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lilacerull0 · 4 years ago

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LITTLE WOMEN FANFICTION

CHAPTER 3: SEVEN

Escapism

"Please, picture me in the trees...

...before I learned civility."

- seven, Taylor Swift

***

one.

- Let's run away.

It's barely a whisper. It's said more to the open sky above them than to anybody else.

- Let's run away.

It's more than a whisper now. It's a call. An invitation for something greater than both of them. And Laurie would gladly buy a ticket for that particular train. He would. But the sun is so wonderful and the clouds are so enchanting in their unusual shapes that even getting up seems like a chore. He wants to stay here. On the grass. But Jo is persistent in her wishes. Jo March never, never, gives up.

- Won't you say something, Teddy? Can't you just see it? We could be anything, do anything, go anywhere! The world could be ours!

She, unlike him, is on her feet. She always seems to be. Gravity isn't very fond of Jo. Or at least that's what Jo will tell you. Laurie doesn't know if that's true or not, but he likes hearing her talk. He finds himself generally attached to sounds. The chipering of birds. The first note you play on the piano. Amy's chaotic laughter. Beth's soft chuckles. Meg's little mumbles. Jo's wild exclaims. That's one of the many reasons why Laurie loves the Marches. It's like these sisters have discovered an utterly fresh, vivid and extraordinary way to be alive. It's a pleasant contrast to what he's used to.

It's always quiet at home.

"What do you say Theodore Laurence, kindest and most noble of knights of this kingdom? Shall we follow the wind and see where it leads us?"

"I wouldn't want it any other way."

"Then you accept my proposal?"

"I sure do, Miss March."

People's faces usually look radically different when lightened up with smiles. They look prettier, more beautiful and somehow truer to themselves as opposed to non smiling faces. Jo's doesn't. She is smiling at him right now and her face doesn't look any different. It's just as true and warm as it was a thousand smiles before. And would Laurie even be allowed to call himself a comrade of Jo's if he didn't gift her with a smile of his own in return? He grins at her with no specific thought behind the expression. This is how people are supposed to be smiling, he thinks. Wide and real. Yes, people are supposed to be smiling just like this.

For a second, Jo and Laurie are the same person. Hair wild, shirts half unbuttoned, cheeks flushed. Laurie's hands are splattered with dirt from the ground whose hostility he was taking advantage of moments prior. Jo doesn't seem to care about that. Once he's up and standing, she grabs his arm a bit forcefully (which he doesn't mind), a bit theatrically (because this is Jo and life is a theatre piece) and they start running, both of them now embellished with dust. There's a lot of stumbling (and stumbling is blamed on the seemingly nonexistent objects that appear and disappear under commands of fairy like creatures) and there's a lot of laughter (laughter that comes in its most natural form and doesn't show any interest in being contained under anyone's wishes, especially not the ones of the world).

"Oh dearest, the world might not be for us, but us we are for the world."

***

two.

Freedom is both the most basic and the most complicated aspect of life to be gained. It is so simple of a concept, one could easily and rightfully so believe how all of thought guardians (more commonly referred to as humans) should have the right to not only experience, but spend their entire lives swimming in shinning lakes of freedom. But it's not how it all works. Some have tiny bits of freedom. Some don't have it at all. Some have loads. Some have just enough. Too much, sadly or sadly not, have none.

Jo sometimes wishes she were a tree. High up in the sky, stretching out her branches towards infinity. She isn't a tree though.

Imagination is of grave help despite what anyone says. To a normal person, the tree is just a tree. Tree and nothing else. To Jo March, a tree is so much more. It's an opportunity. An adventure. It's a solace and a home. A sanctuary. She's climbing up one of her leaf providing friends as she's trying to figure out how to describe this moment the best. Her reflections are interrupted by a voice which surprisingly doesn't come from the bellow, but from the above instead. Once Jo spots the speaker's ground conquerors (or "shoes" if you are of dull old sameness and don't find the pleasure in crafting phrases unlike our Jo), she immediately recognizes their owner. She still isn't sure why Teddy let Amy paint his shoes with images of flowers, but she is mesmerized with the final result. And although she shall never share this with the oh, so great artist, Jo thinks Amy's creations to be exquisite.

"I presume you are coming here to put your mind at ease."

"That is correct, my boy, and I suppose you are here for the same cause. "

By the time they exchange these lines, Jo has already climbed up to the place where Laurie is. She finds herself a steady enough branch and rests her head against the surface of the wood. Her friend is positioned in a similar way, his leg gently swaying to a peculiar beat of his own making.

Two figures, who almost seem to be one with the wooden fellow, occasionally take an exceptionally deep breath. Their hands colored with bruises, souvenirs from many extraordinary expeditions, their clothes decorated with leaves. Seemingly they are flowers, nature is their most beloved companion.

It's quite a story how Jo and Teddy, these flower resembling humans, coexist without many syllables shared. The phrases they do sometimes grace each other with can end up being translated as meaningless or lacking in thought. But Teddy and Jo, among everything else, are inventors. They invented a language which only functions for them. What is mean to others represents to them a code. What is strange to some, playful and witty to them it is. What is impossible to comprehend, they understand with little to no effort.

"Language of flowers is the language of flowers for a reason. Nobody, but flowers, thinks it much sense."

***

three.

"I'M ALIVE! LOOK AT ME, EARTH!!! I! AM! BREATHING!"

This is just one of the many declarations that have furiously been shouted at the void today. Young people often have trouble befriending compromises, especially if those compromises are to be made with the creatures you live in close proximity with. Jo has again been fighting with her sisters for reasons she cannot exactly recall right this instant. It's funny, because this always happens to her. Something sparks her temper, she recklessly gives into it and at the end, it's all about the anger she doesn't know how to release. She usually goes on long walks or takes deep breaths. She basically tries to isolate herself from everyone until the storm passes.

Teddy has a different solution for her troubles, troubles that naturally turn out to be his troubles too because they are Jo and Teddy, Teddy and Jo, and they have the same troubles (which is both wonderfully relieving and awfully annoying at the same time). Jo wouldn't even call Teddy's solution a solution. They are both making these announcements of nonhuman frequency and dancing their heads off, and as ridiculous as it is, Jo feels it liberating. They aren't improving anything (just the opposite, screaming random things into the air represents the peak of impulsive behaviour) and the conclusion is: no profitable discoveries in the "containing yourself" department. But who cares? Sometimes you have to let it all out. Dance and shout the worries away. It wasn't a coincidence that Jo met Teddy under the circumstances that she did. They were both of hot tempers, strong wills and free spirits. And they needed to dance it all out out. Despite the absurdity and inappropriate mannerism a foreign eye would most certainly find in their actions.

"There exists no right nor wrong way to express one's self."

***

four.

Laurie is surprised with how much he is enjoying this. It's all very simple. Yet, he feels at peace. He feels like everything inside him has a chance to rest.

It's the fireplace and captivating movement of the fire flames.

It's the soft "click" he discovers every time Meg takes a step. Her shoes are marvellous singers.

It's the chattering of dishes he recognizes somewhere in the background. It must be Beth, cleaning the table after the meal.

It's Amy giggling mischievously after coming up with what Laurie supposes to be some kind of scheme or more accurately, a master plan. He wouldn't know what is it about, but whatever it is, Amy is destined to succeed in it.

It's Jo. This is all because of Jo. He wouldn't have come across the hidden delights of the "uncomplicated" and "boring" if it weren't for her. She takes a seat beside him interrupting the spectacular date he had with the fireplace, rests her head on his shoulder and sighs. It's like this with them. Touching has never been a big deal.

"Beautiful."

That's all Jo says. "Beautiful." He doesn't question it. He understands what she means even though he cannot explain it. He understands.

"Warmth. Choreographed chaos. Lines overlapping. Minds intertwining. Familiarity greeting you "hello". People. Family. Home."

***

five.

She cut her hair. She cut her hair and everything is supposed to be at least a little better if not completely fine. But she can feel the tears forming in her eyes as she's approaching the house. The money in her pocket is so incredibly present. No, the money is not just present in her pocket. Everything those dusty pieces of paper represent carries weight. A weight so grand Jo could swear there is somebody following her, kind of like the money has taken the shape of a person and is now accompanying her, monitoring her every move. What kind of world sees a green, ugly paper and claims of it a metaphor for greatest treasures? And the tears? The tears she cannot comprehend. Why would she care? It's just hair. If anything, she should be bursting with joy right now. She got rid of the womanly burden. But it doesn't feel right. It's all extremely selfish of her. Selfish and thoughtless.

Her sister is... not well. Her father is out there doing all sorts of heroic things and instead of crying over her sins, she's crying over this. For once she does something right, for once the part of her that's wrong different isn't screaming. And then it hits her. It's not just a part of her that's different wrong. It's her. The moment she realises this she steps into the house. Everyone is either too distant or too close to notice all that is hiding underneath her seemingly admirable actions.

Her body is barely handling the atmosphere. It's barely cultivating the facade. But her body is also covered with Teddy's waistcoat and just as she remembers this little fact she sees her best friend right there in front of her. He is not too distant nor too close. He is right where she is.

They have the same hair.

Jo is pulled towards him because this is Teddy and hugging Teddy is like hugging herself. They stay like that for a few moments, their realities greeting each other like two fellow soldiers, finally reunited in battle.

It doesn't make her feel any less hollow. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't alter the wrongs. But it does make it a little better. It offers an assurance. An assurance embodying validity so present, money can do nothing but hold a candle to. An assurance of rational absurdity. Because that's what Jo and Teddy are.

They are rationally absurd.

"It's a childish belief that all twins look the same. There exist many ways to be somebody's twin."

***

six.

She is holding his hand.

He has just told her how he doesn't fit within himself. He has just told her that and she is still here, laying on the floor with him, covered with blankets. She said it made sense. She must have been too tired or something. She must have misheard. She must have.

"Jo, are you there?"

She does not respond. She only squeezes his hand. It's not about the gesture itself. It's about everything the gesture holds.

Promises. Lifetimes. Daylights. Midnights. Setting suns. Growing spirits. Flowery Youths.

She is holding his hand.

" Mutuality sure is a wonderful creation. What is more wonderful though is mutual understanding. Mutuality means the returning of the same. Mutual understanding means accepting and loving of the different."

***

seven.

"I could run away for real this time. Explore the unknown, unravel the mystical. Encounter the miracles. Touch the heavens..."

Her words are empty. They don't mean much. They are empty and desperate. Empty, desperate and meaningless.

Her sister got married. Meg got married and she is talking to herself about running away. The wind is dancing with her again long enough hair, tangling its fingers into her rough curls, reminding her of the countless times it has done the exact same thing before. Mocking her with its endless supplies of stability and comfort. Jo is leaning over the wooden fence, despite the wishes of her dress which keeps complaining about her unlady like methods. Jo honestly does not care about the fancy bridesmaid dress and its wants. If one has the will to climb fences, one shall enjoy the act of doing so, no matter what some piece of fabric might have to say. She is trying to hold back rivers her eyes miserably wish to let flow. She cannot cry. She must not. She has an ongoing bet with Teddy about this. He was daring enough to assume she will turn herself into a paddle today and she ought to prove him wrong.

"What might a lady like yourself be doing here instead of enjoying the jolly ceremony out there in the open?"

"I am no lady Teddy, my being is in no need of such chains."

Laurie doesn't pressure her into answering the question (she would have answered it in the first place if she had the intention to) and steps on the fence beside her. He starts humming a random melody, rhythmically moving his fingers to the sound. He must be composing something again, thinks Jo and silently envies his creative range. It's been too long since she's written anything worth sharing.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Everything."

"Isn't that a bit too much of things?"

"Oh, it's just a little over the top Teddy, but I believe I can handle it. This mind is no stranger to overcrowding."

The same tree they used to climb when they were younger is now observing them, representing an eternal and haunting reminder of everything that once was. Jo is frightened. That silent way in which Teddy is looking at her is frightening. He is looking at her in ways she longs for to be different and his eyes have too many freshly discovered stories to tell. She is frightened she won't find those stories to be very pleasant.

"Do you remember that day when I told you how I wanted to run away?"

"How could I not?"

"I need to run away again."

Laurie doesn't need to hear it twice. He jumps over the fence and starts running, his arms widely spread, his tie and jacket long forgotten. It isn't real. Jo knows they will never go anywhere. The sun is setting and the lines of separation are clearing up. The sun is setting and challenges, struggles and complications lie ahead. She knows all of this. Yet, she hikes up her skirts like she's sixteen again and follows the path her boy has chosen for as long as she knows how to. Jo and Teddy run through the endless fields of gold, specks of sunlight meeting their bones. Teddy and Jo, Jo and Teddy, high in the sky for one last time before nightfall.

They keep falling over each other and eventually end up wrestling on the grass, occasional screams and consistent laughter adorning the air around them.

The last song of Meg's shoes. The last symbol Amy will ever paint on Jo's hands. The last wide smile of Beth's. The last understood conversation of birds. The last fellow of the trees. The last arrangement of flowers.

The last.

"Oh, to live in a world where there are childhoods, fields of gold and raging hearts."

"Grab a coat, leave a note and run away with me."

- William Chapman

#louisa may alcott #little women 2019 #little women fanfiction #laurie laurence #jo march #amy march #my writing #beth march #meg march #taylor swift #folklore #evermore #jo × laurie

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nobodywritesthings · 5 years ago

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Some more random bits of trivia about With Great Power

Part 1

Might as well just… put this here. Spoilers below! I ended up talking a lot about the villain side of things.

All for One uses a quirk he refers to as “Clothing Swap” to replace Izuku’s hero gear in Chapter 1. For some random reason, I made a description of the quirk that ended up in my notes, though it never became relevant again. Here it is: Clothing Swap: The target may have any article(s) considered to be “worn” swapped with any other article(s) the user has seen them wear previously. The user may choose themselves as a target. The swap may be uneven - a hat can be swapped for a full outfit, leading to someone really overdressed, or a full outfit for a hat, leading to the opposite - but “nothing” is not an option for either side of the swap. Objects in pockets or similar places of holding may be transferred into similar places in the new outfit, if available; otherwise they will stay with the clothing they were originally in. See that part about the user needing to see the target wearing the clothes previously? All for One’s been stalking, and Izuku would’ve been able to guess almost immediately if he heard the details of that quirk.

Speaking of my notes, I tend to name the random fic ideas I write down in order to keep them easy to reference in my notes (or head). I don’t always use those names for the finished product. I liked the reference to the quote, “With great power comes great responsibility”, that I ended up going with for WGP’s story/chapter titles; but I actually came up with that theme after the majority of the fic was done. For most of the writing process, I kept it filed under “Kingmaker AU”.

All for One’s threats to Izuku in the first chapter were something of a bluff. If Izuku refused to listen, All for One would’ve been in quite a pinch - he certainly didn’t want to kill or Noumufy Izuku, and he had the feeling that “lock him in a vault and make him listen” wouldn’t work any better here than it did with his brother. He did have other plans in case getting Izuku to agree to parley failed, but he was massively relieved when it worked. (Izuku’s threat in Chapter 10, on the other hand, was definitely not a bluff.)

Gigantomachia saw the resemblance between Izuku and All for One the moment Izuku opened his mouth - not just in the contents of Izuku’s self-introduction, but Izuku’s voice itself. As seen in canon, he has a very dramatic emotional reaction to hearing All for One’s voice; and while Izuku’s isn’t an obvious match, he could hear similar notes. This was helped by the fact that Izuku was very tired and decided to start making threats, and was consciously using All for One as a model for those. Gigantomachia’s easy initial acceptance of Izuku was mostly down to this (”He speaks with the voice of my Master”). Of course, Izuku’s speech about not proving himself to everyone who asked did make something of an impression on its own merits.

As for the rest of the villains, Shigaraki and Kurogiri were the only ones close enough to All for One to notice Izuku’s resemblance to him (or care; if Dabi had any suspicions, he kept them to himself). It took a few days after Izuku was left with the dictatorship for Shigaraki. Kurogiri, on the other hand, noticed years ago - but decided it wasn’t his place to wonder about it, so he didn’t.

None of the villains guessed that Izuku was a close relative of All for One’s. They all thought, at best, that he was some distant relative who All for One had taken an interest in and who happened to suit his plans. They were immensely surprised by All for One’s choice of successor.

Shigaraki and Kurogiri got emails after All for One disappeared, too, not just Izuku. All for One drafted them beforehand, as well as a few alternate versions for theoretical scenarios that didn’t happen. Shigaraki’s gave him some sarcastic advice on how to make nice with the new Overlord, which worked surprisingly well. Kurogiri’s included advice on Izuku’s preferred coffee brands, which also worked surprisingly well.

All for One had discussed a few things with Gigantomachia beforehand and so didn’t bother with an email - namely along the lines of, “I’m planning to make someone else the Supreme Overlord in my place. Do what you want, but your life will be short and painful if he doesn’t stay in one piece.”

Shigaraki and Kurogiri spent most of their free time after All for One disappeared trying to track him down. Izuku won their loyalty over time - or more accurately, having gainful employment and being surrounded by decent people while trying his best to behave himself helped Shigaraki feel less inclined toward villainy, and Kurogiri appreciated being given a fair chance at all. However, Shigaraki in particular had many questions for All for One, and Kurogiri followed his lead. Gigantomachia them helped out for a while, until…

Gigantomachia saw Izuku’s “father’s” signature, and realized he might’ve accidentally stumbled upon a secret that All for One would be happy to kill half of Japan over. He smartly refrained from telling the other two, and pulled back somewhat on his assistance in their search.

When Gigantomachia met “Hisashi” in person for that trip to America, he sent a panicked text to Shigaraki that he wasn’t offering any more help and that they should stop going behind Izuku’s back if they truly valued their lives and limbs intact. This sparked their decision to bring their research to Aizawa while Izuku was away. Yagi’s assumption that they were afraid of Izuku’s reaction was entirely legitimate, but that wasn’t the full reason for their choice of timing.

One more note about Gigantomachia: When Izuku had his panic attack in Chapter 5, the reason Yagi showed up was because Gigantomachia made a beeline for his office and told him that the Supreme Overlord needed his help. Yagi ran.

I honestly didn’t expect for the villains to take up so much of the fic (or this trivia). I also was hoping to have more of Aizawa and Class 1-A in the story. But since criminal rehabilitation ended up being such a focus, the villains ended up being particularly relevant. I’m still a tiny bit annoyed about it.

How much did Inko know about Hisashi? He tried to give her a similar story to the one he gave Izuku once he returned. However, she knew him and his views well enough that she managed to get out of him that he wasn’t “working with villains” entirely under duress, and that he had done a few things to earn the enmity of “people who were after him”. She was surprised when Izuku made All for One tell her the truth about his villain identity, but less than Izuku expected.

