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heartsofbeskar · 4 years ago

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from the ashes

chapter six | read on AO3

din djarin x oc

WARNINGS: violence, swearing

WORDS: 3.2K

EXCERPT: He extended his other arm to her. Stepping as close as she could, she wrapped an arm tightly around his shoulders. The arm he had held out to her now circled her waist, pulling her even closer. She could feel every curve and edge of his armour through her clothes. His helmet turned towards her.

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Ten couldn’t think of a better sound than the Ursa’s engines finally running again. Decidedly less strained than before, she thought. Though that may have just been wishful thinking.

They’d been sequestered on the asteroid for the better part of two standard weeks. The time they’d lost was valuable, but nothing compared to the time they’d lose if the Ursa bailed on them mid-flight.

On the surface, spending time with the Mandalorian was not too much different than spending time alone. He barely spoke unless he was spoken to, and moved around like a ghost, despite the heavy armour. But there was something … imposing about the man. Not threatening, but Ten could feel his presence in a room, sometimes even feel his eyes on her. It wholly unsettled her— not that she’d let him know that.

Much — well actually all — of their conversation in the recent days had centered around where the hell to go next. It was obvious an Imperial conspirator had inside knowledge of the job and that Ten and Mando were the ones working it. They had a list of contacts from Greef Karga who may have information; to seek out those contacts now would surely be suicide, for everyone involved.

“You feel sure about Ronhar Kraz?” Ten asked. The armoured man sat to her right nodded slowly. Kraz was a businessman who specialized in textiles and linen trade between the core and the Outer Rim. Seemingly benign, but he used those same textiles and linen to smuggle weapons during the days of the Empire. For both sides.

“It feels too obvious,” she mused. “Former weapons smuggler turned Imperial double agent. Why even attach your name onto this if so many people in the Outer Rim know you worked with the Empire?”

“You’re assuming a level of intelligence and foresight I don’t often attribute to Imps,” he said.

“That’s the mindset that gets you fucked over eventually,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Is that what happened to you?”

Ten turned her head sharply, glaring at him. “You should watch that metal mouth or I’ll find something that will bend beskar.”

She heard a short breathy noise she’d come to known as a laugh processed through his modulator.

They’d almost passed through the outer boundary of the asteroid field, so she focused on steering through the last of the rocks. An itch had settled under her skin in the past few days, an urge to go, go, go, escape the confines of this belt they’d found themselves unexpectedly marooned within. As much as she still dreaded getting tangled up in Empire business, she felt that coursing of adrenaline in her veins that had been escaping her for many months now. That thrill of her life being put on the line of her own volition.

That adrenaline spiked again as they were fired on.

—

“Shit!” Ten cursed, the ship veering sharply upon impact. Din reacted on instinct, seat spinning towards the weapons controls he’d made a point of committing to memory. “They must have followed our ion trail to the edge of the belt. Have the fuckers just been waiting here the whole time?”

Another hit struck them, almost sending Din flying into the viewport. As he lurched, his gaze locked on the ships in front of them, before Ten steered them quickly away in an evasive maneuver. The ships pursued. He wasn’t surprised he recognized the ships, but he was surprised that—

“Those are New Republic ships. That’ll be why we weren’t vapourized on sight.” He paused as he attempted to target lock the ships still following close behind. There were too many asteroids lingering in the belt’s gravitational pull for them to jump to hyperspace. He needed to buy time. “Are you wanted?”

Ten didn’t look at him as she pushed their speed, but he could somehow feel her rolling her eyes at him. “No, I’m not an idiot. Even if I was, the Ursa’s totally off register, there’s no way—”

“Torpedo approaching lower left engine exhaust,” he interrupted. Cursing again, she took them as far right as possible — and right towards a large asteroid. Din braced, but she slowed their speed enough to whip them quickly around its circumference. He had to admit she was an impressive pilot.

“Are you wanted?”

“...Yes.”

“Now why am I not surprised by—”

She was cut off by the incoming communication alarm. They exchanged glances before Ten reached forward and set off the acceptance switch.

“Unidentified vessel,” came the drone of a New Republic officer. “Cut your engines immediately and prepare for boarding.”

“And why the hell should we do that?” Ten snapped, taking them through a narrow gap between asteroids. Din rolled his eyes now beneath the helmet.

“You are wanted for the murder of Jula Lars. Cut your engines immediately and prepare to be taken into custody. Failure to comply can result in—”

Ten slammed her hand down on the controls and cut off the channel. Din noticed her other hand tightening on the steering gears, knuckles going white. The scars he knew to be there were barely visible.

“Those fuckers … do you have a target lock on the ships? I’m going to blast them from the fucking sky,” she snapped.

As lightly as he dared, Din placed a hand on her arm that was closest to him. “They’re only doing their job. Obviously the Imps put them on our tail. No one else knew we were there.”

“Oh and you’re now the sudden pacifist?” she turned her head to glare at him. It felt like ice began flowing through his veins.

“We don’t need to help create more victims to the Empire,” he said lowly. Something flashed in her eyes. She kept eye contact with him for as long as she dared before turning forward to continue steering.

“Fine,” was all she said. A pause. More shots volleying around them, missing the ship as it weaved. “Then we need to go to hyperspace. Now.”

