written character in the story. A good rival challenges the protagonist and serves as their foil in some way, but that also means the protagonist can challenge them in other ways; e.g. Byakuya has no chance of solving Trial 4 because he couldn't even conceive of a situation where someone would sacrifice themselves for another.

Suffering does not equate to sympathy. Yes, a killing game would be a miserable experience, but just making the characters miserable and putting them through the wringer constantly, with no chance for them to breathe or get any kind of victory often feels more exhausting than sympathetic or interesting. This extends beyond fangans and into writing in general; if you've established that a character is never going to succeed at anything they do, people are going to emotionally check out of the story because there's no reason to get invested that something might go wrong.

The mastermind should reflect one side of the conflict. For the driving theme, whichever side the protagonist is on, the mastermind should represent the opposite. For extra thematic flair, maybe have their backgrounds parallel each other in some manner and see how their lives too very different paths as a result. If they don't, they're going to feel very disconnected from the story and like they had no reason to do this at all.

Ask yourself what kind of mastermind works best for your story. Do you want someone loud and bombastic? Quiet and scheming? Angry and bitter? A deluded paragon who thinks they're doing good with their killing game? Someone not even human? When you have it in mind, work backwards and ask how this person would then decide to become the mastermind of this killing game in the first place.

If you're stuck, try reverse-engineering. A lot of us have the outcome of a story in mind first but aren't sure how we get there, especially with murders in these games. I find the best way is to work backwards, starting with the outcome (basically the Closing Argument) and scattering all the pieces of the murder scene around to where it becomes a mystery. Motivations, of course, should be the first thing on your mind and why they targeted a particular character.

EXECUTIONS ARE NOT A STORY. This is probably the biggest hurtle I see with a lot of aspiring fangan writers, where they focus very much on the deaths and executions over everything else. Your fangan can't just be a paper-thin plot designed to get us from one execution to the other, it needs an actual story and characters to keep us engaged. Furthermore, your executions shouldn't just be spectacle, they should have a purpose in the narrative and provide character insights in and of themselves, whether it's ironic punishments or some final revelation about the character.

//And there you go, some tips for writing a fangan. Hope these help! ^^

#mod talks #a student out of time #writing advice #fanganronpa #fanganronpa writing advice #fangan writing advice

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zannolin · 4 months ago

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★ (LEMONS) ✿ (NT polyfic) ↻ (polar express au but somehow. it's star trek characters. your choice of which)

★ what was the scene you most wanted to write in [when life gives you lemons]? what was the hardest scene to write?

for the uninitiated the so-called "LEMONS" aka my national treasure crack treated vaguely seriously fic, is basically 3k of me faffing about answering the age-old question in national treasure fan spaces everywhere: why the fuck does patrick gates have so many lemons in his house? (in this version, he does not. hijinks ensue.)

honestly i just wanted to write the concept, not a specific scene. i was like but what if he DIDN'T. what if they're out here, actively pursued by the FBI, in possession of THE most beloved/idolized/renowned historical artifact in the wider american historical consciousness, still dressed for a party, cannot use their credit cards—and they have to buy lemons. like don't you just hate when you're on the run from the feds but your dad doesn't have any goddamn lemons to decode the hidden map on the back of the declaration of independence? it was just funny as hell to me to think about and once i had the concept of "i'm not leaving you alone with the declaration!" "well i could say the same of you!" "i said it first" "well i'm not leaving you alone with riley then" in my head i just had to go for it, you know?

hardest...i don't know, probably the grocery store itself, specifically when riley's buying the lemons, because i was typing it like "...is this too much? this is too much. this is definitely too much, right?" i second-guessed the entire thing but i could just See it happening in my brain and i had to bring it to life. hence the crack tags.

✿ did anything major change when you started writing [three's a crowd] to when you finished?

well. the length, for one. i believe in the span of like 2 days it went from "teehee lil post-book of secrets oneshot!" to "please send help this fic spans like 20 years and has just broken 10k". also i recall i was watching the terrible, horrible national treasure show WHILE writing and made the decision to incorporate the funeral episode into my canon (thus extending the timeline of the fic by a DECADE) because that shot of riley in sadusky's study seeing the pipe from the charlotte changed me on levels chemical, spiritual, and previously unknown to man. those were really the only serious changes that happened, which is impressive, considering i did not finish the outline before starting the fic. like a fool.