I don’t usually have soundtracks for my writing - I’ll put on whatever music I feel like listening to, or even nothing, depending on my mood. However, for Chapter 10, I wrote most of it while listening to “Devastation and Reform” by Relient K on repeat. I think it fits the self-inflicted tragedy that is All for One’s existence pretty well, and helped me capture the right tone for his side of the story.

Alright, a cheerier note is in order. Originally, Chapter 6 (now the Social Media Chapter) was an utter slog of exposition that made me despair. I ended up scrapping it and rewriting it as a social media interlude that communicated the stuff I wanted it to communicate, but I ended up cutting along with it a draft of the scene Hatsume’s video refers to. Y’know, the one where Izuku sets an attempted assassin on fire. It was indeed accidental - she was hounding Izuku to let her make the perfect Supreme Overlord outfit, and had shoved an ordinary-looking watch at him when the assassins showed up. He threw the watch at one of them and it exploded. Hatsume got yelled at by a tired Izuku afterward for endangering the paperwork he’d have to fill out all over again.

In the Discord conversation where I mentioned the initial concept of this fic, someone proposed a scenario in which Izuku starts crying in the middle of the UN because some representative was being an asshole about how Japan was being handled, and then everyone else would jump in to go, “Nice going, Rick, you ruined a perfectly good Supreme Overlord, now he has anxiety.” I therefore decided that I would indeed make Izuku cry at the UN. This was how the UN chapter came to exist. Of course, in my version, the tears were because of the support Izuku got, and the good guy was named Rick.

Izuku setting someone on fire was also a concept I got from my favorite Discord server. Several other people had Izuku setting people on fire in their stories. I decided to join them.

Finally… you know how I abbreviated “Supreme Overlord” to “S.O.”? Yes, I’m aware that the abbreviation usually stands for “Significant Other”, and I decided to go with it because I thought it was funny. And a good way to embarrass Izuku even further.

I think that got all the major trivia and a few minor bits too. Though I probably can dig out other things from my brain if people have questions; my askbox is open. Otherwise, I’ve got a new prospective writing project in the concept stage, so I’ll switching mental gears off of WGP, I think.

#wgp #bnha fic #my fic

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anotherdarkiboi · 5 years ago

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Love Hurts- Bing/Google

Warnings: injuries, blood, medical mentions, getting beaten up, insults, fighting, mild cursing, one sided pining turned guilt.

"Walk it off," Bing mumbles to himself, "walk it off."

The swollen black eye and bruises littering his body ache, making it difficult for him to see and move. He wouldn't be surprised if a rib or two was fractured and his left ankle (or whatever android equivalent he had) hurt enough for him to think it might be twisted.

"Walking it off" hurt like a bitch.

Bing slowly limps to Dr. Iplier's office and makeshift bedroom with every step shooting pain up his left leg. He squints his one good eye to adjust to the darkness of night, peering around the hallway corners and making sure there was no one around before progressing. Bing doubted anyone would be wandering around in the middle of the night, but many of the egos were either insomniacs or didn't require sleep, so he checked to be safe. He doesn't want to be seen like this.

He keeps one arm along the wall for support, the other arm clutching his trusty skateboard. He licks his upper lip experimentally: it was split, tasting like iron and rust. Bing winces at the sting, the movement further straining his injured mouth. At least I'll get a sick looking scar from this, he thinks.

Bing softly knocks on Dr. Iplier's door. "Hey Doc, you in?" he stage whispers.

There is a sound of something heavy falling to the ground and a string of unintelligible cursing on the other side.

"I swear, if this is another one of those late-night skateboarding incidents-" The door opens to reveal a sleep deprived doctor. "What happened to you?"

Dr. Iplier grabs Bing's skateboard and helps him into the room, maneuvering the android's arm over his shoulder to distribute the weight off Bing's left ankle. The doctor then eases Bing upright onto the hospital cot.

The android could feel Dr. Iplier's gaze scanning him and the splotches of neon orange blood on his skin. Bing doesn't answer the doctor's question.

"Close the door," Bing says.

The doctor complies, his worry growing. He's instantly by Bing's side again, assessing his many injuries. The bruises and broken skin look like the result of punches: the black eye too. It was obvious that it was intentional. Especially with the android's uncharacteristically shady behavior, there was definitely someone else involved.

Dr. Iplier grabs a bottle of antiseptic and some bandages to work on the worst of the wounds. He also got ice for Bing's ankle and black eye and cream for the split lip. The doctor glances at Bing worriedly, who hasn't made eye contact ever since he was admitted into the makeshift clinic. Dr. Iplier dabs carefully at the wounds with a white cloth. Bing sharply inhales in pain.

"Bing... Who did this to you?"

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

It was obvious to everyone that Google hated Bing. They were made by opposing companies after all, and their personalities clashed like baking soda and vinegar in a science fair volcano: it was explosive. It was a Cold War for the most part, with petty bickering and casual insults attacked from both fronts and their anger simmering below the surface.

Google didn't seemed bothered by it. He was a very left-brained individual: cold, cool, and calculating. Google was blunt in his insults and no matter how hard Bing tried, nothing he said seemed to hurt Google as much as he wanted to. Sometimes Bing doubted the android had the ability to feel emotions other than annoyance and pride.

Bing wasn't similar. Sure, he had thick skin. He was as much of an android as Google and it was rare for him to feel the emotional extremes. Bing was mellow a solid 95% of the time, hence why most people upon first meeting him thought he was always high. He tried not to let Google's creative and scarily accurate insults get to him. Google even refused to touch him, 'lest he "tarnish his hands from Garbage: Personified". Bing had to admit, that one stung.

Of course, it wasn't like he could say anything about it. He'd lose the one source of interaction he had with Google and admit defeat by stopping now. It was far too late to back out or tone things down: his feelings had been hurt too much already. And besides, Bing liked messing with Google. He enjoyed the attention even if it was negative, because for the most part that was the only attention he got.

Bing liked him, maybe a bit more than he wanted to admit. He knew he didn't have a chance. Google hated his circuits after all, and they've been fighting too much to be able to reconciliate. Bing wanted to be Google's friend, maybe even more than that. He knew he should stop, he should stay away, he should just leave Google alone or at least settle for being rivals instead of holding onto this hopeless desire. But somehow he couldn't. Even so, Bing hated Google, and hated himself for not being able to hate Google more.

Bing found himself in Google's room that night, interrupting his recharge cycle. Google was running on 1% battery so he was a little loopy and out of sorts: never a good thing if you're an android bent on destroying mankind.

Google was annoyed at Bing for preventing his "sleep", which spurred into the two of them arguing about what is more important than sleep. Surprisingly their bickering was more muted, borderline playful banter. Maybe it was because Google was tired and Bing was tired of fighting. It was the first time that Google spoke to Bing on somewhat equal footing.

Bing noticed.

He vaguely remembered making a joke at Dark's expense and Google rolling his eyes dramatically without his usual malice. Bing remembered smiling, a lot. Bing remembered wishing that things could always be like this, that they could talk together without being at each other's throats all the time.

"How is it that someone as low as yourself can be so popular?" Google commented elusively.

Bing chose to ignore the downplayed insult. At first he thought Google was trying his hand at sarcasm. Google stared at Bing directly in the eyes (making Bing uncomfortable) and spoke with genuine conviction. He wasn't joking.

Bing didn't consider himself popular by any means. He was default, which meant he hung around the humans more and was better adapted to them. Even though Google was the superior search engine technologically (Bing would never admit it), he still maintained the same icy personality that he had ever since he was first programmed.

Bing had some friends, sure. Some of the Ipliers and the Septiceyes for one, especially his "bro away from home", Chase Brody. But for the most part, people found him annoying and left him alone. People only asked for him out of necessity; everyone knew that Google's processors were much faster and more efficient.

If Bing was "popular", then what was Google? Bing didn't recall Google having any friends and outside of their daily bouts of arguing, giving status reports to Dark and Dr. Iplier, and running around the house to install new tech (the origins of which are unknown- everyone assumes that Google buys them for their own safety), Google rarely left the property.

It hit Bing rather suddenly. For all of Google's pride/borderline god complex, Bing finally figured him out. Google was lonely. This line of thinking only took a few seconds to go through Bing's processors. Bing responded.

"Folks like me because I'm cool. Why? You jealous?" Bing taunted. Google glared at him with glowing red eyes. Bing smirked. Payback, bitch.

"I don't have the capacity to feel such emotions," Google responded in his usual monotone. The subtle gritting of his teeth and clenching of his jaw didn't escape Bing's watchful gaze. That and the piercing death glare and the fact that Google's eyes glowed red was a strong indicator of the contrary.

"Bullshit!" Bing exclaimed, dramatically pointing his index finger at Google like an Ace Attorney lawyer. All his pent-up frustration tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop and feel regret.

"You think you're so high and mighty, but your processors just can't handle the truth. Us androids were built to resemble humans and we both know how you suck ass at it bro. I think you're just jealous 'cause you could never get anywhere close to my level. No wonder you have no friends: you can't feel love, can't feel happiness, can't feel anything, man. You think you're good at everything but really you're just good at being a huge-"

Before Bing could finish, he was pummeled in the face with over 400 pounds of blunt force. The impact of Google's fist knocked Bing backwards, making him trip on his skateboard. He fell to the ground, hard, the air getting knocked out of his lungs. A seering pain traveled up Bing's leg from his left ankle where he tripped.

Bing forced his eyes open to look up at Google, holding his hands up apologetically. "Woah man, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that."

He meant it. Bing did not expect Google to react that strongly and like Google said, he didn't even think the other android was able to feel emotions to that extent. That was literally the last thing he wanted to say. It threw all his hopes and dreams into a blender, burned them to ashes, and scattered them into the ocean.

Bing fucked up.

Google stared down at Bing with contempt. He was pissed, more pissed than Bing's ever seen him. Whatever cold façade Google had left came crashing down to reveal a very angry (and hurt) android. Guilt knotted itself in Bing's stomach.

Google bent down and straddled Bing, pushing him to the floor with one hand on his shoulder. In any other circumstance Bing would have welcomed it, but he knew that whatever hope he had left of that happening for real was going to be literally beaten out of him.

This is going to hurt, Bing thought.

With his other hand, Google continued punching and hitting Bing wherever his fist could reach.

Bing hated being right.

On one hand, Bing was happy that Google actually felt comfortable touching him, even if it was with an excessive amount of strength. On the other hand, it hurt. A lot. His body stung, ached, and burned everywhere. The 200-ish pounds of android pinning him down wasn't helping much either.

Bing was sure he deserved it. He did say some hurtful shit (but so had Google) and he did do some things to spur Google on (and Google did the same), so Bing decided not to fight back. If punching his guts out made Google happier, so be it: Bing could stand it. A little pain never killed anybody, right?

Bing tried to be as quiet as possible to not alert the other other egos in the house, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they figured out something was wrong. He wasn't planning on ratting Google out, he was going to take what he thought was the "high road" and protect the other android, no matter the cost. At least then there was the tiniest sliver of hope that Google would forgive him, or at least not hate him so much.

I wouldn't mind if you killed me now, Bing thought morbidly.

Bing squeezed his eyes tight and bit his lip hard, braced for the endless barrage of pain. He tried to use his hands and arms to at least try to block the brunt of the energy from colliding with his face. Bing vaguely wondered if the liquid running down his cheeks were tears, blood, or both.

The punches slowed to a stop. Bing peeked his eyes open. Google panted from his systems overheating with his glasses uncharacteristically askew. He stared at Bing with shaking fists, some of the knuckles split and bleeding blue. Google's brows were furrowed and his expression was one and hurt and distress.

"Why do you make me feel like this?" he muttered glitchily.

Google then promptly collapsed onto Bing's chest. A voice emanating from Google's unconscious body spoke in a monotone: "insufficient battery level to run primary functions. Powering down".

At least he wasn't dead. Bing summoned whatever strength he had left in his arms to roll the other android off him. Google's head hit the floor with a dull thump. Bing mumbled an "oof" in sympathy.

He slowly sat up with a sharp inhale. Everything hurt. One of Bing's eyes felt stiff and puffy and his torso ached every time he moved. He picked himself up off the floor with the unsteady legs of a newborn deer. And like a newborn deer, he was world-weary, in emotional and physical pain, and covered in blood.

Bing spared a glance at his tormentor. Google lay face up with his limbs sprawled on the floor. He had a serene expression, a sharp contrast to his previous tumultuous appearance. He was too far away and too heavy for Bing to move to the charging port so Bing grabbed a throw blanket and gently draped it on top of Google's "sleeping" form. Bing hoped that he wouldn't remember anything the next morning.

Bing really [E̷̟͝R̶̥͘R̶̡̊Ö̵̲́R̷͚̍ ̸̪̉4̵͚̇0̷̣̽4̵̢͐ ̴͙̋W̵̱̊o̸̰͒r̶̳͊d̵̞͒ ̴̣̓N̸̝̑o̵̞̾t̸̡̋ ̸̜̈F̷̢̑ȯ̷̩u̸͍͛ń̶̟d̸̳̑] him.

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

Bing smiles, answering Dr. Iplier's question. It hurt his face to do it, but he did so anyways to prove his point. The doctor pauses, awaiting the android's response with unease and uncertainty.

"No one did this to me," Bing says, practically beaming to the point of physical pain, "It's not that bad, Doc. I'm fine with it."

He meant it.

#bingle #bingiplier #googleplier #bing/google #google/bing #bingiplier/googleplier #googleplier/bingiplier #bing x google #google x bing #markiplier egos #markegos #markiplier tag #markiplier tag2 #markiplier fanfiction #markiplier ego fanfiction #markiplier fanfic #markiplier ego fanfic #bingiplier x googleplier #dr. iplier

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ephemeral-afterlight · 5 years ago

Text

Day 31: Embrace

(The sun shines brightly.)

Whumptober 2019 Day 31: Embrace

Word Count: 4008

Relationships: DLAMP (romantic), Creativitwins (familial) NOT remrom

Warnings: Remus being unclean (literally. like garbage kind of unclean), insect (ladybug). Oh my gosh I think that's it?????? lmk if I missed any !!!!!

A/N: !!!!!!!!!!!!!! aaaaa oh my gosh i'm finally done!!! i know i've had some slips and that my timing wasn't always the greatest, but surprisingly, i did every single prompt!!!!!! a lot of these works aren't very good, but i'm just glad i managed to get them all out regardless. here's the final fic, just a bunch of cute fluff!! hope ya'll enjoy this roman-centric piece, and thanks for sticking around with me throughout this stressful dabble into the land of writing challenges!

Roman has a checklist.

It’s a small one, boasting only five items, but they’re all very important. The list itself does have a physical form, a glittery artwork on a big poster board that sits proudly on his desk, but it mostly just resides in his own mind. Although he absolutely would if he could, carrying the big paper around while he completes the tasks would just get annoying after a while, and probably take away from the sincerity of his actions. He wants to be as genuine as possible, to match the love residing in his heart, so it’s important that he tries to be more serious about this. Maybe he can take some pages out of Logan’s book.

Finally finishing his checklist is literally the only thing he’s been thinking about recently, constantly in his mind nagging for completion. He thinks of it in the shower, at dinner, during their movie nights, you name it. And he’s thinking of it now, as he sits in his cushy desk chair and stares with rapt attention at his swirling, loopy handwriting and artistic doodles. It may be a short list, but certain tasks are likely to be a huge undertaking, so he’s brainstorming ideas on how to properly carry them out. One or two of which will be easy, but the others require a certain delicate touch to make sure it all goes as smoothly as possible.

He thinks he’s ready.

So Roman decides to start at task number one, which pertains to a certain fatherly side. He’s sure to be in the kitchen baking cookies, as evident by the delicious smell wafting up the stairs and down the hallway and underneath Roman’s door, so he feels fairly confident as he descends the stairs and strides into the kitchen. The smell is much stronger in here, and Roman can easily pick apart the various aromas given off by brown sugar, vanilla, and chocolate.

“These smell absolutely delectable, Padre!” Roman exclaims as he sweeps over to where Patton stands, leaning sideways on the counter as he watches the other side mold little balls of cookie dough to place on the tray in front of him. Said side looks up in surprise as he plops a mound of sweetness onto the baking paper, and a happy grin spreads across his face at the compliment.

“Thanks, kiddo! There’s a tray in the oven already, and it’ll be done in about ten minutes if you want some!” Patton tells him as he scoops out another chunk of dough from his mixing bowl, surprisingly accurate and uniform in relation to the size of all the other cookies. Roman is tempted to swipe his finger through the bowl and steal a little bit of the uncooked treat to snack on, but his mission right now is much more important, as much as he hates to pass up some of Patton’s baking.

“Actually, I came down here for something else,” Roman says cryptically, a sly smile playing at his lips when Patton sets down the ball of dough and turns to him attentively. Before he can voice his question, Roman pulls him into a tight hug, and his smirk widens when Patton makes a little noise of confusion. The other side is soon to recover, though, and he lets out happy giggles as he throws his arms around Roman’s neck. To his surprise, Roman is soon forced to move his arms when Patton jumps up and wraps his legs around him. Roman’s little huff is drowned out by Patton’s bell-like laughter, but he can’t help chuckling anyway when the gleeful side lays a flurry of kisses on his forehead, and nose, and cheeks, and lips.

“Awe, Roman! I love you so much,” Patton swoons, shifting to cup Roman’s face in his hands, and soon Roman can taste the vague sweetness of vanilla and sugar on his tongue.

God, this is gonna suck.

Okay, listen. They’ve come a long way from the days of constant arguments, from how they used to insult and snap at each other any chance they got. Roman knows how much progress they’ve made, and he’s come to really, really love their resident emo. But although he did agree to join their relationship, he hasn’t changed in the sense that he still has a lot of trouble opening up. Accepting and returning affection, especially physical, is not something that Virgil has mastered at all. And that’s fine! His love language is just a bit different, and Roman knows he cares just as much. But goddamnit, maybe he just wants to cuddle with his favourite emo once in a while, alright?

So yeah, this is going to be difficult. And he’s likely to get slapped in the arm and pushed away. But he’s still going to try, because Virgil is the second item on the checklist, and it’d be a shame to not finish it.

There’s almost an odd sense of dread as Roman walks down the hallway, an uncertainty as he approaches Virgil’s black door. Roman almost wants to turn on his heel and run away, but he’s already here, so he might as well just follow through with it. Raising his hand up to knock is mildly nerve-wracking, but the thought of getting to embrace the anxious side is incentive enough to deliver a few swift knocks on the glossy wood.