“There’s still too many asteroids we could—”

“Then I guess you’re just going to have to trust me, Mandalorian,” she said, and she was already engaging, then ramping their speed and then— rocks flew past them as superliminal speeds as they were catapulted into hyperspace. Din held his breath the entire time, certain they were headed straight for a rock which, at these speeds, would vapourize them for sure.

He let it go when he realized they were clear. Looking beside him, he saw Ten staring at him, her scarred eyebrow raised. “I told you to trust me.”

He scoffed, still feeling on edge. “Set the course for Leotis IV.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

—

Ten landed the Ursa as discreetly as she could, a few kilometres out from the Kraz estate. Thankfully it didn’t seem the New Republic had any insight on where they were going, only where they had been. But there was no guessing how long that would last.

Mando was in the hold, already securing his blaster into his belt. She recognized a couple other models and … something that didn’t look like a blaster at all. Before she could get a longer look his cloak fell over it.

“Kraz’s estate only has minimum security in place. Security cameras, only two from the back, no motion sensors,” she said, opening up the weapons compartment.

“How do you know all this?” Mando asked, entering her field of view. She looked up from where she was sheathing throwing knives. She shrugged at him.

“You hunt people, I hunt information. It’s my business to know my way around prominent figure’s properties.” Reaching up, Ten finally grabbed her blaster from the top shelf it sat on. She knew she could very likely do this without it, but it would probably appease Mando.

“If he is working with the Empire, he may have increased his security since your latest information,” he noted. She nodded as she hung her own cloak around her shoulders.

“At least then it would make for a challenge,” she said, nodding her head towards the door.

They closed the distance from the Ursa on foot so as not to be seen by anyone on the grounds. The tree cover was just enough to hide it from view overhead. Mando seemed to want to take the walk in their usual state of silence, and Ten didn’t complain.

As they walked, Ten admired the foliage that seemed to grow at mostly knee height on this planet. It bloomed undisturbed in the gaps left by the trees, enjoying the unrestricted sunlight. The rays seemed to bounce off the petals which appeared in every colour.

It made her think of Yaim. The trees there had been much denser, and wider. But the air seemed to vibrate in the same way, the wind so delicate Ten could almost close her eyes and imagine it was tender fingers on her cheek.

She reached out, as she would always do when she was a girl, and felt that unwavering presence, its weight bearing down on her bones and her soul alike. But … less heavy than usual, which surprised her.

Finally, they reached the wall which indicated the edge of the property, It wasn’t high, maybe four or five metres by Ten’s estimation. The surface was uneven, and she grabbed a hold of the texture, testing it.

“This should work. If we can scale to the—” She was cut off by a sharp whizzing noise beside her. As she examined the grappling hook connected to his vambrace, she was absolutely sure he was smirking beneath the helmet. “Or we could do it that way.”

He extended his other arm to her. Stepping as close as she could, she wrapped an arm tightly around his shoulders. The arm he had held out to her now circled her waist, pulling her even closer. She could feel every curve and edge of his armour through her clothes. His helmet turned towards her.

“Hold on tight,” was all he said, and then they were rapidly ascending up, up, past the rough stones in the wall, until Mando swung them onto the top, which was thankfully flat. “You can let go now.”

“Right,” she breathed. Shaking her head, she turned towards the building now filling their view. As she’d planned, the route to the wall had taken them close to the back corner of the property. If her information was current, Kraz only had cameras facing his back and front entrances. “You’ve got a scope on that pulse rifle, right? Can you see the cameras on the back wall?”

Swinging the rifle around to rest on his shoulder, he wordlessly aimed at the building. Ten studied his stance from the corner of her eye. His feet were heavy, planted shoulder width apart. He didn’t sway as the wind picked up, a solid beskar statue in the foreign landscape.

Suddenly he fired once, then twice. Ten flinched at the unexpected noise. Finally, he spoke. “The cameras are taken care of.”

“A little warning next time?” Before he could respond, she flung herself from the wall. She braced herself on her hands as she landed, Mando dropping beside her a moment later. She held up a hand.

After a few beats of silence, she nodded at him. “Seems like they haven’t upgraded security after all,” she noted, moving towards the back entrance. As they got closer, she saw that the cameras were indeed demolished by the shots.

“Don’t suppose you know the interior blueprints as well?” Mando asked at her left shoulder.

“No,” she shook her head. “Those are usually harder to get a hold of. But I have been hired by many men like Kraz. They like to keep their personal offices in the back of buildings, it makes them feel safer for some reason. See that window?”

She gestured directly above them, where the largest window on the back facade sat. It was also the only window inset with what appeared to be rare minerals.

“I agree,” Mando said before she could finish. “That’s a good place to start. After you.”

Ten examined the back entrance, gliding her hand along the smooth edges of the metal. The locking mechanism blinked orange gently, and she recognized an optical scanner. But beneath that … a keyboard override, hidden under an unlocked panel. Perfect.

Taking one of her daggers from her belt, she was able to tear off the cover of the keypad box with her hands. Ten held the dagger up. It was one of her favourites. The handle was nondescript, simple, fitted perfectly to her grip. Its blade was stronger than any other she owned, and she strongly suspected it had been mixed with beskar, though she couldn’t be sure. Maybe she would ask the Mandalorian.

She pried under the edge of the keypad, battling metal on metal, leveraging with all her strength. Finally, as she expected, her metal won, and the bottom edge of the keypad popped off with a satisfying crack. She cut every wire she found lying underneath, one by one until—

The door slid open with a whirr as the orange light went dark.