↻ pick a fic and a different ship and I’ll tell you how I’d rewrite it

well i had a whole intelligent answer here that was very in depth and then accidentally deleted it and started screaming so you get a really cut down vers. i'm not sure i could ever replicate that fic with a different set of characters because the Vibes don't fit very well with anyone i'm familiar with, esp not star trek. like it's about growing up. and faith. and belief. not even in a religious sense, strictly. just, like. magic. goodness. christmas. whatever. it's about losing the innocence of childhood and looking at the world with a cynical eye, unable to take anything at face value anymore—but then finding magic in the wreckage of your childhood. (okay well when i put it like that i could totally do this with mike but i'm not going to because i don't think it would be transformative enough from the og. it would just be me writing the same story, and not in a cool and new way like please don't hold me to it being the spiritual sequel to planetarium stickers ykwim?)

if i did it with anyone it would probably have to be the PIC s1 crew and be not a polar express situation at all, which is highly dependent upon children as characters and i just could not do that with them. would probably just have to pull elements like idk it's a magical transport of some kind. or we're thrown together under unlikely circumstances. they're all on a train going home for the holidays or something idk. just something about connection, not necessarily childhood. maybe b'elanna or sisko could work as an MC too but i don't have enough brainpower to consider how to fit spots for other characters from VOY or DS9 into the story when PIC falls together pretty easily. i dunno. that au was sort of lightning in a bottle and i don't know if i can ever do something like it again barring. you know. the narnia au i already did.

send me fic asks!

#answered asks #beautyofsorrow

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st-hedge · 8 months ago

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Oh. I assumed you were close to the end of the game and faffing about. The deadline was mostly to give you (and me tbh) that good ol ADHD momentum. How about end of... the month...? How long does it take to beat elden ring??

I mean I cracked open as much of the map as I can while barely touching the main quests. The end of the month is doable if I keep it speedy. The time to finish it I would compare to… imagine u are playing botw for the first time not knowing how anything works or what anything is. Then also add skill issue

#ask hedge

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wr1t3w1tm3 · 3 months ago

Text

This Book has no Title

Okay. So, I had to rewrite basically the last 2/3rds of this due to word being a be-ache but I think I like it more. I'm just going for old-timey enough dialogue (time period is like late 17-augths into the early 1720's), and a full of it female protagonist who is on the forefront of the day's scientific community. This is so gonna get rewritten which is why I'm sharing this online without much fear of AI scraping so...

Without further adue...

I hope you enjoy.

“Have you, Charlotte Rafferty, anything to declare?”

Had she anything to declare? Of course! The dark, dank cell, chilled despite the blazing Caribbean heat?! The stench which permeated every crack and cranny of the place!?! It is madness!! She could declare how all of it was hell. Yet, this man, a minister of some faith, head of some local church, would take only one answer. An answer she is unwilling to give.

“Nothing of import,” she retorts.

The minister scowls and steps forward. His gray-white hair, curled at the shoulder, bounces against his shoulders. “Woman, do you not fear for your eternal life?”

She smiles and crosses her arms, stepping up to the bars. She is disheveled, her teal dress dulled by dirt and her skin darkened by the same stuff. “Why should I fear something I do not believe in?”

The cleric stops. For a second, he is silent. Then suddenly, he is upon her, grabbing the bars just as she had. He is seething, his hair shaking “Woman, if you do not believe in it, why do you bring yourself to mock it?”

“For its silliness of course!” she sets her hand upon her hips. “This god you claim to know so much about is only known by things your mythos claims are his effects. Yet this god is not at all observable by any empirical means…”

“And this proves what!?!” the reverend snaps. The bars rattle under his grasp, “Does not some invisible force hold us all upon this earth? Is this not observable only by its effects? Does that make this force any less real?!”

“You forget that gravity has been proven through the scientific method! The effects of this god are chronicled in a book of inconsistent morals and tone that cannot…!!!”

“Woman, listen to me!” The reverend screeches.

For a moment, all is silent. Then, with a sudden calm, the reverend whispers “For your own good, would you not risk believing in something that would win you eternal paradise, then remain steadfast in your pride and risk being thrown into the fires of eternal torment?”

Charolette cocks her head, slightly to the left, and rests her right thumb and index finger against her chin. Her lips purse, then flatten. Finally, she steps forward and grabs the bars. The reverend lets go, suddenly very interested in his death white knuckles.

“The man who concocted your foolish wager was equally such. A theologian faffing about in philosopher’s robes.” The reverends face hardens as she continues, “There is nothing after this, sir. And in the condition I’m in, I think I’ll be quiet pleased to fall into that nothingness.”