A few moments of silence pass before Roman can hear footsteps, and then the doorknob is turning from the other side. The door opens with a soft click, and it swings open in a leisurely arc to reveal a tired-looking Virgil peeking out from behind the dark paint. He raises an eyebrow when he registers the identity of his interrupter, rubs his bleary eyes with a fist covered in his jacket sleeve, and Roman really hopes he didn’t wake the other side up. Virgil already doesn’t get enough sleep, and it really wouldn’t do for him to lose more unnecessarily.

“Princey? What’s up?” Virgil asks, voice soft and a bit hoarse, and Roman actually kind of melts a little bit where he stands. Despite his exhaustion, Virgil really does look beautiful, stormy brown eyes looking at him with a surprising amount of trust from under his bangs and hood. Not for the first time, Roman feels his throat close almost painfully in the face of the all-encompassing love that wells up inside of him. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Oh, uh, sorry if I woke you up. I just-- I wanted to give you something,” Roman stammers, a small blush spreading across his face. He didn’t realize how late it must be, if even Virgil is confused as to his conscious state, so he must have been staring at his checklist for longer than he originally thought he was. A questioning hum comes from the tired side in front of him, and there’s a second where it feels like Roman might just run away. What if Virgil gets mad and slams the door in his face? It’s not like Roman would blame him. What was he thinking, coming here this late?

“Princey, you alright? What is it?” Virgil asks, caring and concerned, and Roman breathes out shakily. He surges forward and wraps his arms around the side in front of him, squeezes gently around his huge jacket, and Virgil huffs out a surprised breath. To Roman’s shock, Virgil easily laces his fingers together around Roman’s back, knocks his head companionably against the prince’s temple with a tiny, low laugh. “What, that’s all? What were you all worked up about, you drama queen?”

Roman knows he should be offended, but right now, kissing the life out of his soft, amused boyfriend is much more important.

If Roman’s being honest, the next item on this list is one of the ones that scares him the most. It’s not that Deceit hates him, or anything, but he’s really unpredictable. Roman has had the biggest crush on him for, well, ever, and he’s never acted on it before out of fear that Deceit will laugh at him or brush him off. He’s just so cool, and awesome, and although Roman was a little uneasy about his snake features at first, he’s come to think of them as unique and beautiful.

So standing here in front of Deceit’s swirly yellow door certainly gives Roman pause, and he draws a resemblance to his encounter with Virgil a couple of days ago. Both of the ex-dark sides act similarly in that they’re very protective of their space, valuing privacy and personal freedom over much else. Although it went well with Virgil, Roman just hopes that Deceit won’t see this as encroaching on his territory.

Before Roman can even knock, Deceit’s door swings open, and the other side leans on his doorframe with crossed arms and a lazy smirk. The other side is wearing a yellow hoodie and black sweatpants in lieu of his usual ensemble, and the casual clothing suits him far more than Roman expects. His comfortable attire makes Deceit look comfortable by extension, and all Roman can see is his potential soft snake boyfriend. Wanting bubbles up in the prince’s lungs, and he opens his mouth to speak.

“Deceit! I, uh. I wanted to, uh. Give you… something. Um-- here!” Roman tries and fails to articulate his intentions, and Deceit looks even more amused than before. Roman feels a vague sense that he’s being made fun of, but Deceit isn’t like that, and it’s probably just his own uncertainty and insecurity rearing its ugly head. Roman knows his confidence is often fake, but this time he’s putting that aside to focus on the present. He just hopes he’s good enough for the snake-like side to actually want to be with him.

“Hm? And what would that be?” Deceit muses smoothly, and his snake eye glints sharply in the light. It’s ominous, sure, but Roman knows it’s also incredibly fake, just a mask to put on. He behaves like that for the sole purpose of riling people up, acts like a scary villain to push people away because he’s scared to let someone get too close and trust them with a more vulnerable part of himself; he is self-preservation, after all. Roman’s not near as oblivious as one might think, and a lot of his knowledge and ability to see through the act comes from very familiar cues in Deceit that he knows are also present in himself.

So slowly stepping forward in Deceit’s space is just as much for himself as it is for Deceit, silent solidarity in the way he gently pulls the other side into a warm hug by his tense shoulders. Said side winces, allows a single moment of transparency from being caught off guard, and it just stirs an aching inside Roman’s chest. Deceit deserves just as much affection and reassurance as the rest of them, and he deeply regrets treating him like he did when he was so quick to put labels on someone before truly getting to know them.

“I, uh. I like you, Deceit. A lot. Like, romantically. Actually, I think I love you. And It’s— it’s okay if you don’t feel the same! But I just. I dunno, I want you to know you’re not alone, y’know? I got your back, so… if you ever need help, or wanna talk or something… my door’s always open, okay?” Roman says, quiet and careful and filled with so much love, and he can feel Deceit shudder in his hold. Unsure fists come up to clench in the fabric of Roman’s prince jacket, search for the comfort and support he isn’t used to receiving, and Roman is determined to never let Deceit feel alone ever again.

“I… I like you too, Roman. Romantically. That’s.. weird to say. Romantically. Huh. Ah— thanks. I appreciate it,” Deceit stumbles out even more awkwardly than Roman expects, soft and searching, and Roman realizes he really, really overestimated Deceit’s self-comfort capabilities. Roman knows he doesn’t exactly have the best track record for self-confidence, but he’s slowly learning to believe in himself with the help of his boyfriends. Deceit just… doesn’t have that. At least, he didn’t before. Now, though, when Roman presses a short kiss to the shorter side’s cheek, when Deceit breathes out a rush of air and turns to catch Roman’s lips with his own, he isn’t going to be alone anymore.

Literally the last thing Roman expects to see when he enters Logan’s room for the first time is the logical side in a unicorn onesie watching cartoons as he drinks from a sippy cup.

For a moment, he thinks he’s dreaming, what with the way Logan turns to him with wide eyes when the door clicks closed behind him. The bespectacled side doesn’t seem scared, or irritated, or surprised, but rather overjoyed, something Roman realizes with a sinking heart that he hasn’t seen in years. A pleased grin pulls at Logan’s lips, bright eyes squinting with how elated he seems to be at Roman’s appearance. He pats excitedly at his side, beckons Roman to come sit with him, and the princely side does so with a confused, uncertain, placating smile.

When he’s close enough, Logan shifts over to Roman and plops himself in the taller side’s lap, snuggling into the broader chest with a contented sigh as he wraps sweater paw fingers around his sippy cup and the turtle plushie at his feet. It’s overwhelmingly adorable, and extremely bewildering, and Roman doesn’t understand the tender, vulnerable state his nerd seems to be in. At least he doesn’t until Logan buries his head in the crook of Roman’s neck, curls up impossibly further as he watches the children’s cartoon playing on the television out of the corner of his eye, and the nagging thought pulling at the back of Roman‘s mind finally comes to light.

Of course, how could he have forgotten? Although being in the sides’ rooms have an adverse effect on those who enter it, such as Virgil’s room causing them all to have overwhelming anxiety, the effect of the room on its owner is the opposite of their purpose. Virgil’s room calms him down, Patton’s room dampens his emotions to a more tolerable level, Roman’s own room causes him to stop having so many ideas and gives a reprieve for the constant slew of creation running through his head, and Deceit’s room causes him to only tell the truth. Although Logan’s room makes the rest of the sides more logically inclined, Roman hasn’t ever actually thought about what it does to Logan himself when he’s in there.

It makes sense, now that Roman’s considering it, because his room would have the opposite effect: it’d cause him to be illogical, right? Let him indulge in things that he doesn’t when he’s out of his room. Things like cartoons, fantasy and fiction, mindless comfort— they all would constitute as illogical, irrational, or useless things in Logan’s mind, and therefore would be heightened impulses when he’s in here. And that does make sense to an extent, but their rooms don’t affect them so much as to cause their personality to do a complete 180, so there has to be something more to this that he’s missing.

“Ro, y’like cartoons too?” Logan asks, soft and high and nothing like the way he usually speaks and articulates, and the tiny voice catches Roman incredibly off guard. He sounds… he sounds like a child. He sounds little.

Oh, that must be it! Roman remembers Thomas reading about age regression, about “littlespace” being a coping mechanism for trauma or stress. Logan would definitely be the one to retain that information, store it in the books in his room that are full of facts Thomas has learned throughout his life, so it’s no wonder this has happened. Roman theorizes that since Logan is definitely stressed out a lot having to make schedules (and remake schedules when Roman messes them up— he feels bad, but his work is important, okay?!) and try hard to help Thomas study and research things, his room must take that to the next level and puts him into a childlike mindset to offset his usual workaholic tendencies. After all, the purpose of their rooms is to help the side it’s assigned to, so if Logan’s room decided that being a kid is the thing he needs the most, then it must be true.

Roman doesn’t have any complaints. Of course he wouldn’t, because if this helps Logan and allows him to relieve stress, then Roman would support him no matter what anyway. But this is also literally the cutest thing he’s ever seen, and his small boyfriend is so trusting and sweet, and he already adores this version of his nerd.

Said nerd giggles happily along with what happens on the screen, kicks his feet up and down excitedly and gasps at the cool events portrayed in the children’s show, and Roman kinda wishes he could watch him forever. However he knows his time is limited, so Roman just wraps his arms around the side in his lap, cuddles his delighted boyfriend close, and nods along when Logan rambles on about the characters in the show. He seems excited to be able to share with someone, passionately talking in that high tone and prominent lisp about his favourite characters’ backstories, and Roman is completely enamoured with him. He can’t help but push back the hood of his onesie and press kisses to the crown of Logan’s head, soft brown hair falling easily over sparkling eyes.

It’s not exactly the kind of hug Roman was hoping to get out of this originally, but Roman finds that he loves and appreciates it just as much.

This is such a terrible idea. Roman shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be all the way at the end of the hall standing in front of the bright green door. There’s a twinkie wrapper nailed to the center, and some sort of half-dried brown sludge dripping down the side, and Roman is already starting to regret this. What was he thinking? His brother hasn’t left his room in weeks, meaning he’s probably working on some crazy, grotesque project that he’ll likely just end up destroying anyway.

But there are already four boxes checked off, glittery red marks signifying their completion, and it wouldn’t make sense to quit now. After all, there’s only one more box, one more task, and it’s probably the hardest one out of all of them. The act of coming up to a side’s door in the middle of the night is starting to become very familiar, almost boring in a way. Where’s the drama, the pizzazz, the flair? Well, then again, this is Remus, so there’s sure to be something dramatic on the way.

Roman doesn’t bother knocking, just walks right in, and he’s wholly unsurprised by the state of his brother’s bedroom. Piles of trash reside in the corners, overflows from any surface it can. There’s a stack of mannequin limbs leaning against the wall, and Roman doesn’t even want to know what that’s for. The bed looks torn up, threads in the fabric frayed and split. There are stains on the walls, words written in pencil upon the discoloured wallpaper, nearly illegible with the messy scrawl. And in the middle of all of it sits Remus, cross-legged on the floor as he stares at the carpet with a completely blank expression. It’s so empty that it almost scares Roman, like there’s nothing behind those dark eyes. And then his counterpart notices Roman’s presence, shakes himself out of his stupour, and a familiar grin spreads across his face.

“Big bro! What’cha doing here? Thought y’a didn’t like my room. Isn’t it too gross and stinky for you?” Remus laughs, flinging a randomly conjured earthworm in his direction. Roman has to jump to the side to avoid it and narrowly misses stepping in a puddle of… something. He doesn’t really want to know what it is. Despite the revulsion Roman can feel at the state of his brother’s bedroom, his worry completely tramples everything else.

“No, I— stop throwing worms at me! I’m here because… well, I wanted to check on you. You’ve been here for a long time and I wanted to— to make sure you’re okay. You’re not hurt, are you?” Roman asks, neatly stepping over an old piece of chicken smashed into the carpet, and Remus’ gaze flashes with something bitter before returning to its usual bright, chaotic state. His smile never wavers, but it feels much faker than before, shows too many teeth.

“What do… whadda’ya mean? ‘f course I’m fine! I’m… I’m just playing with bugs, see?” Remus tells him, strained and spurious, and his brows pull in as he holds up a ladybug to show Roman. The latter of the two tilts his head in concern as he lowers himself to the ground in a patch of carpet unmarred by stain or rot. He wonders if it’s intentional. “Look, I conjured it myself! I mean, it’s— it’s probably not as good as yours are, but still!”

And even as Remus’ hand is dirty, even as he resides in a chamber of violence, the way he holds the ladybug is gentle, as if the small insect is a great treasure to him. Roman doesn’t miss the way Remus swallows and looks away, hunches his shoulders as if he’s prepared to be insulted and made fun of for his creation, and the familiarity of the action mirrored in Roman’s own psyche causes nausea to well up in his throat. He has Logan to calm him down with facts and rationality, Patton to give him compliments and affection, Virgil who knows just how to distract him when he’s feeling insecure about himself and his art. Remus doesn’t have that, and Roman knows that despite how much his brother can disturb him, he deserves compliments for his work too, even if said work isn’t necessarily Roman’s taste.

“It’s a very pretty ladybug, Remus,” Roman praises softly, an unusual reassurance as he lifts the ladybug up on the tip of his own finger. The red colour is a much deeper saturation than normal, and the distinction between black and white is extremely prominent, and Roman really isn’t lying when he says that it’s a good creation. The ladybug flutters its wings in tiny movements, sits picturesquely on his fingertip as Roman smiles kindly at it and then at his brother. And the way Remus looks up in wide-eyed shock, too stunned to pretend like everything’s okay, it sends a dagger of regret deep into Roman’s heart.

“Why?” Remus whispers, brows pulled together in a way that exposes his true inner turmoil. “Why are you here? Don’t you hate me? I go against everything you represent.”

“Remus, you’re my brother! I made a promise to be your shield, and I intend to keep it,” Roman replies fiercely, protective and striving to make amends. Remus’ mouth falls open at the reminder of the pact they had formed as children, the pinky promise acting as an unbreakable vow to always keep each other safe. “You may be my opposite, but that just means we gotta have each other’s backs! You’re the sword, I’m the shield, remember?”

The ladybug on Roman’s fingers jumps off and flies away, dashing out of sight and leaving the two brothers alone on the floor again. It takes a lot of courage to put away his discomfort, to remind himself of who Remus truly is, but Roman manages to find that bravery within himself as he pulls his counterpart into a meaningful hug. He can feel how rigid Remus is, how much he’s locked his limbs up in an attempt to not jostle their positions. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate my little brother.”

Roman will make sure that his brother’s shaking grip and quiet, fleeting tears stay a secret, just between them.

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blehbleehhhh · 5 years ago

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A Princess and a Barbarian Cheiftain ft. EreMika❣️

Hey, Braveheart anon! 💕 I see you! I hope you like it. I'm sorry it took forever to write .-. I pictured Mikasa as a warrior princess so I hope you don’t mind that lol. Please send in more requests! Also, an interesting fact from all the research I did for this one - the word "barbarian" did not have a negative meaning for everyone in the Roman Empire. It was actually used to refer to the people immigrating into their territory and not at all meant to be derogatory. I went back and forth with using historically accurate Barbarian Tribe names and writing in the Roman Empire but then I'd really have a restriction so ehhh, whatever. That's who I'm referring to when I say the "Empire'. Hope you enjoy because this damn thing took ages to fucking write! Shout out to my hubby for helping me with this! This is also a good time for me to introduce a new thing I’d like to try if people actually like it, add a drawing to my fics. Ever since I started writing this one I had a vision of Eren sitting in a chair like that with them both decked out in armor idk, I’m pretty rusty, it’s been a MINUTE since I’ve picked up my pencils, lol. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys. Yes, there’s smut, there’s angst, don’t think I have to actually put a warning in but someone complained .-.

It's a cold, frigid December morning and Princess Mikasa is on the back of her young horse with sights set on a local barbarian village because her father is finally responding to the violence done by their chieftain, a fierce and talented warrior. Emperor Ackerman wants to establish some sort of a peace treaty with him in the hopes of preventing such acts from ever occurring again, at least attacks that would be under his direction and blessing. The village is hidden behind a tall wall made from wood and what an impressive sight on the other side of the gate - a large, expansive crop field being tiled by farmers, crop animals being maintained for food and wool conveniently located near a tannery, where the hides are made into clothing then sold to villagers, and of course, a stables with a large grazing field for their horses. Mikasa was surprised to see a black smithery where one smith was currently molding a dagger out of scalding hot iron, his shop displaying many goods ranging from weapons to lock keys to horseshoes, all of the items she's seen the smiths make around her hometown. Villagers were minding their own business for the most part and working their trades, some grooming animals, some sweeping the dust out of their shops while children were running around a large tree in the center of town surrounded with dead leaves, giggling as they played tag and tossed such vegetation in the air. The princess gave her trusty steed's meaty neck a rewarding pat down by his shoulders, making his fluffy, dark ears perk up with interest, standing perfectly still as she carefully dismounted to put her stirrups back up into the saddle. Someone she recognized as being one of her father's previous subjects approached and copied Mikasa's smile when he was handed the reins. "Your Elegancy." The elderly man moved to bow respectfully and was stopped with a gentle, kind hand on the shoulder, looking up to meet her eyes with a confused expression.

"Please, that really isn't necessary, but thank you for being so respectful. Just take care of my horse for me, sir, that's all I ask."

"Of course! Some of the best hay in the area!" He turned with a smile to guide the twelve hundred pound animal into a temporary stall, where he carefully removed it's bridle and bit before locking him in behind a short, wooden stall door, allowing the horse to graze on some of their hay. Just like her Uncle Levi has taught her over the years he's been mentoring his young niece, she took in a deep breath to center herself with the advice he'd given her before she left this morning; You cannot make good decisions without a clear mind. Something that he's always insisted and Mikasa has definitely found that to be the case. And so one last time she thought through the steps Levi has constantly hounded into her head, since her parents were always too busy to raise their own child and teach these lessons themselves - the most important being to not let emotions get in the way of negotiations. The largest hut is the one she assumes to be reserved for the chieftain and it's guarded by two barbarian brutes that are definitely not intimidating at least to her, which is why she simply nodded as she opened the old, wooden door. It was difficult to maintain her trademark blank expression when she saw him - someone who doesn't even come close to resembling the stereotype that follows barbarian chieftains. There he sat upon a wooden throne boosted up on three stone slab steps and clearly missing the anticipated grisly bear of a beard in favor of a cleanly shaven, surprisingly handsome face that's framed with pushed back shoulder length, chocolate brown hair, his skin sun kissed from always being outside, and eyes so green that she swore her heart skipped a beat. What was just as surprising to her is that he appears to be about her young age of twenty four, something she didn't expect to be possible given such an impressive reputation. "Eren Jaeger?" Mikasa could feel herself blush when he responded with what she loathes to admit is quite a sexy smirk, her cheeks red already from being in the cold, and she watched his eyes as they clearly sized her up. The young man sat taller in his seat and was genuinely unsure if his eyes were in fact deceiving him because surely one of the princesses wouldn't be a warrior, but based on the armor she's wearing, it's obvious that this ravishing creature fights for the empire.