“Would’ve been faster to shoot it open,” said Mando.

“And set off every alarm they have in this place.” She strode past him into the building. The cement walls echoed her footsteps, but there was no other sound bouncing off them. The overhead lights flickered slowly.

The hallway branched into a T shortly ahead of them, and her and Mando took to a side of the wall. Nodding, they inched over the corner, blasters drawn. Ten found a long corridor on her side, ending in a window. There were no doors. She spoke first, in a low tone.

“All clear here.”

“Here too.”

Relaxing marginally, she turned. The other direction appeared much the same, with another doorless hallway. Ten shrugged.

“Your choice is as good as mine.”

Mando wordlessly started down the hall to the right. She followed, pulling her hood over her head as she did. She ran her hand lightly along the wall. It was cold to the touch. She tightened her grip on her blaster.

A stairway emerged at the end of the hallway, and they followed silently. The next level was similar to the first, though featured more hallways going deeper into the building and an occasional linen draped on the wall. Finally, they came to a wide door, inlaid with the same mineral as the exterior window.

It was empty inside. A large wooden desk occupied much of the room, facing towards the ornate window. The sunlight streamed in freely, casting multicoloured shapes over the room. It reflected off Mando’s beskar as he approached the computer terminal on the desk.

“The communications log should give us enough information on whether he’s working with the Empire.” He called up a projected screen, gloved fingers running over the controls. “Should be … here. Most people don’t even restrict access. We can download it to look at on the ship.”

Ten nodded. She moved towards the window. Closer to it, she could see the small bubbles enclosed in the inlays. It felt rough. She wasn’t sure why she was so drawn to touch today, but it felt as if a live wire had been inserted beneath her skin, the smallest of currents lighting her nerves.

“Done,” came Mando’s modulated tone, pulling her attention. “We should go—”

Before he could finish, the latch clicked in the door. They both watched, unable to do anything, as the handle turned and the door opened fully.

A human man stood there, looking down at his holopad at first. Mando raised his blaster slowly. By the time the man looked up, it was directly in front of his face, and his eyes widened as he took the two of them in.

“W-who the hell are you?” he asked shakily. “You shouldn’t be in here, I …”

“We’re going to walk out of here,” Mando said calmly. “There’s no reason to panic. You’re going to stay in this office for five minutes, and then go about your day. Got it?”

The man’s eyes darted rapidly back and forth between them. Ten tried to soften her eyes, to urge him to listen. She wasn’t sure it worked.

Faster than either of them could react, he screamed out, tripping backwards over himself out of the office. Mando fired down into his leg and he collapsed, screaming more, but it was too late, the damage had been done.

As they sprinted out and away from the office, Ten could already hear the sound of boots echoing off the walls. They’d almost reached the stairs when a group of armed security burst out of a hallway in front of them. It was six on two and damn if Ten didn’t like those odds.

Blaster fire broke out almost immediately. Just as quickly, Ten lost track of Mando in the shuffle, but it didn’t matter.

She shot at the two men in front of her, electing for quantity over quality in her aim. She managed to hit one somewhere in the torso and he crumpled to the ground. After a number of other shots she hit the next man in the shoulder, which worked to her advantage. He dropped his blaster with a shout, but stayed on his feet.

Ten pulled two of the small knives from her belt. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she aimed before whipping it forehead. It spun in the air before hitting its mark, buried inside the man’s neck. He sputtered as he fell to his knees, then onto his face.

Spinning around, she saw Mando taking down a fifth officer behind her, two others already on the ground. She counted quickly.

“Where’s the sixth one?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mando grunted, dropping the officer to the ground. He raced toward the stairs and she followed.

It appeared they were mostly in the clear, the branch off to the door just ahead of them. Ten led ahead, turning the corner first.

She was met with a blaster pressed to her forehead. It was the sixth officer, her hands shaking as she pressed the barrel harder into the skin.

Ten couldn’t even consciously control her response. It didn’t matter that Mando stood just behind her.

Her hand reached up in front of her, gripping seemingly around nothing, pushing forward. She pulled on the invisible field which was always with her, calling on it. Slowly the barrel of the blaster moved away and so too did the officer, beginning to cough and sputter as her windpipe closed. Ten panted, squeezing tighter and higher, and now the officer was a good three metres in front of her, feet lifting off the ground, eyes rolling into her head. With a grunt, she quickly jerked her arm to the side, sending the officer flying into the wall. The crumpled figure on the ground didn’t move.

“You just …” came Mando’s voice behind her. She turned to look back at him. “You’re a Jedi.”

“We don’t have time for this but let’s get one thing straight. I am not a Jedi.”