For a moment, it appears that there are tears in his eyes. For a moment, his lip trembles. For a moment, he stands perfectly still, except the glint along the corner of his eye.

Then the moment is over, and the reverend straightens his coat. “Well then, make your peace.” He takes a step, pauses, and turns back to the cell “I will be at the gallows tomorrow should your persuasions change.”

“I doubt it.” She calls after him. The reverend rounds the corner and the hollow sounding of his shoes against the cold, stone floor fade into silence. One of the other inmates’ chuckles at the predicament, but it is otherwise quiet. Charlotte see’s herself over to the corner, where she has created what some may call a nest in the infested hay, and lowers herself into it.

#writing stuff #creative writing #my own writing #pirates #1700s #early 1700s #magic #greek mythology #mythology hijinks #mythological hijinks #Charolette Rafferty #adventure #speculative fiction #inspired by pirates of the caribbean

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lynkhart · 1 year ago

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Presenting, the Ineffable Horsebands!

A few weeks ago I decided that I’d be customising some model horses into everyone’s favourite ineffable duo as part of an annual painting challenge called NaMoPaiMo. It isn’t a competition, it’s just a fun community event, and I’ve been taking part for years. Anyway, the important thing is that I had way too much fun turning Aziraphale and Crowley into horses. (and yes, a crack fic explaining precisely why they’re horses is already in progress 🙈😂) Also, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, I spent far too long faffing about with fine wire, pliers and resin to make Crowley a pair of sunglasses. Obviously the legs of the frames wouldn’t actually work in reality but he’s a demon horse, so physics is optional. I didn’t have any patterned ribbon small enough for a teeny tiny bow tie for Aziraphale so I improvised and painted tartan stripes on some scrap fabric. It’s a little bigger than I’d have liked but it’s stupidly cute so it works. 😂 There’s also a couple of nods to their celestial/diabolical forms too if you look closely. 👀

If you check out #ineffablehorsebands on my Instagram you can see all my WIP photos and stuff if you want to see how they were customised, and while we’re on the subject, #lynkhartart for my GO paintings as well 👀)

So, may I present Aziraphale, aka Azirafoal, the Principalomino or Principalipony. Known for being so heartmeltingly sweet that you feel obliged to give him all of the treats and carrots and biscuits he desires. (That said, he would 100% yeet a child if they annoyed him. 😇🐴🪽 …and Crowley, aka Crowleypony, known for Cantering Vaguely Downwards, biting anyone who looks at him wrong and destroying rugs and expensive tack just because he can and it annoys people. 😈🐴🔥 I already have some ideas for other characters too, halp. 🙈 Is this how I’m going to stay sane until S3 comes out?!

#Ineffable horsebands #good omens #good omens fanart #good omens art #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #aziraphale and crowley #breyer custom #NaMoPaiMo #model horse custom #model horses #lynkhart art #lynkhartart #Is this weird? Yes. Do I regret it? Absolutely fucking not

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zendyval · 6 months ago

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I don't know if you've discussed this but I was just on that ugly ass place called X and seeing some people argue whether Twister was successful or not.

Apparently the 90s film in 90s dollars made over 400 mill and this Twister 2024 with a known and famous movie before it, with the next global superstar sexiest man alive (jokes) lead Glen Powell made 300mill Domestic, and couldn't crack 50mill internationally.

So the argument is some people are calling it successful because it made good money Domestic but others are pointing out with a budget of 150-200mill it can't be considered a success, so much excuses and faffing around about how Deadpool cut it off before it could make money and just other bullshit, others arguing it couldn't even beat the 90s box office numbers, just all around interesting conversation in the movie space.

I personally want all movies to do well but the standard people hold for one movie vs another is crazy to me because I can already see this not even having a smallest effect on Glen going forward as it will be called a success, the same way I can see Furiosa making 170mil with a 168mill budget not affecting Anya because "it's not her fault the market didn't take to it".

I know nothing about Twister so won't really speak to this film particularly, but online film discussions have become so tiresome. Both in terms of quality of films and what defines success because literally nothing is good enough ever and most of it is at its heart a fan pissing contest because they want everything to be a "flop" besides whatever their faves do.

I do think it's entirely unfair to compare a megahit movie from the 90's to the performance of a movie at the box office today because the environment/world/circumstances are just totally different. So I do feel like anyone that leads with those arguments is being disingenuous.