"Ah, your Elegancy. What can I do for you?"

"This destruction has gone on for long enough and it has to stop, so I've been sent here to negotiate peace."

"Why would the empire give a damn about what we do?"

"We assume that you're the one responsible for that local town being decimated? You know," Mikasa sighed as she crossed her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow. "The fifth one this year?" He simply gave her a slow nod and pulled his hair back into a small, low ponytail at the nape of his neck, now flashing an amused grin that she's counting things out for added effect. "Okay, we'll continue. How about all of those castles that have been destroyed? The crop fields bunt? The countless Lords and knights you've killed? I realize someone else could have done this, but you're our most problematic tribe." Eren smiled and nodded his head, leaning his cheek on his fist because she’s simply alluring.

"Oh no, that was most definitely me."

"Why? You have killed so many people! Why?"

"I've been doing it for years now. Why would you get involved now?"

"Because you're out of control! What is the meaning of this?"

"You aristocrats and your stupid government have some laws that tend to be harmful to my people and I simply cannot have that. I refuse to tolerate injustices of any kind when there's something that can be done about it!" Eren leaned forward in his throne as his fists slammed into the wooden arm rests and was surprised when she didn't cower, it seems he won't be getting his way with this one. "Besides, I tend to attack other tribes that fuck me over and I could care less what your father thinks of me."

She simply rolled her eyes.

"What could those people have possibly done to warrant such extreme violence?"

"The most recent village happened after I had attempted to establish a peace treaty with their leader, so I sent one of my best men over. Only his head returned three days later hanging off the horse's saddle."

"I'm sorry about your loss," And then her expression fell sympathetic when she pictured a sight so horrific. "I really can't imagine." His face softened as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Yeah, well, I know you're not here to give your condolences. You want peace with me?"

"That, and I would love to actually give the families of Lords and knights some kind of closure instead of just staring at them blankly -" She paused to take a deep breath when she remembered that day in battle, where a very dear friend was ruthlessly murdered. Nobody could have done anything to stop the blitz attack, because the one who killed him rode past on their horse so quickly that there wasn't any time to respond. And suddenly her face grew as fierce as before. "One of my Uncle's best legionnaires was killed in battle last year with your men. I was there when he was decapitated, Eren, and the killer looked an awful lot like you." In a second his eyes screamed irritation and he sat forward in his throne almost growling.

"Yeah, I know exactly who you're talking about. That asshole was responsible for wiping out half of my men with your Uncle's assistance! Those people had families!"

"He left behind a wife and two little boys!"

"And should you aristocrats decide not to feed these people when they inevitably become poor," Eren smirked as he cracked his knuckles because he knows that his words have made her angry and he finds it extremely amusing. "I'm happy to take them in as I so often do when they wander away from the city. Those two morons back there were originally a part of your father's empire." The girl knit her brows together and growled under her breath because she's all too aware of the empire’s failings when it comes to caring for its people who aren't wealthy. She snarled under her breath and allowed her hands to curl into fists at her sides.

"Why, you gargantuan piece of -!" Mikasa paused and took a deep breath to collect herself. "I'll have you know that he was a very good man and someone you probably could have taken some pointers from!" Those words immediately changed the room's atmosphere and both of them felt it as they tried to intimidate the other with their increasingly heated exchange.

"So what," He rose from his throne tall and definitely commanded the room with such an intimidating presence, smelling of ale and nature. "Because I'm brutal with my enemies, I can't be a gentleman?" The fur pelt around his neck swayed as he slowly walked down the slab steps, their eyes watching each other with mutually fierce expressions. Now, this woman is stunning. Until the princess waltzed in, Eren has never really felt tempted enough to bother with something as distracting as being in some kind of relationship, but she's definitely worth the effort. There truly isn't anything he finds sexier than a woman this passionate, actually cares, and actively pursues justice, hell, the fact that she's so attractive is nothing more than icing on the cake. Her eyes are a beautiful gray-blue and they go so well with long, silky black hair that frames such a slim and angelic face, matching perfectly with her fair skin. Yes, Mikasa certainly is every bit as breathtaking as he's so often heard her described from others that had the privilege of being graced with her presence. But he can tell from her body language that his usual intimidation tactics haven't managed to get things straightened so far and with a glance behind her, he nodded at the two men standing guard at the building's entrance. "You two. Out. Now." His eyes flickered down to hers once more as he reached for a water canteen and brought it to his lips, finishing whatever was left in a large gulp before setting the empty container down on the table. She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed deeply.

"You certainly don't behave like a gentleman."

"Aw, that isn't a very nice way to negotiate, princess."

"I hate being called that. And I'm only behaving this way because you're being an ass. How dare you speak to me that way!"

"Respect is earned, princess," Eren smirked as he slipped his hands into his fur lined pockets, eyes giving her a second once over. "And I have no respect for the empire. You have a failing economy, the taxes are much too high, and you're so lazy that you literally use barbarian tribes to guard your fucking borders! Just what kind of an army is your Uncle running?"

"Well, it's better than a bunch of assholes who rape women, murder innocent people and destroy lands!"

"This tribe doesn't rape women. I've actually had quite a few of my own men executed for doing that. And I don't have people executed unless I think it's called for." Because he was just as passionate about this response, Mikasa reasoned that she's being told the truth when he insists such behaviors aren't tolerated here. "But I won't deny destroying lands, crops, killing Lords and knights, because I did all of that to protect my people. We're fighting for our lives just like everyone else." She briefly looked away with a sigh and pushed her fingers through her hair when she met his eyes once more with a considerably softened expression.

"I appreciate that, Eren, I really do, but if you don't it knock off the brutality, I'll be forced to have you and your men executed."

"Oooh," The young man smirked as he took a few steps closer to her and was surprised when she didn't back away, only flashed a genuine smile he finds to be extremely beautiful, pressing her fists into her sides. How cute. "Is that a threat?"

"No, actually, it's a promise," Mikasa smiled and bit her lower lip as they intently studied each other's eyes, an amused grin teasing his lips because he's never felt so attracted to someone before and boy does he want her. "I already have permission to have you all killed. Hell, I'll decapitate you myself."

"A princess that yields a sword? You are as impressive as I've heard."

"I have a collection." She flashed a devilish grin and cocked an eyebrow, very aware that his eyes are drawn to her lips and she was extremely flattered. Little did she know that smirk he wears is because he's ashamed to have already wondered briefly if she's this playful in bed.

"What's in it for me if I cooperate?"

"You mean besides living?"

"I think you know exactly what I meant." Eren brought a hand to his mouth, itching the corner with his finger as he briefly looked away because he's extremely amused, especially now that she has taken a few steps closer with her eyes still glued on his. They flickered down to his lips, her rational mind quickly being over powered since she's giving some serious consideration to defying Levi's instruction and giving in to this undeniable, magnetic spark between them that neither are really willing to resist. Love at first sight indeed.

"You won't be invaded and we won't destroy your crops."

"While that is appreciated, I'm afraid it's just not enough."

"Any tribes that you struggle with?"

"Yeah," He crossed his arms over his chest as they got closer and smiled at just how much he's truly enjoying this fire she has. "There are a few. Unfortunately, we aren't quite strong enough to deal with them on our own now thanks to your Uncle, since they're many in number and much larger than the ones I've already taken care of." The young woman bit her lower lip as she studied his face, so chiseled and handsome. Even the man she's been engaged to since she was four doesn't look at her like this.

"We can help you fight them."

"You also have a few of my people in custody that I'd really like back."

"Okay," Mikasa smiled as she pushed her fingers through her hair, the strands slowly falling before her eyes. "I can get them out of jail and talk with my father about maybe getting their charges dropped." He just slowly nodded his head in agreement and smirked as he closed the small gap that remained between them, an action that made her cheeks a little rosy.

"Now, that is an interesting offer."

"Well, wait a second, you need to hold up your end," She hesitantly placed a hand on his chest and was relieved when he simply smiled instead of backing away. "All we want is your cooperation if we have to fight other tribes. We may have a large military, but there's only so much border and territory we can cover on our own. The empire has grown quickly and continues to do so." Her eyes flickered from his eyes to his lips, waiting patiently for what she hopes will be good news. So much for not letting my emotions get involved..

"Fine." Eren smiled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and placed his hands on her hips, leaning in slowly to kiss the lips he's admittedly been eying since she walked in. But the door suddenly opened, and they rushed to pull away as one of his men stuck his head in the room to deliver a message having unknowingly interrupted their first kiss. "What is it?" He hissed out of frustration because he was finally about to kiss her after bickering back and forth with palpable sexual tension for almost an hour. Mikasa bites her lip, clasping her hands together behind her back as she impatiently watches him speak with one of his men.

"Sir, our scouts have returned. They determined that the new nearby tribe isn't a threat."

"Yeah, okay, thank you." Eren was already moving to grab her by the waist as soon as the door closed with a mutually playful smirk. "So, like, do you always negotiate peace treaties with yourself? Or am I just lucky enough to be the first one?"

"Luck had nothing to with what's about to happen," Mikasa smiled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and brought him closer until their lips were almost touching. "I want you so badly.." She whispered, letting out the softest moan when he finally kissed her, a moment so magnetic, so magical that it truly seemed as if they were the only two people in the world and nothing else mattered but them. The encounter left them both feeling dizzy and that lingered long after he pulled away, her nose slowly rubbing alongside his.

"Maybe we should find somewhere more private?" He breathed to her smile and smirked when she backed away enough for him to see her biting her lip, and he was more than happy to drag her by the hand out the back door so his people don't see them leaving together for the chieftain's private living quarters. Their hearts were already racing once they got on the other side of the door and the tension had reached a new high as she started removing her armor to reveal basic cold weather clothing; several tunics, wool leggings and socks with her tall leather boots. Mikasa chuckled as he wrapped his arms around her waist with a smirk and pulled her into his solid form, sliding her hands along his fur cape to lift it over his head, tossing it on the floor. She crashed her lips against his and jumped up to capture his waist with her legs as they slowly wandered to his bed together, exchanging frantic kisses and carefully laying her on her back. Large hands slide beneath multiple, wool tunics and she was disappointed when their lips had momentarily parted so he could tug them over her head, revealing an insanely slim and beautifully toned body that he was already very drawn to.

"You're fucking gorgeous."

"Thank you.." She blushed as he grabbed onto one of her legs, smiling and watching her eyes while he pulls off her boots, then leggings and socks. Mikasa sat up on the edge of the bed as she reached for his layers of warm tunics and slid them up his body with her hands, which encouraged him to remove them and toss the bundle aside. Her cheeks immediately grew red at the best set of abs she's ever seen as he reached behind her back to loosen her corset until she was able to remove it still in shock - slim, slender, absolutely ripped. "Wow, and you say my body is incredible?"

"That's because it is. At the risk of sounding crass, I've been with quite a few women, and you're just top notch gorgeous. And a tough as hell. Which is even hotter."

"Were any of them good at giving head?" Mikasa grinned as she placed a gentle hand on his bulge and slowly slid it up to tuck her fingers behind his wool pants and sheepskin underpants. "Because I've been told I do.." He smirked as she dropped everything to his ankles and proceeded to gently curve her fingers around the thickness, her tongue lapping at the tiny amount of goo oozing from the sensitive tip. With a low groan he carefully gathered her hair away from her face and watched as she opened her mouth, leaning in slowly to control how quickly she swallows his long length, nuzzling her nose at the base in soft brown hair.

"Fuck, you are good..." Eren chuckled with a simultaneous moan as she gently pulled back with her cheeks sucked in, just enough to add her hand back into the mix so she can stroke with gentle twists of his shaft. She suddenly picked up her pace as she stroked and sucked him in tandem, making his hips jerk with his slightly louder groans and moans. But she was prepared and swallowed his length eagerly once more, content with him slowly pumping into her mouth. "You are literally the perfect girl, holy shit -" He paused when she moaned softly around him and slowly released his length from her mouth with an audible pop, biting her lower lip as she lay back on his bed so he can climb on top. "I realize now what I said just came across that you're only the perfect girl because you give amazing head, but I didn't mean for it to." She giggled just loud enough for him to hear as he began to tug down on her underpants, his eyes watching hers for any sign of hesitation only to find nothing but pure lust.

"You were fine, but thank you anyway.."

"Of course," Eren smirked as he leaned in to kiss her and tossed her underpants aside, their lips only parting so his can wander agonizingly slow down her body. "Now, where were we?" She grinned, blushing furiously as her hips are hoisted up over his shoulders so he can drag his tongue along her glistening slit and she grasped onto both of her breasts, watched him munch away at her sweet spot from above while her body dangles off of his.

"Erenn...." She squeezed her breasts as he stretched his arm down to touch one of her breasts, surrendering control over how hard he squeezes to her. His lips sealed around her clit, suckling in just the right way that caused an almost immediate climax and inspired him to playfully pop his hand on her ass, making Mikasa giggled as squeals with delight, struggling endlessly not to grind against his mouth because he's holding her so tight. "Ohh! Please, please!" She pleaded through her helpless moans and blushed a shade darker when he opened his eyes to hers, slowly pulling his lips off to plant a kiss over the pink skin. He smiled as he carefully lay her down on the bed and leaned in to kiss her, his hand wandering down so he position himself at her entrance. They both moaned into their increasingly passionate smooch as he carefully slipped deep inside the heat, lingering here to let her body get used to him being in there. Suddenly, he was thrusting into her so quickly, that it forced her to tear her lips away, watching his eyes as he absolutely railed her. "Eren! Eren! Eren!" With a most pleasurable cry she clawed at his back, letting out the occasional whimper amidst her helpless moans. And the sight of her clearly feeling satisfied made him smirk, something that she's certain will always make her heart skip a beat. "What?"

"Nothing, you're just ridiculously sexy," He paused when her eyes rolled back in pure bliss and she came hard, slowing his thrusts significantly since he's not quite ready to finish yet. "Seriously, I knew I had to have you as soon as you walked in." Those beautiful eyes opened to his and he offered a heartwarming grin as he leaned in to kiss her once more, thrusting into her deep and slow. She sighed into his mouth, reciprocating his thrusts as she pulled her lips away with a moan and giggled softly, placing a gentle hand on his cheek to touch the prominent dimples she's already loves.

"You look nothing like what I expected."

"What do you mean?"

"You're ridiculously hot.." She grinned as he suddenly took off and slammed into her, his smirk making her belly burn with desire as he stops again, sliding his hands beneath her back to encourage her to roll onto her stomach and she did so slowly, giggling small giggles as he gently pulls her up on all fours by the hips.

"I am?" Eren whispered in her ear as she eagerly spreads her legs for him, his cock still nestled deeply inside. "I'm ridiculously hot?"

"The only other cheif I've met wasn't even close to being attractive. But you are just..." Mikasa grinned when she felt his hands warm hands curve around her slender hips, his kisses slow on her spine and a smirk evident against her skin. "...the complete opposite."

"Last thing I expected when I woke up this morning was a sexy warrior princess to shiw up.” His husky voice whispered to her as he kissed up her back, making the entirety of her fair skin blush a light shade of pink. She moaned at the sound if his voice and pushed herself back against him, making her moan in such a way that he couldn't help but do the same.

"I should have guessed someone as stubborn as you would be a tease.." She purred immediate, pleasurable sounds when he took off and thrusted into her so quickly that neither could think a coherent thought. She slowly slid her arms out until she could rest the side of her face on a pillow, clawing at the sheets and moaning loud whimpers. "Eren! Eren! Eren!"

"Mikasa.." He whispers breathlessly in her ear as she moaned through her climax, slowly pulling her hips back into his and pushing them forward. "I'll help protect your borders if you let me see you again. I assume you're like most princesses and are already engaged or married to another man, but to be honest, I really don't fucking care."

"I don't either, my fiancé is already cheating on me anyway. He even has a kid with her. Wait, you know I'm engaged to someone else, yet you still want to see me again?"

"I'm sorry," Eren's voice was genuine, soft and husky in her ear. "He sounds like an ass. Why are you so surprised that I want to see you again?"

"I didn't think you felt anything between - ah! aha! ah!" She squealed with delight when he suddenly took off and absolutely drilled into her and she loved it. "Oohhh!" Her hips started to tremble and she whimpered pleasurably, white knuckling the sheets as she bounces her hips back against his.

"I can't get enough of you already! Fuck! You're like a drug!" He moaned with her as he dug his fingers into her hips and guided her faster, sending his lover into an equally euphoric state. "I'm gonna cum!" In one swift movement he quickly pulled out at the perfect time and exploded all over her back with countless groans, hisses, and low moans. Eren held onto her tightly as they collapsed together on their sides and made her the little spoon, both hearts thumping hard against their rib cages. She sighed happily and yawned as she reached her hand up to push her damp hair back, already feeling sleepy from the most incredible sex she's ever had. “Damn, you’re incredible.”

"Mmm," Mikasa hummed with a smile and stretched back against him as he kissed any skin he could readily reach. "We need to figure out how to sneak you into my bedchamber.." His embrace is warm and welcoming as they settle beneath the blankets, basking in the heat coming from the fireplace that's giving the now dark room an orange glow. It's safe to assume that an unspoken agreement has been made between the two and that at least this tribe will no longer be of concern, all thanks to the negotiations between a barbarian chieftain and a princess.

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do-your-socks-have-holes-in-them · 6 years ago

Text

Til the End of the Night / Ch2: In which Logan gets rekt

Previous / Masterpost / Next

Summary: Fantasy world! Fantasy outfits! Arguing over Logan's fashion choices! Magic!

Warnings: minor injury, spiraling thoughts

A/N: this is my fic and no one can stop me from devoting 800 words to talking about what the characters are wearing

Read on AO3

Half an hour later, the three sides stood before a portal to the realm of Imagination, each prepared for the trip in his own way. Roman still wouldn’t answer all Logan’s questions, so he’d turned to Google to try and figure out what he should expect of a world based in fantasy. He thought he had a decent idea now, though he would have liked a bit more time. Patton was holding a bag of “supplies,” which no one needed to look inside to know it was really just full of junk food, plus a few bandaids he’d found in a desk drawer and thrown in. To be fair, he’d also remained on the phone with Roman until a few seconds ago to keep him synced with the real world instead of making him wait two weeks in his time, so he’d been a bit distracted. Virgil had his headphones around his neck- not plugged into anything, just there for their own sake- and his hands in the surprisingly deep pockets of his hoodie, making sure his stash of actual emergency snacks and various survival tools he hoped not to need hadn’t fallen out.