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian x original character #din djain #din djarin x oc #din djarin x original character #din djarin fanfiction #star wars fanfic #star wars fanfiction #star wars #mywriting

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purpletyrant · 4 years ago

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some suzune costume remixes ive had on the backburner for a WHILE.... i started the sketch ages ago and only recently found the motivation to finish them.

i remember really, really liking the suzune costumes when i first read the manga in high school. when people criticized them, i felt sort of resentful about it. but now that im older, can you tell ive switched sides? :P besides, i also redesigned kokoro... why not keep going after GAN?

as always, design notes below!

for each of the girls i wanted to go for a theme that didnt deviate far from their original concept. i had difficulty, though, coming up with a new central idea for arisa. for all of GANs faults, you can definitely *tell* which girls he designed because of certain quirks he gravitates towards. every girl in harukas team definitely feel like they all belong in the same group. he also noted in the past that arisas design was his favorite... and to that i say... okay!

so for arisa i settled on an edgy red riding hood. think of those grimdark fairytale retellings that people love to rehash all the time... red riding hood reimagined as an ax-wielding werewolf hunter or something. i thought it would tie in nicely with both her color scheme and her backstory as a meek and bullied girl who becomes the aggressor when her magic grants her a newfound strength. as i worked on her, i noticed similarities to mami. with the corset, white sleeves, etc. i guess this arisa is sort of an anti-mami... unreliable at times, quick tempered, childish, and rash. i played around with her colors a LOT and am still not 100% satisfied, but pink and red are always a dubious combination anyway. maybe in this riding hood context, suzune is the big bad wolf?

chisatos theme has always alluded me. for a while i thought she was meant to be a flight attendant or an officer jenny-style police officer. gan has stated that he based her off of disciplinary and swimming themes. hm! well, it took some digging to find out that her hat is a garrison cap... i actually tried to draw her tiny triangular cap, but it was so hard to get right! so i just drew her a more realistic one. while keeping the sleek silhouette of her upper half, i gave her 40s-style pants and replaced her pistols with dual rivet guns because she sort of gives me rosie the riveter vibes... and no, the irony of that statement is not lost on me! i love how the bell of her pants changes her silhouette, how it draws the eyes upward to the details of her jacket and cap. i can imagine her walking confidently in this new garb. its a more dignified costume to die in. ;)

finally suzune. i loved black rock shooter around the time i read suzune, so i really liked the design similarities. however, it looks constricting in practice, and i had another idea in mind. how cool would it be to model her off of her surrogate mother, tsubaki? tsubaki has such a weird color palette imo, she hardly looks like she belongs in the franchise... but her outfit is still solid and easily to remix. so for suzune, i sucked all the color out of tsubakis outfit, removed the frills, and tweaked the skirt and shoes to give it personal flair. i kept thinking about how spooky it would be to see this suzune in an alley after hearing rumors of “the ripper” ... doesnt she look like a classic ghost? theres a solemn, haunted feel to this more serious outfit... and since suzune possesses tsubakis fire magic, it feels like a fitting tribute.

in case you were wondering, no, i will probably not find time to do matsuri or haruka. :P but i really like matsuri anyway, she was always my favorite, so i doubt id have much to gripe about.

#suzune magica #madoka magica #magia record #magireco #suzune amano #chisato shion #arisa narumi #mad artz

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ghost-fucker · 3 years ago

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may a respectfully ask why your username is ghost-fucker?

sincerely, ghost

(/lh/nf i think its kinda funny ngl sadhjkgk)

Its gonna be a bit sexual ig beware

Ive always like ghosts ya know, love the concept of paranormal shit

One day, some friends an i were talking abt this meme like ahaha funny but then i was like….. actually kinda seggsy yes.

And then a few days i found this in my yt recs

Also i have a questionable tendency to gravitate towards…….possibly malicious supernatural beings per se so yeah

Tldr: im so mentally ill girl help

#origins story #i love ghosts actually #id like to be a ghost even #or just meet them #ghosts my beloved #consider this my origins story #i have far worse taste in things beyond this #if ur curious keep asking #and then i got hyperfixated on wilbur soot #and guess what #ghostbur + revivedbur #good fucking shit #phantombur too #asks #lookItsaghost

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naresnani · 3 years ago

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Warmth only matters for the desperate

Some scrapped, unpublished, somewhat related random old scenes and lines that I still kinda liked, combined together into this because we are all about reduce reuse recycling around here. I think it's kinda fun, I think worth putting out

Napoleon’s hands were always warm and his were too cold, as he was reminded again and again.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

No, I found the act of chewing too demanding.

“If it’s the leftover pancakes, it’s been days ago,” he continued.

“Do you even remember how many days ago?”

Napoleon flinched whenever their hands inexplicably brushed against each other—attached to the hip, as they say,if you bumped into Napoleon Wellesley should be around there somewhere—and it made him check himself, stand a couple steps more to the side. He had gotten cold because his body believed he’s dead again; it worked accordingly.

Napoleon shouldn’t need to know too often. It’s a burden in his conscience.

“I’ll cook something for you.”

“Ah, well, thanks.”

He hates the way he assumes.

There’s too much going on behind, too fast, Wellesley wasn’t made to decipher all that.

“You two gravitate awfully quick towards each other.”

“We’re not. I’m not.” Bold claims to something unmeasurable. “He reaches out, shouldn’t be picky with companions, should you.”

“Bullocks.” The Scot showed his perfect rows of teeth. “There’s a reason I said gravitate.”

It’s strange, the past was brushed away because it’s easier for them. But they cling to it because nothing else makes sense.

Sense of familiarity is spontaneous. It isn’t acknowledged.

“In desperate situations, common ails bring people together.”

“But this isn’t that.” Wine tasted sour with an empty stomach. Though maybe he left it too long on the table. “This is. Different. Than that.” He gesticulated terribly.

“Finish your sentences, old chap.”

He couldn’t say which was it, more than that, or, not even that. You’re looking too much into it.