I do find it hard to claim that a movie that did $300 million domestically is a flop in a sense of that is about all you can ask of a movie domestically. I also think how to determine the success of a film has changed also, with streaming and streaming deals and etc.

There may be legitimate conversations to have though on the size of film budgets and if most of them need to be less, in light of current box office expectations.

My other pet peeve is when twitter posts a movie clip of anything out of context to say it's the worst thing they have ever seen- either due to CGI, or acting, or the writing, or cinematography, etc. And it's usually not, it's just a movie clip posted entirely void of context so other people can pretend to sound smart. See when they posted that one Challengers clip or something and twitter decided that Lucas was a bad director and the editing/cinematography was bad.

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toomuchracket · 2 years ago

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in my ross era at the moment !!!! and just thinking about lazing around together/ the boys coming over and you all just chatting shit doing nothing while snuggling into him

another lovely anon also said: i need domestic ross in my live. like imagine waking up with him and just cuddle and make jokes all morning

i think ross is such a clingy sleeper like most mornings you wake up with his arms wrapped around your waist and his head buried into your shoulder, and you have to gently pat him awake so you can move lol. on chill days, like maybe when he's just back from tour, i think he'd move but only to change position to cuddle you and sleepily chat and joke for ages, before the need for caffeine gets too much and you have to get out of bed for coffee. but ross would probably just scoop you up and carry you downstairs just because he wanted to hold you, and even when you're standing faffing about with the coffee machine the man has his arms wrapped around your waist and his head resting on top of yours (awwwwwww) - like, he has to be touching you at all times lol. and because the boys are incapable of being apart for any longer than five minutes (even when they've just spent months on tour together), they'll come round later in the afternoon for a smoke and maybe a bit of gaming and, honestly, a chance to gossip with you about the stuff that they missed when they were away - maybe you'd been updating ross on a bit of workplace drama on the phone while they were on tour, and the rest of them got so invested in it that now they're in your living room pestering you for the full story and taking sides and everything lmao. it gets so detailed that you end up cracking open a bottle of wine and everyone having a glass like you're suburban PTA mothers lol. and you're holding court telling them all this while sitting in between ross' legs and leaning against his chest, glass in one hand and gesturing with the other, everyone just content and entertained and having a chill time <3

#mads muses #mads answers asks #fluff asks #ross asks

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branwendaughterofllyr · 1 year ago

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Hello! Numbers 3 and 7 for the ask game?:)

3. Screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on tumblr

Nonny, I know I have the screenshot of "Dany is a shooting star, there one moment, and gone the next" SOMEWHERE but I cannot find it. That one lives rent free in mind ever since I saw it in response to the criticism that Dany can't just conquer Slaver's Bay and then ditch it.

Any take that ends with "Sansa should have sex with Tyrion so she can learn to see past appearances." Sorry the 12 year hostage doesn't want to sleep with the Lannister husband she's been forced to marry. That sounds like a you problem, Tyrion.

The child-bride Daemon discourse also continues to crack me up. Like, Daemon can be mad at his grandparents making him go through with an arranged marriage, but let's not pretend that the dragon riding prince who answers only to the king was at the mercy of his lady wife in a society that has legal wife beating. (also, Rhea was probably the same age as him. If she was tons older, like Ceryse and Maegor, it would have been mentioned.) He had a dragon. Not only could he fuck off any time he wanted, he DID. He literally faffed off to the Stepstones, and Viserys kept giving him jobs in KL, he was not stuck at Runestone under Rhea's thumb, and I wish the fandom would stop the take that Rhea totally deserved to be killed by Daemon/on his orders because Daemon didn't like her. He had her killed/killed her, tried to take her stuff, and then suffered zero consequences for it.

7. what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them?

ohhhhhh. Maybe Rhaenyra? I was fully prepared to like messy selfish girl boss Rhaenyra, but the show's framing and the way the fandom uncritically laps it up bothers me. But I don't hate HATE her, and most of my dislike stems from both how George and the show chose to handle her.

uh, the Stannis the Mannis love looped right back around to being funny to me, so not that.

Like, I can't think of any character that I hate bc of the way the fandom acts about them specifically. The opposite has happened a lot, but not leading to hatred.

Oh wait. I know the answer. the Alysanne Blackwood wank has genuinely made me dislike this character, and even her relationship with Cregan Stark. I though she was fine the first time I read F&B, but now she genuinely annoys me.