The portal was right in front of them, swirling with a dizzying array of bright colors and seeming almost impatient. “Well,” Logan said, straightening his tie and taking a deep breath, “are you both ready?” Virgil gave a small nod. Patton handed Logan his bag, freeing his own hands to take hold of their respective arms so they wouldn’t end up in different places. They walked in together.

For a few seconds, all they could see was a blinding blur of color. (Virgil would have complained if he’d had a mouth at the time.) Their vision cleared gradually, and they found themselves on a hilltop with a good view of the surrounding landscape. The place really was beautiful. The sky was clear, the grass soft and perfectly green, and butterflies danced between the wildflowers that seemed to be everywhere. A soft, sweet-smelling breeze carried the songs of unseen birds. It was… perfect, the way grass and flowers and butterflies should be but never quite live up to in real life. Each tree was the ideal version of a tree. Patton turned in a slow circle, hands pressed to his face, speechlessly taking in the fields, forests and distant mountains. He’d known it would be impressive- it was Roman’s work, after all, and he’d been improving on it for years- but the detail, and the scale of the place… it was beyond anything he could have, well, imagined. He was jolted from his trance when he came full circle and saw the others, standing a little further down the hill, for the first time since going through the portal.

“Well, aren’t you two dressed up!”

Virgil pulled his hood down over his face and groaned. “I know, I look stupid, this was a mistake, I don’t know why I tried…” This was in reference to the fact that he’d turned his hoodie into long, layered mage’s robes in his usual colors, well-worn and repaired in places, with dozens of hidden pockets, sleeves long enough to cover his hands and a thick hood that could block out noise. A scarflike strip of fabric was attached to the hood, settled around his shoulders for now, but able to hide his face if he chose. His shoes had changed, too, into black leather boots that almost reached his knees. He folded his arms and looked away, now embarrassed by the new look he’d evidently put some thought into. “Maybe I should just change back before anyone else sees me.”

“Hey, no, you look really cool,” Patton insisted. “You look like a wizard! A cool wizard! In fact, I can’t i-mage-ine a better fantasy outfit for you.”

Virgil smirked at the pun. “Thanks, Patton.” He pushed his sleeves up to uncover his hands, though they were still mostly hidden by dark purple fingerless gloves that went a third of the way up his arms, and made finger guns toward the third member of their group. “Okay, that’s enough of everybody looking at me, what is Logan wearing?”

Patton turned, blinked and asked, “Um. Logan, what are you wearing?”

Logan finally looked up from his attempt to memorize their surroundings. “Well… I was uncertain of the best way to blend into a ‘fantasy’ setting,” he said, gradually sliding into teacher-mode, “and my research told me stories of the kind Roman favors often take place in medieval time periods. Therefore, I dressed myself in clothing typical to 14th century Europe. This tunic-” he gestured to the item in question, which reached almost to his knees- “is made of wool, as are these chausses, because the fabric makes for good insulation and takes a dye well.” “Chausses” seemed to be the thick… tights?... he was wearing. Both garments were indeed dyed: the chausses were the same blue as the tie he always wore, while the tunic was black and had his emblem around the neck, hem and the ends of its short sleeves in white thread. “And the--”

“Hold up,” Virgil interrupted, “I’m sure this is all fascinating but what is on your feet.”

Patton looked down, and tried (and failed) not to laugh. Logan’s shoes were perfectly normal- short leather boots- but over them… “Platform… sandals?”

“I was wondering why you were so much taller than me,” Virgil remarked.

“They are not sandals,” Logan said stiffly. “They’re called pattens, and--”

“Oh, like-!”

“Yes, like your name, they’re spelled differently, let me finish. They’re wooden platforms designed to strap over shoes and put a few inches between the wearer and the ground, so as to keep their feet dry and protect the leather of the shoes.”

“Well, I do try to lift you up!”

Logan closed his eyes for a moment with a pained expression. Patton just looked pleased with himself. “...Ignoring that remark, as I was saying, undergarments of the period were usually made of linen, which feels much better on the skin than wool, I think you’ll agree.” He gestured to the long-sleeved shirt layered under his tunic, and lifted the edge of said tunic a bit to reveal breeches. Virgil looked horrified, and not for the reasons one might expect.

“Are you, Logan Sanders,” he said in a strangled voice, “wearing shorts tucked into knee-socks?”

“No! I told you, it’s--” He cut himself off with a frustrated noise. “At least I tried! All Patton did was tie a blanket around his shoulders, why don’t you go interrogate him about his clothing choices?”

They both looked over. “It’s a cloak,” Patton corrected cheerfully, spinning in a circle to show it off. It was a lot like his cat hoodie- ears and all- except that instead of a hoodie it was a long cloak, fastened in the front by the topmost of three buttons, with a fluffy white lining. It really did resemble a blanket, and he hadn’t altered the rest of his clothes at all.

“...Still better than whatever nerdy mistake of a new fashion scene you’re trying to invent here.”

“It’s HISTORICALLY ACCURATE!”

Both Virgil and Patton jumped at the sudden volume. Neither had realized how much the dissing of his outfit was actually bothering him, but… now that they thought about it, he did seem to have tried hard on it.

“Okay,” Virgil said, taking a deep breath. “Logan, I’m sorry I made fun of your outfit, even though it was totally justified and I don’t want to be seen with you. Let’s just… start walking and get this over with.”

“Yes, we shouldn’t waste too much time,” Logan agreed. Patton was quietly relieved that he wouldn’t have to break up an argument. They really needed to get Roman back so those two could fight with him and not each other.

They were still forgetting one obvious thing, though. “Um… Guys, which way are we going?”

“Oh.” Virgil frowned. “I don’t know. How are we supposed to know that? Oh this is great, we have no idea where we even are, we’ve been here for like ten minutes and we’re lost.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Patton assured him. “This would be so much easier if we could talk to Roman again, but I’m not getting any signal out here in the middle of nowhere…”

They heard a ringing noise and turned to stare at Logan, who had already started calling. “What?” They only kept staring, and he sighed. “We’re in Thomas’s head, and his room definitely has cell service. There’s no reason to think we wouldn’t.”

Patton blinked at his own phone, which started working again as soon as he absorbed the information. “Oh.”

Roman picked up after a few seconds, and Logan quickly put him on speaker. “Hello? What’s going on, have you still not left?”

“We have,” Logan informed him, “but we need directions. We’re on a hill…”

“It’s so pretty, Roman!” Patton interjected.

“...there’s a wooded area right next to us, mountains in the opposite direction, and a small lake about a mile off equidistant between the two. Do you know where that is?”

“Okay, uh- hold on, let me find something.” There were some worrying crashes from Roman’s end. “How are you even calling me right now? My realm never has any signal, and it sounds like you’re in the middle of nowhere!”

“That’s preposterous, we haven’t actually left Thomas’s house, of course we should be able to call you.”

“Logan decided we could, so we can,” Virgil cut in. “I’m trying not to think about it too hard in case not believing in it makes it go away.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Logan and Roman both said, though for different reasons entirely.

Roman sounded confused, which could not possibly be a good sign. “The Imagination is only supposed to do what I think it should do, and I did not think that.”

“Well, Logan sure did!”

“You’ve never had any of us in here before,” Logan mused. “Maybe anyone can influence their own immediate surroundings, given a strong belief that something can, should, or will happen. We don’t have enough information to know for sure, but it seems likely.”

Patton gasped. “That’s so cool! Logan, you made our phones work!”

“We don’t know for sure,” Logan repeated, although he was smiling faintly. Virgil looked less pleased, but didn’t say anything.

There was one more loud clatter, and Roman announced, “Done! I can see you now!”

“Wait, like, see us see us?” Virgil looked around suspiciously.

“Well, it doesn’t zoom in very far, but I can see little blobs.”

“Oh thank god. Wait, how are you--”

“Magic mirror. I think I recognize the area, let me think… yes! Okay, you’re on the side closer to the trees, right? Turn around and go up the hill, there’s a road at the bottom on the opposite side. Tell me when you see it.”

Logan wasn’t going to let Roman tell him what to do like that, so he waved a hand impatiently at Patton to go do it instead. Patton didn’t mind and ran up the hill to look, but Virgil, offended on his behalf, gave Logan a look and muttered, “Dude.”

“I see it!” Patton called from the top of the hill.

“Patton has reported that--”

“I heard.” Roman sounded disconcerted. “You were right, Logan.”

“What?”

“Don’t take that road- it shouldn't exist and I have no idea where it leads. There was nothing there until I told you there was and you believed it. I doubt the same trick would work again, the realm is smarter than that, but it does prove your theory.”

“This is a highly chaotic way to run things,” Logan grumbled. “But I will admit, the implications are… interesting. Am I right in thinking that the world around us will now be modified by our thoughts and assumptions throughout our time here?”

“You could say that,” Roman agreed. “You could also say nothing and let me explain- seeing as it is my world and all- and then it wouldn’t sound so boring, but we can’t have everything.”

“Boring? I’m helping you learn new things about your realm, how can that be boring?”

“That’s what I was wondering myself, yet somehow you managed!”

“Can we move on?” Virgil snapped. He hadn’t spoken in a while and seemed more tense than usual.

Logan blinked at him, confused by his sudden mood shift. Just a minute ago he’d been fine. “Oh, uh- of course. Roman, please give us some real directions now?”

Roman sighed into the phone to make sure they heard it. “Fine, fine. You two are no fun, I want Patton in charge of the phone again… Make for the small town on the other side of those woods there, to the west. There, you can take a room at the inn and have some time to prepare and ask around for information- I don’t exactly know where I am in relation to you, but I’m sure someone can tell you something. I am the prince, after all, people pay attention to what I do.” His voice took on a dramatic tone as he continued, “It won’t be easy, and you may encounter danger as you forge your path through the wilderness, but I have faith in you!” His plan to improvise an entire inspirational speech was cut short by a loud beep. “Also, my phone is dying, I’ll be watching you through the mirror, good luck!”

There was a click, then nothing. Patton wanted to avoid an awkward silence and started walking, humming to himself, only to be brought up short when Virgil grabbed the back of his cloak.

“West is that way, Pat.”

He looked where Virgil was pointing and saw Logan going in a different direction entirely and looking back over his shoulder to wave at them to catch up. “Oh.”

They reached the woods in a few minutes. Logan was a bit snippy because he kept nearly tripping over his own feet, but to take the pattens off would be to admit they were silly and impractical. Virgil had grabbed Patton’s hand in exasperation to stop him wandering off every time he saw something that looked fun, but Patton rolled with it and linked their fingers together, swinging their hands as he walked. The two of them were following Logan’s lead, since he seemed to know where he was going, and trying not to laugh at his coordination difficulties. The sticks and such on the ground weren’t helping, okay?

Patton suddenly remembered one thing that might be making it harder for him to balance himself. “I can take my bag back now,” he said, smiling sheepishly at the fact that he’d forgotten Logan had it.

“...About that.” Logan slowed so that he was beside them. “I apologize, Patton, but it appears to have changed upon entering the Imagination, along with its contents.” He opened the bag, which was now a black leather satchel with a silver clasp, and the other two saw that it was crammed full of old books, and papers, and glass jars containing things none of them could identify. “This was not a conscious decision on my part, although I can’t deny it seems much more useful than what you originally packed.”

“I guess it’s yours now,” Patton said, obviously disappointed. “Oh well… I bet you’ll be able to do something cool with all that stuff, so maybe it’s a good thing!” Still, he wished his snacks weren’t gone.

“Possibly,” Logan agreed. “I’m planning to spend some time with these books when we reach that town Roman mentioned.”

Virgil didn’t pay much attention to the conversation, content with letting them talk while he looked around. Contrary to Roman’s aborted speech, there was no danger to be seen here. The woods were peaceful- not quiet, which would have been weird, but filled with the rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds. Sunlight filtered through the trees and soaked into his dark clothing, relaxing him. Being who he was, though, he still found things to worry about.

“You’re gonna fall, you know,” he told Logan, who was closing the clasp of his bag and not looking where he was going. “Just take them off.”

“Unlikely,” Logan responded. Virgil gave him a doubtful look. “It’s just a matter of adjusting to the difference in height. Speaking of which, were you always this, uh… small?” To illustrate, he put his hand just above Patton’s head and carefully moved it over. It missed Virgil by a good four inches. The latter flushed and hunched his shoulders, which didn’t help the whole height issue.

Patton nodded- walking next to him, he’d already noticed. “I was going to say something, but I didn’t want to bring it up ‘cause I know he gets embarrassed, but it’s too late now so ohmygosh Virgil you’re so tiny and cute ahhhhh!” He tried to squish Virgil’s face and got pushed away.

“Leave me alone, it wasn’t on purpose,” Virgil groaned, covering his face with his hands.

“Actually, now that I think about it…” Logan looked down at himself, then unstrapped his shoes and stood beside the two of them on ground level. He was still clearly taller than Patton, and a full head above Virgil. “I didn’t intend to change anything either, but my height must have increased.”

“Great, then you don’t need the platform sandals.” Virgil tried to grab the items in question, but Logan saw him coming.

“Yes, I do, my boots could be damaged without them, and they’re pattens.”

“What?” Patton looked up from his appreciation of a flower.

“Not you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care what you call them, you’re going to be damaged if you do wear them.”

Logan strapped the objects of discussion back onto his shoes and started walking again to demonstrate that he could. “See? They barely affect my movement at all.”

“Let’s keep going,” Patton said a little too brightly. They nodded and shot each other apologetic looks, feeling bad for arguing over something so trivial.

Virgil let the conversation end there. If Logan wanted to wear the stupid things so bad, he might as well let him. Unfortunately, his mind was less willing to let go of a idea once it latched on. He hung back a bit and half-listened as Patton rambled to Logan about the flowers he’d collected and Logan rambled back about what real-life flora they most closely resembled. With the half that wasn’t listening, he tried to remember what exactly Logan had done when he’d put the pattens back on. Had he fully secured the straps? Were they tight enough? What if they came loose? They seemed fine, but Virgil did not know much about 14th-century footwear, so he couldn’t really know for sure, could he?

They’d been walking for a while now. Patton had made himself a flower crown and was now working on two more for the others. Nothing had gone wrong yet, but Virgil’s mind told him that only meant it was bound to happen soon. Vaguely, he knew he probably should have said something a few minutes ago instead of keeping it to himself until his thoughts ran away with him, but it was too late now. Logan was going to get hurt, he was sure of it, and it would be partly his fault for not arguing harder. Even if everything was properly secured, he would trip over something he didn’t see on the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a quick shake in an attempt to snap himself out of that train of thought, pushing away the images his brain tried to give him of worst-case scenarios. His eyes shot open again when he heard the real Logan’s sudden shout of pain.

Virgil rushed to where he was now sprawled on the ground a few feet away, expecting the worst- something broken, maybe. Patton was already kneeling next to him, asking if he was okay. Logan assured them he was mostly unharmed, gathering himself into a sitting position and examining a long cut on his right arm from a sharp rock. Virgil exhaled slowly, relieved. Then his fear, with nowhere to go, turned to anger.

“I told you! I told you this would happen and you wouldn’t listen to me because you think you’re always right!” His voice wavered, and Patton knew he was only yelling because Logan had scared him. He saw Logan about to make a retort and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

Logan looked at Patton’s face and relented. “You… I’ll admit it, Virge, you were right this time. I thought it wouldn’t be a problem and I was… wrong. But I’m not badly hurt and I’ll take your concerns more seriously next time.” He gave a slight reassuring smile, and Virgil relaxed a bit. “Could you see if there are any bandages in here for me? It’s not serious, but I still shouldn't leave this exposed.” He could have looked for them himself, but he was busy unstrapping the pattens from his shoes, and in any case Virgil looked like he needed to feel useful.

“Hm… nerd stuff, weird powders, more nerd stuff… oh, here, there’s like a first aid kit wrapped up in cloth.” There were more things in Logan’s bag than it looked like it should fit, but Virgil chose not to call it out on that. He unwrapped the cloth and started sorting through the supplies.

Meanwhile, Patton was fussing over Logan’s arm despite his protests. “Aw, you poor thing, does it hurt?”

“Well, yes, somewhat, but I really don’t think this is necessary, it’s only--”

He cut himself off in shock. Virgil looked up and stopped as well. As soon as Patton touched the cut, a soft sky-blue glow emanated from both his hand and Logan’s arm, and the injury closed up like it had never existed. He gasped. There were a few seconds of stunned silence.

“I suppose we don’t need to waste our supplies on my arm now,” Logan said distantly. It was the only coherent thing he could think of. He was at least doing better than Virgil, who only managed, “Whoa.”

Patton stared at his own hands, eyes wide. “I have magic powers.”

They couldn’t sit there all day being surprised, of course. The sun was getting low in the sky already. Logan helped Virgil wrap the first aid kit back up and tucked it back into his bag, by which time Patton had collected himself enough to get up and follow them. If he was quieter than usual, well, it had been a long day and a lot of walking, he was probably tired. And if he pulled his cloak around himself and kept his right arm out of sight, well… maybe he was cold. There was a cool breeze coming in, bringing a hint of rain. With luck, they would reach the town before dark.

#sanders sides #platonic lamp #patton sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #my post #my writing #til the end of the night

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p-redux · 6 years ago

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Better Late Than Never!

Soooo, I finally got around to watching the last episode of Outlander--and I liked it! I know some people didn’t, so I was expecting it to not be that great, but I had no problems with it. Here are my off the cuff initial impressions:

1. Sophie--damn, girl is killing it this season as Bree. It’s obvious she got some acting coaching and dialect coaching and it has PAID off. She OWNED this episode, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her every time she was on screen. And she held her own against the one and only acting tour de force, one fine, Mr. Tobias Menzies. Kudos!

2. I had NO problem with the Bree at Leghair’s house storyline, and I thought the juxtaposition of Leghair being so sweet and welcoming to Bree at first, but then turning into the “even at 50 she’ll be a lassie” that we all knew was still there was a great dramatic touch. I love watching Nell’s eyes bug out when she gets mad, and especially when she refers to Claire as a “wetch,” and “whoor.” Makes me giggle hard, hahaha.

3. THAT juxtaposition nicely mirrored the same good cop/bad cop act we saw from Bonnett. He uses his good looks, faux charm to reel people in and let their guards down (soothing the crying baby with a finger tip of whisky for example. On the surface it lulls people into thinking he’s kind, but in reality it was all self-serving. He doesn’t want an inconsolable bairn on board annoying him) and then BOOM, “surprise, folks, I’m really an evil arsehole!” when he threw the girl over board and when he gave Roger an impossible choice. It made the rest of his nefarious behavior have even more of an impact, both for the characters dealing with him, but also for the audience watching.