III

They were both aloof and had a lot to lose from each other, he knew that. They could only harass because they didn't know what was on the other side of the field.

Every minimally astute general would scramble for the high ground. Hills hide many things.

Be it a hidden battalion or an entire reserve of elite guards, both of them only wish to sacrifice very little.

So he won’t mention how Napoleon often fidgets in front of him and won’t meet his eyes, because however uncharacteristic it was, it meant nothing. It must mean nothing because otherwise it would be acknowledging that he’s vulnerable in front of him. Wellesley would do him the favour.

Sentimental, vulnerable, and he’d seem too attentive. Don’t they want to sacrifice very little, if ever?

It's winter, as with many years down the line.

“Your hands are always so cold.” Arguably everything is cold, but he had to point that out. Again. Always. “I thought we’re not the conventional vampires.”

“Eh, we’re anything but conventional.”

“Actually, no, you’re the conventional vampire.” He poked his side. His hand was warm as with every obvious fact in the world. It touches and would burn shoulders and arms and the table chair walls around him because he was so used to reach and encompass, claim, and because he's just a restless man and liked to get his hands everywhere. “Always so cold, and dark, and-” he waved his hand in vague gestures,”-brooding.”

Sometimes it’s satisfying to smile, instead of taxing.

He probably felt colder than Napoleon, he thought then, so it took his entire might to not be less than reserved about it. But there wasn't much he could do when Napoleon was that close, warm breath ghosting his cheek eyes glinting etched clearly what his motives were, so Wellesley closed their distance, only pressing the corner of his lips so Napoleon wouldn't be too pleased.

This whole affair had turned ridiculous indeed if that's his automatic response to his proximity. Napoleon seemed too satisfied with it. Wellesley leaned back and shot him a look of chagrin.

Napoleon didn't kiss him in return, only leaning to rest the side of his forehead on his, hiding his face, as if he could even feel shy with him. He snaked his hand past Wellesley's collar, behind his neck, and his hand was cold but not unnaturally so, and when his other hand slipped into his back it was warmer than Wellesley's whole body, thus proving the hypothesis.

His breath, too, was warm on his ear. He kept the embrace and there's so much that doesn't add up.

Napoleon was the one wrapped up in a blanket. And they're sitting next to fire. And it's his heat that was radiating to him.

Why does he keep doing this.

"I'm guessing that. You won't let me get up now."

"What, you have somewhere else to go?"

"... I suppose not."

There's no warmth you can find here. All I have is from you, don't you know that?

His chest aches but he was used to aches of all kinds.

But Napoleon was the one with no regard for anything. Not life, death, nor self-image, and Wellesley felt his burn again and this time no one flinched or let go.

It was dark in the attic, and not one shadow was there but theirs, and it was late autumn where the nights were longer.

He turned foolish ever since, and they both became more careless.

“Isn't there something different about you?” Napoleon said. He claimed his sight. Wrenched it out of him, and had him petrified. Time stopped under his caress. Wellesley almost leaned into it too much, he checked himself.

“Maybe I've become weaker.”

He knew that'll only allow him further and widen his smirk. “The Iron Duke? Forged under fire?"

Malleable under fire.

They were close and they breathe the same breath. The alcove too small and their clothing too thin.

Wellesley closed his eyes, perhaps so Napoleon couldn’t take it from him again, and just let himself burn thoroughly.

He checked himself often. But lately not a lot of things seems to matter.

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jemej3m · 6 years ago

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Date Night

one of my fave headcanons that andreil go on weekly not-dates, because they’re definitely not a thing.

Neil didn’t really understand the shallow forms of entertainment that were provided around campus until he found himself participating in them with Andrew.

Movies, picnics, markets. It was, as Andrew tended to reiterate, incredibly fickle. Sometimes Neil felt like an idiot attempting the games and activities, especially considering Andrew usually opted out to watch. But sometimes it made Andrew crack that tiny, tiny smile, and Neil couldn’t deny that his embarrassment was worth it.

It was the reason they both upgraded to smart-phones, so that Andrew could film Neil falling onto his ass (ice-skating), or almost knocking over a kid by flinging his arm the wrong way (bowling), or slipping over in a mud puddle (an evening walk in the summer rain). Now they both had an app called Snapchat, where their messages were various saved videos of Neil doing stupid shit.

Neil looked up from where he had sunk into the beanbag at the jangle of Andrew’s keys. His - boyfriend? No, not boyfriend - was glaring at the back of Kevin’s head, silently daring him to say something.

Kevin looked at Neil. “You’re wasting precious time.”

All he said was “Sue me.”, clambering onto his feet. He snatched a grey hoodie - Andrew’s - and put on socks before stuffing his feet into black boots - also Andrew’s. He was not impressed at the sight of what Neil was wearing, pushing him out the door and slamming it behind them.

“What’s the date-night agenda for this week?” Neil jeered, knowing it would rile him up.

“I hate you.” Andrew said calmly, chucking the keys at Neil as they reached the bottom of the Tower’s stairs. “Drive.”

Neil did as he was told. And if their fingers were linked over the gearstick for the entirety of the half-hour drive, neither of them mentioned it.

Andrew, a man of simplicity, had always liked the crisp fall weather. South Carolina’s fall was nothing like California’s, where the heat laid over your skin like heavy-weighted hands. Andrew liked the contrast between the cool breeze and the warmth of Neil’s hand as they walked from the car to the carnival grounds: He liked Neil in his sweater and his boots. He’d liked Neil in his car, too, though that was an old satisfaction now.