#hang on a moment now #what are you trying to restart the war for no reason???#Cregan also now annoys me but that's bc rereading the hour of the wolf made me go #why the fuck is he trying to restart the war???#the Cregan Stark wank is mostly incidental to my feelings.#branwen answers #uwu poor middle child bride Daemon continues to be so funny to me #guys he can still hate his marriage without y'all woobifying him over it

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darkspace7 · 1 year ago

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[That Which Protects The Falling Rain] Pt.1

[A Sort of Synopsis, if you will]: Okay so the other day I was just faffing about and watching some videos discussing some of the Bleach Brave Soul character design choices as you do and then I got to thinking about how there were so few decently good fics featuring our good man Ishida and then that somehow led into wondering why there weren’t hardly any detailing the situations of how one would even come about to wear those alternate costumes in the first place and then that somehow devolved into contemplating time/dimension travel and fusion (as in literal fusion –not crossovers- although those are nice too…) fics and what-ifs involving rather creative semi-roll swaps and we all know that canon is basically just a suggestion at this point so anyway-

Here’s my-

“Through An Exceedingly Convoluted Series Of Events Spanning The Course Of About Roughly Two Weeks Uryū Ishida Gets Yeeted To An Alternate Timeline/Dimension Thing With An Imprint Of Ichigo Camping In His Soul As A Sort-Of Bastardized Zanpakutō And Now He Must Wage In Shadow Espionage Bullshit Because At This Point Aizen Is Still A Problem And Tipping Off The Quincy While Everyone’s Even Weaker Than The Timeline They Left Would Be Bad. (Also Having Two Instances Of The Almighty + Antithesis In The Same General Vicinity Is Apparently Bad For The Continued Existence Of Reality) And Somehow Not Potentially Fuck Everything Else Up Even Worse Than Last Time As Well As Try Not To Have A Complete Nervous Breakdown In The Mean Time.”

-AU…

But that’s kind of a mouthful so imma just call it [That Which Protects The Falling Rain] AU

So yeah…

As you can obviously tell from the prior blurb this is more or less canon divergent starting from the point that Ichigo got his powers back after the timeskip (which –in my completely honest opinion- was a bullshit arc anyway for a number of reasons that I refuse to go into at the moment) with the main kicker of it all being the things that happened with the whole Quincy ordeal went significantly worse off than in canon and basically a bad time was had by everyone.

[Unwind the World and Your Nightmare’s Gone]

Turns out that if you have a crumbling pillar that props up what is an already heavily destabilized world murked on top of everything else tends to accelerate the wholesale destruction of everything in existence. The first of this was quickly realized when Hueco Mundo, the Wandenreich, and the Soul Society all crashed and began to bleed into one another. This mockery of a union only served to further tip the scales to such an extreme that Hell itself –which at this point was still puttering along as the sole remaining pillar of reality- began to develop cracks in the framework before eventually just giving way entirely. And thus things started to bleed indiscriminately into the World of the Living.

Which, I don’t need to tell you, was bad news bears.

In the chaos and calamity people were dying in droves and –because the reincarnation cycle was wholly and utterly fucked- they were staying dead. The very few individuals that had been smart enough to dip when the water hit the wall or were (un)fortunate enough to dodge the first fires of the literal apocalypse managed to bunker down, sustaining themselves on the heavily overly-saturated reishi of the atmosphere as they waited for the inevitable end tailmarked on the hands of the three souls that still carried on. These three –the False King tainted with the spark of divinity, his Heir who sought to put an end to his reign, and the Hybrid who felled God Himself- who fought on even though everything and everyone they had once stood for having fallen ages before them; their hands grasping for that last pyrrhic victory because what else is there at this point?

But –much like the moon for which his blades were named- even the powers of god-slayers must wane and on the field of battle enemies will use any fault to their advantage. And so, with a decisive slice of the blade, the False King went Off With His Head and the prodigal son made his way back home like the rest of his children. But it was here that Yhwach, made a Mistake™.

For all that Ichigo Kurosaki was a hybrid of both Quincy and Soul Reaper, he was also part Hollow as well.

And Hollows are poisonous to Quincy.

But the imprudent ruler was past caring at this point -was confident he could weather the poisoning of his soul- that he just had to stop for a moment to allow the restless stubborn child to settle down and from there he could then adapt and adjust. But to do such a thing on a battlefield where there was still one other active combatant left (no matter how you have dismissed the other boy as being a non-threat at this point) was pure hubris in of itself.