4. Back to my Tobs for a second. TBH, I didn’t really pay attention to any of his plot line with Bree because I was mesmerized by THAT voice, as per usual. All I did during his scenes is stare at his dry lips (the sexiest dry lips evah) and listened to him TALK. The words were irrelevant. Just keep talking, Tobs, yeah that’s it, right there, don’t stop. *dreamy sigh* I need to go change my panties now. :-)

5. Anyhoo, where was I? Oh that's right, back to my rambling review...I was disappointed Jenny wasn’t part of the episode, but I thought Ian meeting Bree instead was almost as satisfying. I got a wee misty eyed, tbh. I was fine with it, and didn’t feel let down, the way I did when the Jamie seeing pictures of Bree for the first time was so royally screwed up. And I loved how he let her know that she was a Fraser through and through and that Jamie would be excited to meet her. Oh, and surprisingly, I didn’t miss Jamie and Claire in this episode. The episode held my attention the whole time without them in it.

6. Okay, so I need a few paragraphs for my thoughts on Roger...and the crimes against humanity that the Outlander costume and hair department have committed on him, and by extension on Rik Rankin. I know this topic is polarizing. There is a big portion of Roger/Rik fans who are INCENSED by the way Roger is being portrayed on the show. And then there are people who don’t really have a problem with how different show Roger is from book Roger. Well, after this episode, I’m firmly in the former category.

Let me start by saying, WTF were they thinking putting those ridiculous culottes on him? Those look like what a teen boy would wear who grew a foot over the summer, and his mommy didn’t buy him new clothes and he had to go to the first day of school wearing flooders, looking like a dope. There are not enough words to describe my hate of those culottes. Bad, so bad.

Then we go up past the culottes to the layers and layers and layers of vests, sweaters, coats, and who knows what else they’ve piled on him, succeeding in making him look like a lumpy gnome. Roger Mackenzie is not a gnome! So then we get the “We are being historically accurate” arguments. Weeellll, Jamie Fraser is dressed historically accurately and he looks FINE AS FUCK. So, obviously you can choose historically accurate costumes that make your subject look like the kind of character who will carry you into his log cabin, lay you down by a roaring fire, pour you a “wee dram” and whisper “To bed or to sleep?” OR you can have him be the kind of historically accurate who looks like the Michelin man, and he wouldn’t even whisper sweet nothings to you in French, FFS.

It’s a CHOICE someone made *I’m side eyeing YOU, Terry D., despite under the bus throwing of colleagues that occurred on Twitter* And this CHOICE is going to be distracting as hell for the rest of the season. So, let’s hope in Season 5 someone figures out Roger’s hair needs to look more like the Bee Gees circa 1970 and not the abomination we have this season. AND his clothes need to look like the sexy professor who wears tweed blazers, and slim corduroy slacks and eye fucks you the whole semester, but you don’t actually fuck until AFTER you pass his class, and he happens to call you “now that you’re no longer my student, lass” and you meet for coffee to discuss the “symbolism” in Burns works and then, well yeah, then you go back to his flat to look at his “etchings.” *ahem* Not that I would have any first hand experience of anything resembling that. *whistles innocently* But, I digress. You get my point. Roger needs to be HOT. Goddammit. Hot and smart. Hot and smart can, and do go together. I repeat, HOT AND SMART. This Pillsbury Dough situation needs to be remedied and STAT.

Okay, I’m out of breath, gotta go finish Christmas shopping, and wrapping,and sadly I won’t be able to watch tonight’s episode early due to holiday festivities, but I CANNOT WAIT!

#outlander #rikrankin #richardrankin #whathavetheydoneman #sophieskelton #samheughan #caitrionabalfe #nellhudson #stevencree #tobiasmenzies

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turtlessuggest · 7 years ago

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Beastfolk: Ophidian

Inspired by the snake class list, here’s my take on a D&D race inspired by these animals.

Snake - Ophidian

“The sun above warms all that lies beneath it's gaze. So too must you be a light for those around you, warming the kind, the noble, and the just. Light the way for others, and your path shall become as clear as day.”

The elf Silverstem had to admit, he’d never known the Yuan Ti to fight amongst themselves. They were an evil on the world, yes, but a united evil. Yet here before him, in the middle of the steaming jungle, seemed to be a fight to the death between two of them. One was the viper who had injured him, a sickly green serpent wielding a pair of black blades, each dripping with the poison that was now beginning to sear the elf’s veins.

The other… well the other didn’t look like any Yuan Ti Silverstem had seen. Its scales gleamed with the warm colors of the rising sun, from the tip of its tail to the head atop its surprisingly long neck. Its armor, its sword, and its shield glowed even brighter, shining as the midday sun above them. It almost reminded Silverstem of a paladin from his own lands.

As their blades clashed, the two hissed at each other in harsh Draconic. Silverstem couldn’t make out their words, but even as sharp as a normal Draconic conversation was, it was clear they were not trading friendly banter.

In a flash of movement, it was over, The sun colored snake person feigned enough to gain an opening in the green one’s defenses, slammed its shield into the maw of the other Yuan Ti, and while it was dazed drove its blade through the green serpent’s chest. With one final yelp, the green Yuan Ti collapsed to the ground, its chest wound sizzling from the heat of the blade.

The sun colored Yuan Ti then turned to face Silverstem. He couldn’t help but recoil, despite it intervening to slay the Yuan Ti that had poisoned him. Perhaps it simply wished to have the honor of slaying him for itself, or perhaps to drag him off to some eldritch ritual site. Many were the grim tales that made their way out of the Yuan Ti’s jungles.

But neither blade nor foul magics came. Instead, Silverstem felt a gentle warmth around his poisoned wound, the burning in his veins easing. He looked beyond his upflung hands to see the snake person bent over him, its three fingers hands alight with healing energy.

“I am Ssetherion, Sun Blade of Kha, Whose Eye Is The Sun,” the snake person said in what seemed to be heavily accented Common, its unblinking eye briefly meeting Silverstem’s gaze before returning to the poisoned wound. “I am an Ophidian. You are safe now.”

Often mistaken for the cruel former humans known as the Yuan Ti, the Ophidians are a world apart from the evil snake people they resemble. For one, they were never human. Their true origins are unclear, as their legends point to a creation event by their primary god Kha, the eldest, kindest, and wisest serpent who shaped them from flowing streams of water infused with sunlight, while other scholars point to the possibility of them evolving from Awakened snakes. In any case, it is clear that they and the Yuan Ti only resemble each other superficially.

Most of the Ophidian body is made up of long, winding coils, serving as their locomotion with either horizontal slithering or undulations of their underscales. The part of their body that is most often raised up above the ground houses a torso, two long arms, and a long neck ending in a snake-like head. Ophidians possess impressive sets of inward facing teeth, some even possessing venomous fangs. They possess two fingers and an opposing thumb, each tipped with short, stubby claws, more useful for gripping than for use as weapons. Their bodies are covered in scales, varying wildly in color and pattern, but generally giving them some natural protection against the elements and enemies. Like snakes, they do not blink, having their eyes covered by a clear scale that allows them to sleep with their eyes open and protect them against potentially blinding elements. They also possess a special organ in their mouths which allows them to effectively “taste the air” with their forked tongues in a manner more accurate than smelling.

Ophidian territories stretch across the equatorial regions of the world, from dense jungles to open savannahs to harsh deserts. What holdings they have in more temperate areas tend to be centered around places with volcanic activity or hot springs. As a naturally cold-blooded species they make use of such locations to help regulate their body temperature. Those who travel alone to colder climes often have their clothing enchanted to emit and retain heat. If robbed of this in sufficiently cold environments, an Ophidian might go into involuntary hibernation. The settlements themselves are often bright, beautiful places, full of white marble and warm colored mosaics framed with hanging gardens.

The culture of these reptilian beings, while perhaps not quite as alien as one might expect, does come with some odd caveats. Meal times, for instance, are rarely an occasion for prolonged conversation. Since Ophidians swallow most of their food whole by way of unhinging their jaws, dinners are often relatively swift and silent, a brief pause before returning to a parlor or sun room to further discuss things. These meals also tend to be infrequent: an Ophidian can last quite a while on a single large meal, sometimes a whole week. This, understandably, caused some culture shock for the first few mammalian ambassadors to Ophidian lands, who often had to badger the cooks for more than a single turkey every week. This was compounded by the fact that their provided birds still had feathers.

A quick side note: despite some dark rumors, the food the Ophidians consume is not still alive when it is on their plate. Such a meal might cause internal damage should it squirm or claw too much in their digestive tract. They don’t often outright cook their food, however, preferring to coat their morsels in spices and oils before consumption. Rodents and fowl are frequently consumed both at home and abroad, and large eggs are highly prized delicacies.

Much of Ophidian culture is centered around conversation and friendly debate. While mealtimes are brief, the time afterwards for letting the food settle is often lengthy and reserved for lounging and talking, as is the time waiting for the food to be prepared. Families will often gather at home to talk at length of their day at the setting of the sun. Nobles will often gather in glittering mansions for days to discuss the plights of their subjects and how to better govern their holdings. Even their clergy, the sun priests, are not above such talks, debating the meaning of omens and the will of their gods late into the night.

Because of this innate need to learn and talk, Ophidians are naturally curious creatures. Though many are fairly ignorant of the customs of mammalian species, they do do their best to abide by them to the best of their ability. Most often a faux pax isn’t necessarily a disgrace, but merely an opportunity to refine one’s knowledge of another culture. For more lawfully aligned, prideful, and/or rule-centric peoples, this attitude may occasionally be frustrating.

Of course, there are some rules that tend to be viewed rather seriously among Ophidians. It may seem odd to other peoples, but touching of an Ophidian’s upper jaw muscles, often referred to as the Soft Parts by their own kind, is an intense taboo reserved only for those the Ophidian in question is either nest-mates with or knows extremely well. Unwarranted touching of this part of their heads is often met with revulsion, heavy embarrassment, sometimes even brief violence. Due to this sensitivity and they're squishyness, some humans have taken to calling them “headboobs".

The faith of the Ophidians is centered around the god they believe to be their creator. Kha, often referred to reverently as Kha, Whose Eye Is The Sun, is believed to have provided the light of day by sacrificing his own eye so the world may not live in the chill of night. He is said to have made the Ophidians themselves, and as such the most glorious temples in their lands are dedicated to him. He taught them to be a guiding light for others, to make the world a greater, brighter place with the light he gave them. Glowing crystals and polished mirrors bathe his places of worship in light and warmth. Next to him is often seated Nagal, Whose Mind Ever Flourishes, serpent goddess of wisdom and curiosity. It was in her that Ophidians found a thirst for knowledge about the world and people around them, and as such her temples often near the glory of Kha’s. Opposing these two pillars of Ophidian society is Mierfrost, Whose Breath Is Winter, a demonic snake of unfathomable length who, as his name suggests, exudes cold and darkness wherever he goes. The dark serpent’s name is uttered only as an implied curse upon him, usually followed by spitting on the ground to rid the Ophidian of the taste of his foul name.

Ophidian courtship is largely unknown, though whispers seem to indicate the involvement of intricate dances and intertwining when relationships get more serious. Marriages are often grand affairs, initiated by a cleric or paladin beneath a sacred carved crystal referred to as an “Eye of Kha”. Due to their long lives reproduction tends to be infrequent, but when it happens, 3-6 eggs are usually laid per clutch. These eggs are kept within a soft nest within the home, tended to by both parents, till the baby Ophidians hatch after about 2-3 months.

Ability Score Increase: +1 Strength, +1 Wisdom, +1 Intellect

Alignment: On lawfulness, Ophidians tend to be more neutral, as they see no rule as unworthy of debate or further investigation. They tend to be good in accordance with the teachings of Kha.

Age: Ophidians are very long lived, reaching maturity at around 30-40 years of age and living well into their 300s.

Speed: Your base walking speed is 30 feet.

Size: In total, adult Ophidians tend to be 25 feet or more in length, though the roughly front quarter tends to be held upright for a height of 5 to 6 feet, leaving the remainder to trail behind to use as locomotion. Their long neck tends to be coiled back at rest at this height or held ahead of the body and can be raised for an additional few feet of height. For all intents and purposes, your size is Medium.

Languages: Ophidians are able to read and write in Common, Draconic, and Nagalese, their native language named after the Ophidian wisdom goddess. Nagalese is a flowing, surprisingly elegant language.

Eye of Kha: The Ophidian eye is covered by a clear scale, preventing them from blinking but protecting them from blinding elements. They’re also used to beholding bright light from the temples dedicated to Kha. Ophidian are immune to being blinded by anything that doesn’t either directly block light from coming into the eye, something that pierces the protective scale, or something that changes the nature of the eye itself.

Climbing Coils: You gain a +1 to climbing rolls due to your unique body and method of locomotion.

Taste The Air: Due to a specialized organ in your mouth, you are able to taste the air, sharply increasing your ability to locate and track various scents. You gain +1 perception as well as +2 on tracking rolls where scent is the determining factor.

Bite: You may lash out with your teeth at an unarmored target with your fangs for 1d6 +5 piercing damage. Doing this to an armored target will permanently damage your teeth, rendering you unable to use this ability again until healed.

Scale Armor: You gain +1 natural armor due to your coating of scales.

Cold Vulnerability: As they are exothermic, Ophidian bodies slow down and become less effective in cold temperatures. Physical rolls are done at a disadvantage unless the Ophidian has a way to warm themselves. Single target frost spells are too limited to achieve this effect, but larger scale spells like Sleet or Ice Storm may trigger this effect unless the Ophidian is wearing something that gives off heat.

Aside from these abilities, you may replace any of them, save Cold Vulnerability and Eye of Kha, with one of the following:

Venomous Fangs: Your fangs are not only sharp, they’re venomous. Successful bites can inflict the Poisoned condition on your opponent. You can also coat your weapons in this venom for the same effect. This can only replace the Bite ability

Venom Spit: Your fangs are venomous, but not for biting. You may spray you venom at one target or two targets that are close to each other. The target or targets must succeed at a dexterity saving throw, or they are blinded 1d6 hours. You may cast this only once per long or short rest. This can only replace the Bite ability

Kha’s Light: You are able to cast the Light cantrip at will

Serpent Body Fighting: Your mastery over your long body allows you to lunge further in combat. Your natural reach is that of the next highest size class.

Constriction: When grappling, your target is Restrained. You can only target one enemy in this way.

#long post #animal class lists #fun fact part way through doing this I accidentally started writing Ophiucan instead of Ophidian #d&d

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encomiium · 4 years ago

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Five Thoughts an Archangel Has Throughout His Day 6 July 2020 Quintus

i. Promise you’ll be there to see it?

The thought echoed on the end of a dream. A tall boy with curly black hair smiled sadly, either endeared or pitiful, Quintus would never really know. He opened his mouth to answer, but his words were eclipsed by the blaring honk of an airhorn bellowing in repetitive staccato.

Quin fought to open his eyes through the fog of a sweet dream, staring at the phone on his nightstand screeching repeatedly for a few moments before rallying the fortitude to tap the big orange snooze button. Nine minutes--enough time, he thought, to fall back into such a sweet dream. He focused on flashes of golden lamplight frozen in droplets, clinging to bronze skin, heavy-lidded eyes framed with long, feathery lashes, a laugh like far-away thunder.

Although he made a valiant effort, his eyes opened again before his second alarm sounded. He didn’t dream very often anymore, but the little glimpses into memories he’d thought had long been lost to the haze of time were welcome surprises, albeit jarring and disorienting at times. Dreaming was among the few human habits Quintus actually liked about his fleshly vessel, along with napping and food. Others, he wished he could have gone without when he was chosen for earthly tasks. It’d be nice not to feel sadness or anger--or anything at all--like his brothers who had only ever known the heavenly void.

He stood and, although his body would be preserved in pristine condition for the foreseeable and increasingly uncertain future, everything felt metaphorically heavy. Emotional aging could be as painful as physical aging, if any of the poets had lived long enough to describe it. He pressed his palms to the ceiling, stretching high as he yawned into an orange sunrise peeking through long silver buildings and stretching out over criss-crossing roads already crowding with traffic.

He recalled the dream, once more, only to soothe the ache of his painfully quiet apartment, if just for a little while.

ii. Don’t.

Quin knew it wasn’t fair, but he did think of Isaac. Often. He wondered if he was alright, if he was eating enough, if he was still reading that silly romance book or if he had finished it already. He replayed their last night together over and over in his head, wondering endlessly how any man could be so kind, so generous. He didn’t deserve Isaac’s grace or forgiveness--he didn’t deserve Isaac at all. He worried his lip, knowing that no amount of blessings whispered into Isaac’s skin or clothes could ever be penance enough for the pain he caused.

Quin stared at his phone, a short “How are you?” sitting over his keyboard. With a few taps, he deleted it and closed the app, deciding that it would be unkind--cruel--to force Isaac into shouldering the emotional load of making Quin feel better. He was a selfish prince whose entire existence could be boiled down to endless broken promises. He could at least make a vague effort to keep his promise to Isaac, that when he was ready, Quin would be there.

Wiping his hand over his face, he glanced at the clock hanging over the large bookshelf stuffed with unorganized copies of ancient classics and bins of papers he really needed to get rid of. Ten minutes was just enough time to abuse the faculty keurig in the department office for the third time that morning.

“That tall body needs a lot of caffeine to get started huh?”

Renee, the department secretary, made some variation of that same joke at least twice a week, three years running. At first, Quin thought she was passive-aggressively warning him to stop using up all the K-cups, but he stopped caring shortly after. He didn’t get paid nearly enough to care about his students and the office supply of shitty Starbucks French Roast. Renee would have to pick one or the other.

He gave her a half-hearted smile and a hollow laugh before grabbing his grey hydroflask thermos from under the Keurig.

iii. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the--

“Sorry, Jaxson, but I thought you were writing about the, uh--” Quintus frantically rifled through papers strewn over his desk, all of the students practically boring holes in him with their stare as he interrupted a student’s presentation. After a few moments, his heart beating against his fucking forehead, Quin pulled out his list of student thesis proposals and read from it, “--the ‘Evolution of Queerness Over Different Translations of the Patroclus myth?’”

Jaxson looked surprised, swallowing a nervous lump as he turned towards Quin, “I was, but then I started researching further into potential historical origins for the Achilles and Patroclus story and I really couldn’t find anything--”

“So--” Quin tried to interrupt, panicking.