There was a particular scar that Andrew always brushed his thumb over: his fist knuckle, where a half-formed circle raised up from the skin. The dash-board lighter hadn’t created a whole circle, instead, a crescent shape. He would circle it, then cross it, then circle it again. He wondered if Neil noticed it.

He probably had: For someone who had remained so insistently oblivious, he was sure as hell perceptive now. Maybe when he understood something, he broke it down into tiny, manageable pieces so that he could continue to interpret it.

“Hey.” Neil hadn’t mentioned where they were, or what they were doing. Instead, he was letting his eyes flit from one brightly lit stall to another. They’d arrived at the ticket booth. “Cash?”

Andrew let go of Neil’s hand to take out his wallet, which was where Neil kept most of his crap, too. God, Andrew would have murdered Neil himself if he’d been on the run with the fucker. He was so annoying, keeping every receipt and business card to dispose of properly, later. Even if he no longer had to hide a paper trail, his old habits kept up with him.

Two adult tickets. Andrew ignored the weird glances: Neil, who was growing used to the reactions to his scars, ignored them too. They walked into the grounds, and found themselves silently overwhelmed.

“I was never allowed to go to one of these as a kid.” Neil admitted.

“Of course not. Your entire existence is tragic.”

“Drama queen.” Neil muttered, tugging on Andrew’s sleeve and carefully avoiding his armbands. Always so fucking careful. Andrew hated him for it.

“I’ve only been to one.” Truth for truth. Conversation rolled off Andrew’s tongue easily now. Everything was easier with Neil. Not easy, but - easier. “I snuck it. Got cotton candy with two dollars I’d stolen from my foster mother. Got kicked out because it was actually three dollars, and I’d used a piece of printed money.”

“Tragic.” Neil grinned.

Andrew made Neil buy him a candied apple for that. There was a small ferris wheel, which they avoided. Neil refused to go apple bobbing unless they both did it, so Andrew dunked Neil’s head in when they lined up to start. Neil still won anyway.

He also won at darts: Go figure. Andrew forced him to get the enormous teddy-bear, almost as big as he was, and to carry it around for the rest of the evening.

When they both retired with some cotton candy at the edge of the field, they leant the stupid teddy-bear against a tree. Andrew leaned into it, and then Neil leaned into Andrew. He did try some of the cotton candy but hated it - of course - so he resigned to looking up as Andrew finished it off. For minutes he would stare at Andrew, and then avert his gaze to the sky, before having it gravitate back towards Andrew.

“What.” Andrew said flatly, wiping sticky fingers on Neil’s ratty jeans.

“You can’t think all of this is that stupid, if you continue to do it.” Neil accused, reaching up over Andrew’s head to pull at tufts of the teddy-bear.

Andrew did think it was stupid; Over-priced, commercialised games to keep people entertained, like carrot-on-a-stick for pigs. But Neil made it tolerable. Being with someone had never been a tangible prospect for Andrew, and yet here he was, under the stars at a fall festival, leaning on a giant teddy-bear that Neil had won for him. Contemplating how he was supposed to hide it from Nicky, who would squeal and fuss. Stroking his fingers through Neil’s red curls.

“Maybe I’m just making up for lost time.”

That was true, too. All these things he’d watched others experience and own as he grew up. Now he was an adult, he could do them all. It just wasn’t as enticing when everyone his age had grown out of it, having experienced these things at the appropriate age.

“Me too.” Neil said.

Well. Almost everyone. But really, was Neil even human? Andrew was still unconvinced he wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

Andrew shoved him off, under the guise that his leg was going numb. They jostled one-another all the way back to the car, working together to shove the bear into the boot.

Andrew drove and let Neil sleep on the way back, drooling all over his leather seats. Like he’d said before; Would have killed the fucker if he’d had to live on the run with him.

Andrew kept his focus on the road.

“Say nothing to no one.” Neil heard Andrew threaten, stifling his laughter with the back of his hand. They were at Wymack’s, having been unable to think of another way to conceal the bear at the Tower. Andrew reappeared outside their coach’s apartment a moment later and Neil heard Wymack grumble as he slammed his door shut, grabbing Andrew’s hand.

“Roof?” Neil asked.

“Tired.” Andrew said. They resorted to the Tower, where they would sit by the window on Neil’s desk together. With Kevin going to night-practise with Matt and various other Foxes, they’d have the dorm to themselves for a little while, and could smoke inside.

Seated and comfortable, they had a good view of Palmetto’s campus. Andrew breathed smoke into Neil’s mouth, who then ghosted his lips down Andrew’s neck.

“Thanks for tonight.” Neil whispered.

“Whatever.” And if either of them heard the strain in Andrew’s voice that betrayed his nonchalance, neither mentioned it.

ooft its been awhile since ive written just a basic andreil one shot, rather than au’s.

fyi, none of my shit is proofread. it’s the internet, not my final thesis.

#andreil #cute #future #andrew minyard #neil josten #fluff #date night #headcanon #david wymack #foxes #all for the game #the foxhole court #jem writes

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shadowsong26fic · 5 years ago

Note

⭐️ for the director’s commentary thing!

So, let’s talk about Leia’s vision.