Enter: Uryū Ishida.

Armed with a silver arrow crafted from the bodies of his kinsmen that he lifted from the corpse of his estranged father and the sheer and utter spite of someone who has seen every single last one of their friends and family be killed and subsequently has no more fucks to give decides in his exhausted state to pull an Ichigo and lets the fly.

It hits.

At long last, the Old King was dead.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because the being named Yhwach was a great number of things, however, unprepared was not one of them. Being able to see possibility after possibility was indeed a great boon when it came time to sketch out an action plan for such eventualities. Case in point, when faced with the surefire destruction of your own physical and spiritual being it is perhaps okay to latch on to and borrow another. And what better source than your treasonous Heir not a stone’s throw from where you currently were?

Long live the king.

Or so you thought bitch.

Turns out neither did the Quincy child nor the rebellious echo of the hybrid boy much care for his attempt at bodyjacking. So unanimously they decided to say –fuck that- and pull off their own sort of deus ex machina using Uryū’s Shrift in conjunction with Ichigo’s kind of admittedly bullshit hybridity powers to throw a wrench in things and swap the Fate of not only himself the other late teen’s echo as well so that in the end it was Ywhach who would be the one subsumed.

And by some fucking miracle, it worked.

They successfully managed to topple the Quincy King from his position to allow for Uryū to then supplant himself on the vacant throne as the King as the remainder of Ichigo’s unique spiritual signature securely subsumed the rest of Yhwach’s essence and then somehow used it to stabilize the burgeoning fuckery that was now his (and apparently Ishida’s???) soul.

Long live the King (and his new and only somewhat unwilling headmate) indeed.

Just in time for reality to start falling apart.

With the weight of the final battle having finally given way to bone-deep exhaustion he –(or, rather, was it they now? Truth be told, neither boy was entirely sure what to make of their current situation and the sheer number of existential issues that simply arose from their paradoxical state of being. But then again that sort of thing wasn’t exactly a new thing when it came to his whole impossible existence now was it? Hell, he’d had so many ‘impossibles’ tossed at him that at this point the very word was starting to lose all meaning, honestly. And this current bit of what-the-fuckery was just another layer to the botched clusterfuck of a cake now wasn’t it? ‘…Good god Kurosaki do you think you could save your little existential crisis for later? Neither of us have the energy for it and I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m pretty sure that at least one of us currently has a fucking concussion.’ No, fuck you man, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but the world’s fucking ending. This is a good as time as any, man. ‘I just want somewhere we can get a chance to rest.’)- leveraged their worn body up on unstable legs in search of an unbroken spot where they could do just that.

Sometime along the way he had noted the larger of the orange-haired hybrid’s blades among the debris and stopped to examine it. (Or rather, having sensed the echo of their wielder contained within, it had lowered itself to allow him a chance to look upon its glory. At least, that was the impression that it seemed to be giving off anyway. Yeah, like a pair of stray cats you rescued from out behind the dumpster on trash day, his Zangetsu was. But even to the end they tried to help in their own way… ‘‘Slaying Moon’ huh? What an apt name for such a blade.’ Blades. There’s two of them. Ah, that was right. But if so then where…?)

Even now, their wicked sharp edge gleamed obsidian in the light as he subconsciously let the blade rest behind in the crook of his back. Feeling the small clasp as sword seemed to latch onto his presence as if magnetic. Readjusting his glasses he glanced around and let out a soft noise when their eyes alit upon their prize.

(He did not look at the body sprawled out upon the ground as they knelt down and gently pried the shorter blade from stiff fingers. He did not look at the severed head with too blank eyes as he slid the other half of his blade carefully into the waistband of his belt.He did not look at his own corpse resting at his feet-)

He stood.

Continuing on, he trudged along aimlessly, stumbling from wreck to wreck in an attempt to avoid the ever encroaching void that slowly but surely ate at what was left of their worlds. (They decidedly ignored the shadows that lapped at their feet. The way they danced inexplicably without a clear source of light. Twisting and writhing along the rolling dark as if they were but a thousand –familiar- eyes held back behind closed lids –theirshisoursmine- as they waited there. Dreaming.)

He stumbled.

They walked on until eventually they happened upon a surprisingly stable section of what appeared the Royal Realm and what was even more astonishing was the fact that out of everyone who could’ve somehow managed to dodge the apocalypse they had the misfortune to run into Aizen of all people. And it seemed that the ex-captain was just as enthused to see them.