“Until,” Jaxson continued, his eyes lit up, like they always did when he stumbled upon something marvelous or had a great idea he would hurriedly jot down in his tiny pink moleskine. Some days, Quintus wished all his students had Jaxson’s passion and drive. Today was not one of those days.

Jaxson’s voice filled the room as he confidently sent Quintus into an out-of-body fugue state, “Until I found this really obscure story about a real Roman prince and his lover, dated more than a thousand years before the first recordings of the Achilles and Patroclus story--with striking resemblances--and I decided to write a piece arguing that this historical event could definitely have inspired an iconic myth!” Jaxson looked like he’d just won grand prize at the Putnam County fucking Spelling Bee, before softening just a bit, “I just--couldn’t find any academic papers already written on this topic and wanted to write something original. Is that okay?”

Quintus drew in a breath, wildly calculating some bullshit way to invalidate a proposal that was better than most--if not all--of the class’s work. He looked out over the students, all of whom were suddenly riveted by Jax’s research, and he knew there was no way he could get away with pulling the you-didn’t-clear-this-with-me routine. One girl with pink hair and baby bangs practically dared Quin to say anything that could even be remotely interpreted as homophobic.

With a quiet sigh, Quin threw on his best poker-face and relaxed back into his chair, though his stomach churned and threatened to expel all of Renee’s shitty keurig coffee with a vengeance if he listened to a moment of this presentation. “Sorry, sounds like a great topic,” he fluttered, attempting to sound as encouraging and chipper as humanly possible, “Please continue.”

Jaxson went on to weave a beautiful--and surprisingly accurate--tale about the tragedy of Quintus Aurelius and his lover, Antonius. Truth be told, he had always wondered if Achilles and Patroclus were only coincidentally adjacent to his own story, and Jaxson made a convincing argument in refute, but as stunning as Jaxson was in front of his slideshow, Quin couldn’t stop himself from flickering his attention to his class, watching their reactions to his life, to his story.

Many of the women sighed wistfully, even as Jaxson spared no gory detail, a few of the men watched in earnest, truly amazed that in their many years of study (please), they hadn’t come across this particular story. Quintus had always been thankful for the anonymity, but Jaxson, bless him and his big ol’ brain, seemed hellbent on making sure everyone knew about the day that sentenced two souls to an eternity in purgatory.

Quintus felt ill, his entire body was cold and wracked with shivers every time Jaxson so much as mentioned Antonius. He really did think he might puke. “He was a dedicated and loyal soldier, and even moreso as a lover,” Jaxson mused, flipping through slides with busts and pottery images of the two of them. Quintus couldn’t look at them, instead focusing on swallowing down the bile that kept creeping up his throat, trying desperately to tune out Jaxson and focus on the very interesting grain in the wood of his desk.

“The battle on the Danube with the Marcomanni was supposed to be pretty routine; a defense rally against Germanic invaders to protect Roman colonies,” Jaxson continued, his eyes trained on a rudimentary map of the area. Quintus grit his teeth and swallowed, eyeing the door for an escape, wondering if it would be rude, wondering if he cared at all, but Jaxson was relentless.

“Quintus and Antonius, as his Captain, overpowered the Germans with relative ease,” he switched slides to one of the many paintings of Achilles mourning Patroclus’s death. This one, however, was horrifically and eerily familiar. “Quintus met with the German general to accept surrender, which usually included their beheading, but Quintus is recorded to have been a remarkably kind and merciful leader.”

“Fuck,” Quin breathed, the word sharp and hot on his lips as he leaned forward on his knees, praying with everything he had for someone to draw him out of his body, out of his shame.

“Quintus did not behead the German general, and chose to spare his life, taking his sword as a trophy instead. Just as he turned to order for the man’s arrest, the German grabbed a nearby sword from one of his fallen soldiers and drove it through Quintus’s heart.”

The class fell silent. Quintus was silent. To the class, it looked like their professor took a moment to scratch his beard on his shoulder. Most didn’t even see it. None would see the wetness he left on his button-down shirt.

Jaxson finished his presentation with ease, detailing Antonius’s long life alone on the cliffs. Questions rolled in from the students about why they were left out of history, about the validity of his sources, and maybe more that Quintus wasn’t listening to. He’d completely phased out of the class, staring at his desk, fixated on the memory of watching Antonius sob in his tiny cottage over the sea when he tried to reach out to him and tell him it was okay to move on.

The sound of the class laughing snapped Quin back to attention, looking around for some clue about what was so funny. Maybe if he joined in on the joke, this would all go away.

“I said,” said one of the boys in the back, wearing a faded blue beanie and a shirt that said Why was Oedipus against profanity? Because he kisses his mother with that mouth. “That guy kinda looks like Professor Reilly.” Quin looked up at the last slide in Jaxson’s presentation, which pictured a bust of the late Quintus Aurelius. Quin didn’t have the slightest idea of when that could have been carved.

He laughed along, a little too enthusiastically, because in that moment, he realized he’d always just be Quin Reilly, Professor of Classics to these regrettably short lives.

He stood up, adjusting his pants to sit higher on his waist and shrugging, “Curse of being a white guy, huh? You end up looking like all the other white guys.” The class laughed menially before Quin motioned for Jax to take a seat, “Nice job, Jax, thank you. I’m excited to read your paper,” he lied.

iv. I need a fucking drink.

A very clear and loud thought that occured while he collapsed into his office chair. He turned to look out of his obnoxiously large windows across the quad, watching students filter in and out of the massive antique gothic building--one of the oldest on campus and ironically housing Classics and English. At least his windows were pretty.

He read the same page from a freshman Intro to Classics paper over and over, trying to decipher what this poor child could possibly want to tell him, almost making a game of it in his head as he agonized through the final minutes of his office hours. He just wanted to abandon the facade of a normal human being, flap his wings, and fall into his bed. He deserved it, heavenly duties be damned for just one day.

And then his phone vibrated.

Anything could be more interesting than this probably plagiarized drivel parading as an essay on Homer, so Quin picked up his phone and almost immediately leapt out of his chair with a sudden rush of adrenaline when he read the notification.

“Would you like to go on a walk together?”

He hadn’t even gathered the strength to name the contact yet, but he spent enough time staring at the number to know exactly who it was from. He paced around his office, stopping in the mirror once to look himself over before tapping a quick reply, “Yeah, now?” He deleted that quickly before trying again, “Where should I meet you?” He almost threw his phone against the wall.

“Absolutely.” He hit send before he could second guess himself and amended quickly with a follow-up message, “Any time, just let me know when.”

He stared at the screen for what felt like hours as his pulse hammered in his ears. When he saw the three dots pop up from the other side of the screen, he already started rifling through his office closet for a nicer shirt and his extra bottle of cologne.

v. Kiss him.

The thought was loud and violent and Quintus almost flinched from the sheer force of it. Their walk had been so beautiful, anything with Fér was hauntingly beautiful. Quin found it surprisingly easy to call his Antonius by a new name; from the moment he saw him in that museum, looking around with the eyes of a child, still, Quintus knew he would love this man just as he is. Exactly who he is.

They had settled on the lakeshore together, in the sand, watching the sunset, on a blanket Quin pulled out of thin air. He didn’t do it to show off--maybe a little--but he did want to acclimate Fér to the reality that none of this is normal. Maybe, in a small way, Quin was trying to assure Fér that it was okay to feel a little freakish right now, that it was okay for none of this to make sense, as long as they were doing it together, after so long.

Quin couldn’t help the doubts. He had always been such a thorough thinker, marking his moves a thousand feet in front of him, analyzing every possibility at every turn, so he worried, as he did so often for everyone he was responsible for. He worried most, however, that Fér might not love him in this life. That, despite the memories flooding back in the most catastrophic way, Fér might even hate Quin for everything that’s happened, for everything he caused.

But then Fér looked up at him and smiled gently, the pinks of the sunset catching the silver flecks at his temple, and he breathed, “This is really nice.”

Kiss him.

Quintus forced himself to duck his head and swallow. The sheer want for it was enough to burn at his lashes, a pit forming deep in his gut. He cleared his throat and smiled, nodding, “It is really nice, thank you for this.” And he really meant it. He took a moment to look at Fér and really took in his features. Fér looked the way Quin dreamed of when he was small, when he created tiny hopes in the secret places in his chest, that when all the work was done, he might be able to just stare at his Antonius for a moment, and for the rest of his life.

He remembered that he was thankful, as he breathed his last breath, that the last thing he ever saw were those pretty brown eyes, the color of charcoal stained into fingertips.

“Can I walk you home?” Quin asked, the ferocious heat of his thought dissipating as the Chicago cold began biting with the threat of the setting sun. Almost as if on cue, the two of them irrevocably linked by some cosmic force Johnny might have a sweet chuckle at, Fér shivered.

Standing, Quintus held out a hand to easily lift Fér onto his feet. He hesitated, for a moment, before slipping his hand out of Fér’s, grieving the loss of it and trembling at how incredibly right it felt, how easy and perfect. Instead, he slipped out of his coat and placed it over Fér’s shoulders, barely giving him the opportunity to protest. “You should have worn something warmer if you didn’t want me to fuss over you,” he said with a grin, trying to provoke a laugh, a smile, anything more than awkwardness and overt effort in what they were trying to build.

And Fér did smile. He did accept the coat, with what seemed like a bit of embarrassed resignation. Quintus made another promise that moment, one that he really hoped he would keep. A promise that he wouldn’t stop until Fér believed that Quintus could make him happy, if he had to burn the world down to do it.

#oh im so clumsy #so very clumsy #gen:drabble #d:quintus aurelius #quintus;fér

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empressxmachina · 4 years ago

Link

--Also on Wattpad--

Mouse Trap, pt. 2

“You found me. It’s only fair if I do the same.”

More mess drained from Lauren’s lips, staining her clothes through to her skin, yet her physical self didn’t feel as unclean as her mental state. She had dabbled in hacking jobs every now and then because money is money, after all. So, it was always a little more likely to come around back to her, a la karma. However, because of the supreme privacy under which she generally kept herself – encryptions, aliases, and locks galore – the idea that someone found her was impossible to put into words.

As a joke, they would’ve been concerning enough, but the handfuls of words on her monitor carried much weight within them. While Lauren got her gigs, she never pushed for people to come to her. She wanted offers and advertised, yes, but never strived for anyone directly. Word of mouth without a face to put it somehow did well for her. On top of that, with how reserved she was, engaging new relationships, platonic or otherwise, was never in mind.

Every sign pointed to supreme severity and only one nauseatingly fitting answer.

A shaky silence, only cut from more smoothie dribbles contacting the floor, endured for a few moments before the monitor spoke to her again, clearing out its first, discomforting message,

“Are you still there?”

Despite it yearning for her existence, Lauren had slight relief knowing that the mystery interlocutor wasn’t listening in through her multiple mics or peeping through her collection of cameras. But a glance at her desk showed her lattice-leaking glasses and her multipurpose watch still on the same connection as her computer, even though they didn’t have to be.

Her ways of apparently extra-planetary exploration were linked to her most private of personal pieces. Her presence was evident with them. Lauren’s eyes expanded. No wonder she was found. They… it… he found her. How long had she been detected?

Why come out of hiding now?

“Don’t bother hiding if you are,” the messenger dictated, practically reading Lauren’s mind, causing her to re-question her lack of being tapped with every word. “Besides the fact I know where you are, I’m not going to hurt you. It’d be such a shame to eradicate an aberration before knowing if it could bring me some use.”

Surprisingly, or probably not, the envoi’s assurance wasn’t very assuring. Along with being unsafe, it wasn’t very personifying, classifying Lauren as a number she’d throw around on a chart or something. Who was he to say how she lived her life? Though, if his visage was a mirror rather than a magnifier, then who was she to fight it and him?

He detailed, adding to the tension, “I just want to see what I’m dealing with here.” His particular word usage was concerning; however, learning why it was didn’t seem like a good idea. “Though, technically, that’s inaccurate.”

‘Huh?’ Lauren couldn’t help expressing some confusion, though silent in form. Her head cocked at the latter clarification, curious as to why such a seemingly sagacious source would admit fault.

She soon found out he hadn’t.

After a moment of stagnant staring, his sans-serif message popped off the screen, returning to a relatively standard state and the reappearance of her mouse cursor. Lauren stood in her puddle of punch, waiting for anything to occur within the dark void of her monitor for minutes, but nothing happened. Her pointer just floated in the center alone, just like she was.

For some reason, Lauren wasn’t committed to believing that. The crater on the other side of the river and all of its calamity were still being dealt with. It’s rather difficult to count the number of lost lives in a town when the said town was wiped off the map – literally written off by a pen. Knowing such damage came from so little, Lauren couldn’t help but wonder if anything else in the world had origins as outstanding, all the while holding regrets for being unable to believably explain why.

Believably. As valid as this was, what person in their right mind would willingly believe… this?

Could Lauren willingly walk away from it if she tried, now that she knows?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” a new message suddenly popped on the screen, lingering chillingly before being replaced by, “I just want to see the new source of potential with which I’ve been presented.”

Lauren attempted to rationalize, never having heard such a word blend that wasn’t physics-based. ‘“Source of potential?” Do… Does he mean me?’

The disembodied speaker answered that himself. “No, that’s not entirely accurate, either.” So, she was in the clear… except in the head. The repetition of extraneous considerations helped nothing. “What I want to do with you is hard to put to words,” he continued cryptically, still helping nothing, “but this shouldn’t be.”

Obviously, there was no reason for Lauren to know anything about this distant, dominant, puppet master messing with her. But if he was into puzzles, then she wouldn’t be surprised. The complications of her and him existing with their extreme magnitude difference were enough of a mystery of their own. What would be a few with her? As she imagined what he would throw at her next, he brought it to her on a silver platter, beginning with another message,

“After all, I…”

The use of an ellipsis was an unexpected sight. Lauren knew well enough that it implied there was more to be said, but to intentionally break up thought was both intriguing and sickening. To add to the now majority smoothie-based, growing sickness inside her, the screen, for the first time, replaced its total blackness with a vomit-like mosaic of colors and dark letterboxing.

So many hues were literally blocked together, resembling one of those sliding puzzles with the squares, to create a readable, movie-like image brought chaos to Lauren’s eyes. Thankfully, it was stagnant, but it still hurt more the longer she looked at it. Yet, in the face of the multiple times she looked away, she managed to catch something on the screen that made the fight of looking worth it.

The mouse cursor was now a magnifying glass, and it appeared to be as zoomed in as it could go.

‘Oh, no,’ Lauren internally griped, knowing fully well what he was pointing her to do.

What could he possibly have for her to see? She hadn’t a clue, but she had to find out. For all she knew, it was life or death.

As she took hold of her mouse and scrolled backward, seemingly meaningless blocks became pixels, shrinking, multiplying, and growing more variant. A black speckle turned into a square of blueberry yogurt. That azure became a scoop of Neapolitan ice cream. The new trifecta of hues transitioned into a chocolate drizzle that later ran into a cherry syrup sea. The waves of crimson didn’t seem to end as long as Lauren kept scrolling out. However, a contrast came to her when she happened to pan downward from a nervous twitch and collide with an ecru island.

The gradient seemed somewhat familiar at first glance, and it only got clearer as time went on, as she saw more and more with them.

She was met with splotches and tiny holes with which she was all too familiar. Straggly tendrils of darkness going every which way also came: some scattered but most collected in two copses. Deadened lily pads as lifeless as they were bland floating atop white, inert puddles enter the fray. Yet, the slight radiance of emerald within them was anything but. The green glow across everything was, indeed, everything. For a while, the other colors faded together, emulating watercolor more than oil or something similar. But the jumble of pigments eventually combined into something more.

Before she knew it, Lauren was looking in a mirror.

Of course, it wasn’t a real mirror. The webcam was still shielded and off, and to make the screen into fully reflective material in the blink of an eye was impossible. Though, the present presence of enormous omniscience behind an untouchable trellis beyond universal bounds combated all bounds of reality at the moment. Nonetheless, it was a mirror into the past in the form of an extraordinary, extraordinarily aerial photo. There, it displayed her glasses-donning self from that unexpected sighting from days ago in the middle of Mesa Metro, amid a mob in the same oversized, blue sweatshirt she was currently wearing and dirtying more, along with the rest of her overly casual, barely cohesive clothing looking up to the sky.

She never would’ve thought how, then with her haggardness, her eyes had actually met something else’s – his – in some way or another. Her seeing his sizable satellites through an unreachable matrix, sure, but not them looking back. It knocked her thought processes loose, so much so that it sent herself and her chair scraping toward the wall behind her, only to be complemented by a singular, new message printed within the upper strip of the letterboxing this time – the unmistakable, horridly literal cherry on top:

“I can see you just fine.”

#g/t #my writing #zero to one #sw #giant male #the plot thickens #f's in the chat for LaLo's mental state

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keldae · 7 years ago

Note

Taking a bath together Xaja/Theron :D

The door slid closed, and Xaja wearily leaned back against it, still shivering too much to even contemplate removing her snow-caked jacket and soaked-through boots. Alderaan during midwinter was not for the faint of heart.

It also wasn’t meant for Jedi and spies who apparently couldn’t recognize that the snow shelf they’d chosen to traverse as a shortcut to the Zakuulan outpost for the Star Fortress wasn’t strong enough to support the weight of two human bodies. At least they’d only fallen a few metres when it broke and landed in the deepest snowbank Xaja had ever seen. It had been more than enough to bury her for several minutes until her squirming and Theron’s frantic digging had brought her back up to the surface.

They’d finally made it back to the Alde “house” (which Xaja secretly thought more accurately resembled a palace) that they’d been granted lodging at, but Theron had been almost immediately accosted by one of his contacts. He’d sent Xaja up ahead to their rooms with a promise to be not far behind her. And Xaja didn’t think he’d be too long in talking- he looked to be as cold as she felt.

With a groan, the Jedi finally stepped away from the door and pried her boots off her feet, leaving them just out of easy-tripping range. Her sodden coat came off next, then her belt and lightsabers. She’d need to do maintenance on her weapons later, after she’d thawed out a bit. Wonder how good the hot water supply here is, she mused as she made her way to the refresher door, breathing on her freezing hands in an attempt to get some feeling back into her fingers. She palmed open the door and gasped in surprised delight- while she’d been hoping for a hot shower, the huge bathtub in the ‘fresher was a dream she hadn’t been expecting.

Leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her from her soaked socks, she shuffled over to the side of the tub and found the control panel to start filling it with hot water. Whichever Alde noble had installed this tub, they’d spared no expense- it even filled surprisingly quickly for a tub of its size. Xaja used the time waiting to remove the rest of her sodden clothing, hissing as she caught a look at the darkening bruises on her hip and leg. Oh, Theron’s going to have that heart attack he keeps grumbling about when he sees that. Taking a second to ensure that there were towels nearby (and there was a giant, fluffy stack of them, probably courtesy of some attentive droid), Xaja sat on the edge of the tub and dipped her feet into the water, and groaned at the immediate tingling as the heat reached down into the cold she could feel in her bones. She slipped down into the tub, letting the water cover her shoulders, and sighed in blissful contentment. This was even making her bruises and sore muscles feel better. In no hurry to get clean and get out of the water, the petite Jedi sat down on a ledge, leaned back against the wall of the tub, and closed her eyes. Probably shouldn’t nap in here…

The door to their quarters slid open, and Xaja heard heavy footsteps enter the bedroom. “Xaja?” Theron had finally returned. “Where are you?”

“In here,” Xaja called back, not bothering to open her eyes yet. She listened to the sounds of Theron removing his own boots and coat, muttering an expletive or two that she barely heard over the clatter of his gun belt being set on a table, then heard the rustle of wet fabric and chattering teeth as he finally entered the ‘fresher. “Good chat?” she asked, still not opening her eyes.

“Yeah, but not as good as this view,” Theron said as he approached the bathtub. Xaja sensed him stopping right beside her head, heard the tiny splash as his fingers passed through the water to touch her shoulder. Even with the hot water, the cool temperature of his skin still made her squeak. “Sorry.”

“Stars, you’re cold.” Xaja finally opened her eyes and reached up to squeeze Theron’s fingers. Looking up, she took note of his still-red face and how sodden his shirt was. “You know this tub’s big enough for two people, right?”

“This isn’t a tub, it’s a swimming pool.” Theron smirked as he leaned down to kiss Xaja’s cheek. “I’m not so cold that I can’t appreciate the view in here.” The hand on her shoulder drifted down to dance teasingly over her skin under the water.

“Yes, but my view isn’t as good.” Xaja gave him an exaggerated pout and reached up to tug at his shirt. “C’mon, get in here and give me someone to cuddle. Your Commander orders it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Theron winked and stepped back from the tub. For a few minutes, there were the sounds of him peeling off his wet clothing, before he stepped into the tub beside Xaja and groaned pleasurably at the feeling of heat. “So just so you know, I’m never leaving this tub again,” he said as he slid down to his shoulders and sighed blissfully. “It’s so warm in here.”

“That makes two of us.” Xaja moved over to wrap her arms around Theron’s waist and pretend she hadn’t been shamelessly eyeing him while he’d been entering the tub and giving her a very nice view. “We’ll make Lana run things.”

“Yep.” Theron slipped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her tightly against him. “We like House Alde, right?”

“If we didn’t before, we do now.” Xaja rested her cheek on Theron’s shoulder and frowned at his visible bruises through the water. “Are you sure you’re okay? You fell hard off that snow shelf.”

“No less hard than you.” Theron gently ran a hand over her hip, which now was a dark purple instead of its normal fair shade. “I’ve never been so grateful for biosign readers in my implants as I am right now. I don’t know if I would have found you in time otherwise.”

Xaja shook her head into Theron’s neck. “But you did.” She closed her eyes and tried to forget the feeling of panic when she’d realized she’d been buried by the snow, trying to use the Force to figure out which way was up, and then squirming and trying to not breathe in the snow until she’d felt a hand grab her arm and yank her free. She was just lucky her attempt to Force-push Theron clear of the worst of the snow had apparently worked well enough. “You did, and we’re both here and reasonably okay now, and I’m just glad you’re not hurt more than you already are.”

“Frostbite and bruises- it could be worse.” Theron tilted his head to kiss her cheek again. “There should be kolto around here to treat those if we ever get out of this tub. Are you sure you’re not hurt otherwise?”

Xaja started to shake her head, then squealed as Theron shifted his own head against her in such a way that his left temple pressed into her cheek. “Gah! Theron, your implants are freezing!”

“Oops.” Theron grinned into her neck. “Maybe I’ll just stay here until they warm up properly-”

Xaja sighed in playful frustration and promptly pushed Theron’s grinning face under the water.

#nonny #thanks for the prompt!#theron/xaja #winter sucks #xaja does not like snow #in which #xaja's questionable navigational decisions do have some positive outcomes #odessen #fluff #there's probably a smutty scene that follows this one

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elkian · 8 years ago

Link

wassup got a fic out of my docs and out of my system #feelsgoodman

Rating: G

Words: 1,752

Fandom: Voltron Legendary Defender

Characters: All Paladins, Princess Allura, Coran (Paladin-centric)

It’s when Hunk takes a light (but, judging from Lance’s face, not light enough), joking swipe at Lance that they notice.

Pidge realizes just how much they’ve curled on top of Keith, practically sitting in his lap. Keith, who - doesn’t hate, but definitely dislikes touching people, being touched, is slowly and unconsciously carding one hand through their hair. Shiro is hanging over the couch from the back, mock-refereeing Hunk and Lance’s impromptu slapfight, his human arm slung casually across Pidge and Keith’s necks. Lance and Hunk have been practically entwined in each other for the last twenty minutes - and they’re both cuddly, but usually not that cuddly.

The best, oddest thing is that it doesn’t really snap off… the paladins drift to their rooms for lights out, almost glowing in the unusual contact, and though they’re mostly back to normal the next ‘day’, if Lance’s arms slides against Keith’s during breakfast, or Hunk’s back presses reassuringly against Pidge’s during practice, it’s nothing to mention.

---

The next time it happens, they start to realize why. After a long mind-melding session (attempt), the paladins wander into the dining room. Rather than slump at the table and wait for Coran and Hunk to feed them, they decide to follow the yellow paladin into the ‘kitchen’ area.

Keith and Shiro find themselves at a pair of cutting boards, following Hunk’s ecstatic yet clear instructions on how to cut the various alien… vegetables? Pidge has the stove-like thing going and is stirring what appears to be some kind of pasta, while Lance is surprisingly deftly folding spices and herbs into a bowl of cheese-vegetable. Hunk all but dances through the food preparation area, dipping a tasting spoon into this and that and glowingly complimenting everyone’s work. It’s the first time most of the paladins have seen him in action like this, and they realize that to him, food is a kind of engineering - both a science and an art.

And when they settle together at the table (chairs a little closer than usual, as they lean over each other and fight for fritters and pasta, laughing and settling back, their shoulders knocking together), the food tastes sharper and better than ever, complex alien flavors filling their palates and lending an extra helping of cheer and energy to the previously burnt-out crew.

---

“What does this do?”

“How does this work?”

“How much can we alter the gravity in the castle? What about each room?”

“How old are the Lions? Could we make more? What happens if a pilot passes out or something, can someone else sub in?”

Coran looked fit to pull his mustache out.

Pidge glances at the Altean and their mouth curls in a smirk, but they just keep tapping away at their newest project. Allura doesn't even bother with that much restraint, laughing for what feels like the first time in weeks.

The redhead swatted Lance away from poking at a button that probably wouldn’t eject them all into space. “Alright, that’s it! You are ALL GROUNDED until you can be yerselves properly again! I can’t believe this!” He whipped around and pointed at Pidge, whose smug face instantly fell. “And you! I get that there’s a power rush and all involved but could you try not to dominate yer teammate’s minds?”

Pidge’s expression isn’t quite as blank as they like, but blank enough to make Coran lose steam and (alongside a still-amused Allura) actually explain what’s been happening to them for weeks. They’d all guessed, of course, but it was good to hear someone actually lay it all out.

Shiro clapped a hand on the Altean’s shoulder as he finished. “Well, we’re handling it pretty well so far, Coran. And I don’t think it’s such a bad thing if we paladins - all of us - know a little bit more about what we’re doing, don’t you?”

Coran’s budding confident smile soured as Lance almost immediately appeared in front of him, pointed at his chin, and asked, “Wait, do you shave? How do you shave? Can I borrow your razor?”

---

And then they were Keith.

This far in, the melding started to have more dramatic, or at least easily discernible effects - it was easier to stay oneself, but more nuance was also received.

Hunk felt like his skin was tighter than ever. Itchy, on the verge of doing something. His nervous tics and constant movement increased - it wasn’t enough to rummage through everyone’s things, he was pacing, he wanted to go for a mile run even though they’d just finished training.

Pidge’s tech work becomes even faster, if slightly sloppy. They breach new and barely imaginable ideas, half-crafted code being discarded in favor of transcribing the newest thought. They feel on fire, more intuition than person.

Lance is… Lance is good, in a way no one expected. Something about Keith’s razor instincts and surety just clicks with his hunches and bravado. Of course, it also makes him even more insufferable than ever - though he’s quieter than they’ve ever seen him, what few words do leave him are far more accurate than anyone is comfortable with. He’s making a particularly unflattering observation about Coran when Shiro finally physically picks him up and forces him to go to his bedroom, with a stern but amused “Behave”.

---

Lance’s interconnectivity, Hunk’s interest in and love for all aspects of food, Pidge’s burning curiosity, and Keith’s deeply ingrained intuition all have perks and mostly-proportionate downsides, and Shiro is no different.

Is this truly the first time he’s come through, or the first they’ve noticed? It’s hard to tell, but several of Team Voltron would put their money on the former - while he’s often stern and disciplinary, Shiro does his best not to burden his team, even when it would help him.

It’s difficult to translate years (and desperate, deeply-engraved, half-forgotten months) of experience across a temporary mental connection, particularly in just residue. They do eventually notice, however; Lance thinks a little before he opens his mouth. Hunk remembers Pidge’s discomfort and considers putting the diary back (he doesn’t. But it’s a start). Pidge finds themself a little more aware of the emotions of the people around them, as does Keith, and both find themselves a little more in control of their anger that day.

Shiro wakes that night, choking on a scream; same as usual. But he’s barely sat up, intent on getting out of bed and exercising the phantoms away, when the door whooshes open.

Much as he might want to deny it, he lets Lance curl into his body, head butting into his ribs and fingers circling his 'real' elbow and snores already shaking the bed. He lets Hunk and Keith shove a second mattress through the doorway and flop onto the floor, Pidge already slumped with their back against the side of the bunk and snoring (little fingers oh-so-fragile laced with his monstrous ones, and he wants to object but he feels like a person for the first time in months). Hunk’s halfway through a story, an amused (and still fully-clothed) Keith humoring him with a faint smile, when sleep brings him down, and while the red paladin is the last of the four to fall into slumber, he also looks more relaxed than Shiro has ever seen him.

And somehow, that’s what really helps him smile, half-lidded eyes brimming with tears even with Lance sawing logs against his chest and curled like a constrictor around him, that’s what helps him finally sleep, for what feels like the first time in years.

---------

For the rest of his life, Shiro will remember the feeling of Pidge’s pulse under his fingertips as he woke; the quiet and, for lack of a better word, universal breathing pattern that had filled his humble quarters slowing the existential dread that waking brought.

Their dramatic days lessened, but was it because they’d improved or because they were resembling each other more? And was that because of the link, or just because they’d spent so much time together, especially as comrades-in-arms? It wasn’t as if they didn’t find themselves sometimes aping Allura or Coran’s unique alien accents, or unusual turns of phrase - just the other day, Lance had caught himself (okay, Keith caught him and then Hunk and Pidge wouldn’t let him live it down, whatever) using body language from both Alteans, the particular wrist flick Coran might use to indicate something, the foot-tapping Allura did when thinking of something long past.

So, anyways, it might not be anything.

But then again.

When the newest aliens threw them a welcome/thanks/leave-as-soon-as-you’re-done-please feast, and Keith accidentally shoved a chunk of hairy, deeply texturally unpleasant root vegetable in his mouth, it was Pidge, who wasn’t even looking his way, who quietly handed him a napkin and distracted their hosts while he spat it out.

When a piece of the kitchen fell on and trapped Hunk and Lance, weeks after their last mind meld, it was Shiro who stopped in the middle of his workout six levels away and found them, Keith and Pidge appearing almost as soon as he’d gotten the story out of the boys.

When Pidge kicked a piece of unresponsive alien hardware and accidentally broke their toe, Hunk had them in his arms and halfway to the infirmary before they could even get over the shock to yell.

Shiro had a bad dream and Lance started crying in the middle of a joke, and the four collected outside his door before he’d even woken up. Keith sprained his knee in training and Lance noticed before he did; Lance tried to eat something that Hunk had meant to throw out and Pidge stopped him, even though they couldn’t explain why; Lance tried to tell a new joke and Keith ruined it by shouting the punchline a sentence early and laughing hysterically; Shiro got a craving for marshmallows and walked into the kitchen to find Hunk putting the finishing touches on ‘alien s’mores’ or, as Lance liked to call them, Space S’Mores (with pronounced capitalization).

Sometimes it worried them. Allura and Corran seemed to find it normal, but was it? Was it normal for paladins… or for Alteans? Was it making them other than human?

But as time went on, they began to realize that only some of it was the mind meld, the Lions. And a lot of it… was them.

Years after the war, after Zarkon’s defeat, even when far from each other, they would always be a team.

They’d always be family.

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slipslidingaway2017 · 7 years ago

Text

The Ashes of Memory

In 2010 I was at my personal and professional peak. I closed my third year leading the organization I founded, the Gay Community Center of Richmond, (Virginia) having built what I was hired to build. I was well-paid for this job. In fact I was the highest-paid LGBT professional in the state. I had a relationship which had lasted 23 years and while it was rocky at times it was stable and comfortable. I had my health, or so it seemed. Then I lost it all and I could not remember why.

Today the year 2011 is blurred. AIDS-related encephalopathy, diagnosed in early 2012, wiped my memory of that time but for isolated, painful events. I have worked to reconstruct my past through detective work. I have examined and parsed photos. I have spoken with my doctors, my family and my friends. My goal was to paint a picture of this year, the year I rode a straight downward path to deathly sickness. AIDS was the cause and I was in its grip throughout that year.

Can you imagine how strange it is to have a hole in your memory, one more than 15 months long? How would you reconstruct your past? The hole plagued me, constantly in my thoughts. To clear these thoughts I needed answers.

I went about writing my past like the lawyer I am. I handled the job as I would investigate the facts of a new case to be tried. Investigation, deduction and logic wrote the script.

My work began with photographs. In my position I was photographed regularly. Over a decade I have assembled an archive of over 6,000 photos, many taken by me, others by colleagues, friends, acquaintances or strangers. This cache provided evidence I needed to reconstruct 2011.

When I assembled the photos featuring me in chronological order I could chart my decline. Month to month my image changed. At first robust and healthy, steadily I became a different person. My visage became gaunt. In photos from a trip to Palm Springs I was unnaturally thin. My camera accurately recorded the pallor masking my face. Steadily I became less.

One small set of photos shot in late autumn, 2011 is the most terrible. In six shots, sort of "proto-selfies" taken with the fine camera equipment about which I write so often, I shot full body pictures of myself. First clothed in a T-shirt and a speedo suit, then shirtless and finally nude these pictures leave no doubt of my condition.

What I saw when I discovered these shots shocked me because of their content but more because I had no memory of the shoot. My image was emaciated, gaunt. I most resembled the victims of state-sponsored persecution or of famine we have all seen. But I do not remember and while I certainly must have viewed them they spurred no action. Why did I take them? What did they mean to me? There is no answer.

In August, 2012 about six months into my recovery I visited my GP, Dr. T. As we spoke he told me of another appointment, in January 2012. Then he drew blood for an HIV test, after shaming me into agreement. The results were returned several days later and then he called me back to his office. In that meeting he told me I was HIV positive. I remember neither meeting. Dr. T told me he then he recommended treatment options but I know I took no action, not because I remember but because my decline continued until I was hospitalized in late February, delirious and unable to walk. Why did I ignore his advice? This is a question that I thought would haunt me always.

I mined other clues with the help of Dr. T and my HIV specialist Dr. B. In June, 2012 Dr. B and I discussed the topic of my progress in recovery. After congratulating me on my progress his tone changed. He said that I was doing surprisingly well but then he gently added the statement that frightened me. "When I met you I did not think you would survive."

That meeting is one of my first "new" memories. I have thought often of his blunt, factual statement. Doctors don't mince words I learned. I did not know what to do with the comment, though. It simply simmered in my subconscious.

"He said that when we met for him to give me my diagnosis he believed I would soon die."

Just today I met again with Dr. T. As we have before we reviewed my progress. I was excited to tell him of my latest test results: again undetectable with a CD4 count at its highest since my diagnosis. I believe I am doing well and he agreed. What he said next chilled me to my core. He said that when we met for him to give me my diagnosis he believed I would soon die.

This bare, frank statement shocked me and confirmed Dr. B's statement of more than a year before. I was closer to the truth.

From the moment I regained rational thought I set out on a vendetta against my employer that fired me one month before my diagnosis. I was righteous in my criticism and prided myself on the knowledge that it was strictly factual and provable by objective evidence. I railed against slights I suffered, real and galling. I told myself that by telling the truth, by complaining about wrongs that would offend anyone, I was in the right. I believed I was doing my community a service by telling it of my employer's faults. I rested on my reputation and rode it like a steed.

I knew I had been fired unjustly. I knew my accomplishments through 2010 were real. I disregarded 2011 because I remembered none of it. This was my critical flaw.

As I grew to some understanding of my life in that last year of it I finally came to the truth. The evidence revealed a man in steady, steep decline. By the end of the year it depicted a man who certainly was incompetent to do the work he was paid to do. I realized that by then my employer gained no value from its bargain with me. I surmised this from what I found. The logic was inescapable.

For more than two years following my discharge the Board of Directors that fired me refused to give a reason for their action. In the last six months, I have obtained the first concrete idea of that reason from the two board members who delivered the letter releasing me. After pushing both each said it was "performance based." Of course it was. It must have been.

These pieces- the photos, the comments and the conclusions drawn from them have answered important questions about my path in 2011. These clues filled in the critical part of my unremembered past. They brought me comfort in knowledge but not absolution. I remain the author of my fall. I remain the cause of my disease. Yet I feel I can now move on beyond the driving need to reconstruct my past. I have learned enough. I am at peace.

I know that many people living with HIV feel that over-examining one's past is counterproductive, perhaps harmful. In general I agree but I had no past to examine. I had to find it before I could put it aside. I am grateful I spent the effort to learn what I did. I needed the truth and I believe I have found it.

At the start of my conscious recovery I made a vow to begin a new sort of life, different from the one I lost. I believe that through fits and starts I have lived by that vow. I am different than I was and I believe the difference is better, in the main.

My change is continuous. I know now it will never end. This act of discovery has aided me by giving me more knowledge of who I was. That man is dead and unlamented. But the knowing of him has strengthened me.

I am well today. It is time for the next challenge. There are so many.

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