I went through...a bunch of different ideas on what she was going to see. The message was always the same--you are a child of fire; take care that you don’t burn the entire universe down. And I think the one I ended up going with, where she sees two possible futures for herself, is probably the best choice. I’ve also shared an alternate version where she basically talks with post-ROTJ Force Ghost Anakin from canon in Bonus Content, which I came close to doing instead.

Some other things I considered:

A more explicit Canon Leia vision.

Some version of her brother as an adult.

A past version of Anakin--either as of ROTS, or even earlier.

Dooku

I’m mostly gonna talk about Dooku here, because there were things I really liked about where that could’ve gone, and things I like about lining him and Leia up. For one thing, I think she tends to gravitate towards Form II in her offensive saber technique--like her dad, she works in a blended style (she also draws in a lot of III and IV) , but she likes the precision of that Makashi.

And that’s what the vision would’ve focused on--be precise. Focus on your target and then strike. The reason I ended up ditching this idea is in part because I didn’t know where else I would go with it (plus, I think I have written Dooku exactly once???? And for a scene this important, I wanted to be absolutely sure I got the voicing right which wasn’t quite working).

The other reason was, it opened up a huge can of worms that I didn’t want to deal with. Because, when she asked who he was (as with the Vaderkin vision in Bonus Content), he’d introduce himself as the man her father murdered.

Which.

Well. Where do I go from there?

Basically, two options--I either brush it aside in a way that doesn’t quite feel right for Leia, even in this timeline where she and Anakin are super close; or it becomes that obligatory Misunderstanding And Fighting arc that every team-focused series goes through. And I hate that arc. Don’t like watching it, have no interest in writing it, etc. Even though it would eventually resolve itself and they’d come out just as close on the other side, slogging through that is not my idea of fun and I mean what is fanfic for if not fun? (I would like my angst to not come from internal relationship drama, kthx.)

On a more serious not--I think on some level, Leia does know that her father has done some Bad Things/crossed some lines in the past. She’s certainly aware he carries a lot of guilt, if nothing else; she knows some of it is irrational (i.e., blaming himself for not seeing through Palpatine’s lies sooner), but maybe not all. And she knows that she isn’t always a nice person, at least not without working at it, and, as both versions pointed out, she knows that she and her father are a lot alike. But she also knows who her father is now, the kind of man he is and the kind of things he does, and she puts a lot of faith in that. Also, there’s a difference between being vaguely aware of all of this and having it thrown in her face, especially at this point. Even if she flat-out rejected/refused to believe what Dooku said, it would be a Thing.

I mean, that being said, unlike in canon, she is willing to forgive him for the bad things he’s done, partly because of the very different nature of their relationship, partly because it’s in the past/somewhat abstract and he is actively working to Not Do Those Things (like I said, she knows who Dad is now and that matters more to her), partly because her own life experiences haven’t pushed her to the point where she can’t, regardless of their personal relationship. And I think, even if/when this stops being an abstract question, that won’t change, even if it takes some processing to deal with it. But this was not the time or place to get into that. I may come back to it at some point, but--again, not wanting to slog through that arc, it’ll probably be either something that just stays abstract or happen during the timeskip between arcs seven and eight and I will not ever put it on page. XD

(I may, however, hold onto Dooku for Luke’s vision; there aren’t the same links in terms of precision/etc., but he’d handle that kind of conversation better than Leia would. That being said, I still haven’t decided what I want to do about Luke’s crystal period, I might end up going back to Legends canon rather than trying to track down another place where he can get a kyber crystal...but we shall see!)

Ask me for some commentary!

#asked #answered #agentsofoakenshiield #precipice verse

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lilacjaemin · 6 years ago

Text

sublatis ancoris et margarita

pairing: pirate!jeno x gender neutral reader (bulleted)

genre: fluff and angst

word count: 2.8k

summary: sublatis ancoris et margarita (latin): anchor and pearl

a/n: this is the first time ive been able to write something so easily in such a long time. this one just kinda flowed out of me. ive been in such a terrible creative rut lately. it means a lot to me that this one came together. i was very scared i was losing my ability to write. im so so proud of this one.

pirate jeno

he’s sailed for as long as he can remember

he’s pretty sure he was conceived and born on a ship

he learned to walk on the wobbly deck of his father’s boat

which resulted in him having to get his land legs, rather than the other way around

jeno was attached to the ocean

sea water ran through his veins

he came from a long line of sailors

but he wasn’t a violent pirate

the lee family wasn’t after power, and they already were wealthy

they truly just loved sailing

the art and everything that came along with it

they loved to travel the seas and visit new places

discovering new islands and finding pretty things along the way

sure, sometimes they found treasure and sold it for money

sometimes they kept the treasures for mementos

but they never fought or got into trouble

the crew was intimating enough to where they didn’t have to fight

the ship was ginormous and beautifully crafted

intricate flowers on the side

plus with 18 men onboard just to keep jeno safe and a big crew

what small boat would even go near them

they pushed themselves to travel farther, go on longer voyages, find shinier, bigger jewels

jeno loved jewels and precious stones

he loved the meaning behind them

whenever his family found them amongst the treasures, they would immediately go to jeno

pearls became his favorite

not only were they something beautiful created from something rough

but different colored pearls represented different things

some meant perfection, prosperity, love, protection, etc

he loved the idea of giving them as gifts and the look on people’s faces as he told them the symbolism

and he always carried pearls with him

once his parents had gotten older they decided to stay on land for the rest of their days