(Wow, yeah, no. Not surprised that you survived because you’re pretty much a damned cockroach at this point. But I am genuinely kind of surprised that you decided to stick around instead of –I don’t know- having the good sense to bail when everything started going to shit? You’d think he would. Like, scurry away to lick the wounds and that sort of shit, right? ‘Right, absolutely riveting commentary Kurosaki. Such a shame that I’m the only one who’s forced to listen to it.’ Grimace. Urgh what god did I piss off to get stuck with you assholes? ‘Probably the two we just killed.’…Ah. Right.)

“Hm, that’s certainly a pleasant expression.”

(…I wanna kick his fucking ass. ‘What? No!’ Just a single boot shoved right in his smug bondage-wrapped face. ‘No.’)

Thoroughly exasperated and just utterly done with everything and everyone at this point Uryū decided this was as good as they were going to get and sort of collapsed at the foot of the broken throne with an undignified grunt, shifting the massive knife from his back to a more comfortable spot upon his lap as to allow himself to prop their body up against a slab of rubble. The youth let out a groaning-sigh.

Aizen –having meandered over to join him- watched with a keen interest.

(The subtle shade of black bleeding into the much younger man’s sclera, the downright monstrous inferno of tainted Quincy-Reaper-Hollow reiatsu coupled with the unnatural way that the writhing shadows almost seemed to linger protectively around the bloodied child before him, and while truthfully he was rather near-sighted ((destroying his last pair of glasses in a spur of dramatic theatricality had genuinely been one of his sole regrets, especially considering later when it became wholly apparent that the hōgokyu refused to let itself be used for something as banal as correcting one’s eyesight)) he’d have to have been blinder than Kaname to miss the ease at which the other had hefted that particular blade around. Also, the singular horn was kind of conspicuous and worthy enough for him to lift a brow.)

“Your feats never cease to push the realm of possibility, why I’m honestly starting to think you don’t know the meaning of the word Kurosaki.” He watched with sharp eyes, observing how even the shadows surrounding the youth seemed to freeze. Fascinating. “Or perhaps you would prefer some other form of address more suited to the body you’re currently occupying?” A dark eye crinkled with wry amusement, “Maybe even something more befitting to that of royalty?”

(He’s not going to let this go is he? ‘Ugh, no.’ …Fuck it.)

And so the one-who-was-once-many resigned themself to a litany of awkward conversation as they waited for the world to end.

And what a back and forth it was. Some of the more notable highlights included: In depth discussions on one’s particular choice of eyewear – {“So, wait, hold on. You’re saying you actually needed those glasses and that the whole debacle with the Winter War you were essentially fighting half-blind the whole time?!”

“In the barest sense of the term, yes. Why do you seem so surprised? Did you perhaps forget that one of my compatriots was blind? It is a perfectly reasonable method to use one’s spiritual sense as a sort of complement to innate abilities during combat, as I am sure that one of your newer parts is undoubtedly already aware.”

“…Newer parts?”

“The misguided Quincy child that you once called your comrade and presumably the original owner of the patchwork monstrosity that you now call a form.”

(‘…Okay, yes, while losing your glasses during a fight does fucking suck I’m far-sighted and also mainly focused on archery so it’s not so bad but “patchwork monstrosity?” Rude, much?’)

“My, what a frightening expression.”

They flipped him off.}

–To the eventual reluctant admittance of what had occurred during their final battle versus the late Quincy King-

{it was in general agreement that the whole thing was a collective load of bullshit, however Aizen did find some note of ironic humour in the new fusion’s predicament much to said being’s annoyance.}

–To why the traitorous ex-captain was even there in the first place-

{“And where exactly would you have intended me to have gone, hm?” The man gestured broadly at the wanton destruction that surrounded them.

“Should I have squirrelled myself away like the scarce few remaining beings that tried to do so before everything fell to ruin? Don’t make me laugh. Why, I would even dare to say those poor unfortunate souls have been all but eliminated when the world pillars sang their swan song and even if they managed to survive that don’t you think the void would have consumed them much like everything else at this point?” Sōsuke leveled a dry look, letting his head fall back against the remains of a broken pillar wearily.

“So I figured this was as good as a time as any to try my hand at usurping the throne, you know, seeing as the current Soul King was indisposed.” A flicker of genuine consternation flashed across the man’s face. “But, it seems that crossing into the realm of transcendence is still not enough just so long as you’re still missing a fundamental piece of the equation.”

“Wow. So even after going through all of that you still weren’t –what- Quincy enough to take the crown? Heh, sucks to be you I guess. Wh-hey! We already have a concussion you didn’t have to throw a rock at me you ass.” With a huff, they rubbed at the new welt on their head. “Geez…”

“But seriously, I can’t believe with all that bullshit you pulled trying to get the magic death marble to make you god it couldn’t even manage it in the end.” As the hand dropped to the blade in their lap, they gave a faint scowl and then turned to face the other. “And really, what’d it even matter at this point? Figure we could use it to prop up reality –or at least what’s left of it anyway- and keep it from imploding or something?”

Aizen let out a somewhat undignified snort, “The Quincy have finally brought around your inclinations of royalty, I see. You’ve even started using the royal we. But yeah, sure, why not. Go ahead and take a stab at being the Soul King for a bit, I mean I’d say you can’t possibly be worse that what’s going on right now but somehow I think you would manage it just to spite me.”

The young being let out a snort of his own as they rolled with the bit, “No, we’d totally be an awesome Soul King. Way better than the last one and Not Unstable At All. Heck, we wouldn’t even abuse whatever the bullshit powers we had on top of everything else so we could –I don’t know- turn back time and fucking unmurder everyone. Oh! While we’re at it why don’t we try taking a crack completely unknotting that clusterfuck you guys call a politics around here. Because, honestly? Responding to every new thing that shows up on your doorstep with ‘treat it like shit’ and/or ‘try to kill it with extreme prejudice’ tends to piss people off and is probably why y’all had so many enemies.”

They nodded, sarcasm just oozing from their tone. “Yeah, all of that would be just so fun. Don’t you think?��}

Who could have foreseen that such a benignly one-off comment could have could spurred such further chaos?

(Well they probably could have. But –in their defence- they weren’t exactly firing on all cylinders at the time; what with the existential fuckery that they were still coming to terms with alongside the previously mentioned concussion that made it so when Aizen ((who had went suspiciously quiet after his little haha-funny-but-not-really joke)) proceeded to pitch the Idea™ to them it didn’t really seem to tack on as being anything worse than what the apocalypse that they were already were going through was.

But as now they found themselves trying not to squirm with a hand splayed awkwardly over the violet gem embedded in the other man’s bare chest as the other looked on with what seemed to be deep-set amusement they could not help but think to themselves: they really should’ve known better.)

(‘This is so stupid.’ There’s no way this would ever work-) Astonishingly, the gem beneath their hand began to glow.

(…Are you kidding me?)

“Huh, it seems like the hōgokyu was actually able to grant my wish after all.” The other murmured, ripping the fusion’s attention away from the entrancing glow only for them to watch as the man before them slowly began to crumble to dust before their very eyes. “Rather roundabout way of doing it though, if you ask me.” Sōsuke snorted, dark eye flicking up to meet the other’s disbelief. “Listen well Ichigo Kurosaki and Uryū Ishida, this will be the last time we meet one another as things are. Don’t squander the opportunity you’ve been given as it’s highly unlikely you will get another one.”

“…Understood.”

“Good.” The other seemed…actually kind of relieved? That was all they had time to think before his body was gone and it was their fingers clutched around the hōgokyu as it then took their wish (to fix this oh god don’t you dare drop something like this on us and then leave us aloneyou utter bastardplease I don’t want to be the last one left after everything I don’t want to be aloneand just like that there went another person that he failed to protect just like everyone elseplease I just want to fix this make it like it never happened!) and moulded it and then unwound the world from its crumbling spool, unwound them, unmade him and now he-

-Was-

but only for an instant before world reformed around himself and he was forcefully slammed into (his/their/whose?) body.

He blacked out.

#DS7's Log #[That Which Protects The Falling Rain]#Bleach Fanfiction #-carefully adds to the archive-#Ichigo Kurosaki #Uryu Ishida #Sosuke Aizen #In which the author continuously makes poor life choices and is even worse at knowing how to tag and work shit so this is your only warning #Wait so Tumblr can make strikethroughs but not underline stuff? Ugh that sucks.#Fuck it y'all are getting colours then I guess.#How the fuck did this turn into a story halfway through?#It was only supposed to be a meme drabble idea jfc... OTL #Also like lowkey Yhwach with those shadow eye-things deadass looks like a older and scruffier version of Pride from the FMA manga fr...

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