they handed the ship and crew down to jeno

now captain of The Flora

his friends adored him and the crew respected him

he didn’t think he could be happier than he was on the open ocean

from time to time in between journeys jeno would visit his family

he thought the small village where they settled down was adorable

he couldn’t find a place like it no matter where he sailed

it was a quaint island and a tight knit community

small houses and businesses lining the cobblestone streets

lanterns and candles on every corner, casting an amber glow across the whole town

at first the townspeople were afraid of him

a huge ship docked at the edge of their tiny shore, and what seemed to be at least 100 scary pirates filing off of the deck

it really was about 30 lanky men who enjoyed singing sea shanties in their free time

but jeno’s warm smile and honey like voice immediately put them at ease

kids would run out to the beach when The Flora came into view

they gravitated towards the lure of a pirate lifestyle

johnny and yukhei loved to bring the children on board and let them explore

yuta and doyoung loved to show them the bounties they brought in

renjun and donghyuck told them ghost pirate stories while kun and jaemin were there to comfort afterwards

everyone greeted the crew of The Flora with big smiles each time they entered their shops

sometimes he’d be bearing gifts, other times they would send him off with goods for his travels

although he loved the town and his parents, he could never stay away from the sea for too long

it was like it called to him

the freedom he felt was like no other

funnily enough, jeno hated anchors

anchors meant being tied down, having to pick a place to stay

the idea of being somewhere for longer than a few days made his skin crawl

that is, until he met you

you worked in the small outpost for sea trade your family owned

the little shed was tucked into the rocks by the beach

you watched every time The Flora pulled in

you hoped one day your dream of a handsome pirate would come true

but anytime one walked in they reeked of fish, had unkempt hair and stained clothes

yeah you didn't want to kiss any of those bearded faces

you thought you saw some cute boys leave the ship but you had never gone out to meet any of them

you kinda hoped they would come by instead

one day you were writing in your journal, daydreaming to the sounds of the waves you grew to love so much

someone knocked on the door to get your attention

when you looked up, you were breathless

he walked in with sun kissed skin, saltwater making his hair curly

he wore a white button up blouse with lace details at the collar and sleeves

black pants and tall, black boots

his smile was unlike anything you had ever seen

he had clean teeth!! white teeth!! who knew pirates could have nice teeth!!

and his eyes

his eyes sparkled and when he grinned at you his eyes turned into crescent moons reflecting off the water

he was beautiful

you introduced yourselves

you found yourself rolling his name over and over on your tongue quietly

little did you know he was doing the same

he showed you the few silver treasures he had hoping to sell them

among them was a small anchor pendant he had received from a blacksmith on a far away island

jeno noticed how your eyes lingered on it a little too long

his gaze moved from your awestruck expression to the journal you had been writing in when he entered

an anchor was stamped into the front of the brown leather cover

before you turned back to count up how much he would be getting, he pulled the charm back into his sleeve

“oh, how did that get in there? this isn't for sale, im sorry about that.” he mumbled

he saw your face fall slightly, as you had planned to buy it back from your father once it was the store’s

you two had a small conversation and exchanged the items for money

your hand brushed against his and his skin was dry from the salt and sun, but it still made your heart skip a beat

he bowed a little and thanked you for your kindness

you tried your hardest to wipe the longing from your face as you watched him head back to the boat

jeno entered the captain's quarters with a feeling in his chest he couldn't explain

as he began to put the money away, mark, a crew member he had known since he was little, walked by

he noticed the change in jeno immediately and asked him if he felt okay

the younger boy nodded, hoping the red on his face would be mistaken for sunburn

he made his way to his parents house, determined to find out more about you

after many questions and “no reason, just wondering” responses, jeno was even more intrigued

he made a note in his mind

new voyage, new treasure

jeno returned a few times, each time flirtier than the last

some days he didn’t even bring any treasures, visiting under the pretense of “just checking your stock”

“jeno, you’re the only ship at the island, how could we have new stock?”

“well you know, someone could've docked overnight or something...”

you two became fast friends

you loved hearing of his adventures, he just loved talking to you

now you just expected him to be there each morning

you didn't expect for him to be holding a sweet from the bakery, however

“is this okay? we've never talked about our favorite foods and i didn't know what to get you but if not i can go back-”

“jeno, it’s perfect.”

each time you interrupted his rambles you loved to watch his furrowed brows smooth out and see his mouth pull up in a grin

he was always worried he was doing something wrong

but you were always there to reassure him

one morning, he arrived surprised to find you asleep on the counter

he smiled, taking in your features

he hesitantly raised his hand to push your hair away from your face, hoping not to startle you

as his fingertips brushed your cheek, he heard the message loud and clear ringing between his ears

you were the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on

you woke up to jeno staring down at you

lovingly?

he apologized profusely for waking you

you explained profusely that it was okay

he cleared his throat

"i was wondering if i could see you,” he started

“like, see you somewhere other than your job. maybe i could take you out tonight,”

your heart thumped against your ribs

“i mean only if you’d like to,” he scratched the back of his neck, realizing this was a little sudden considering you just woke up

“and it would seem a little weird if a scary pirate took you on his ship for the night and i dont want your family to freak out, so do you know of a place we could go? only if you want to-”

“jeno, i do.”

his face lit up like the summer sun

“you do?”

it took all of his self control to not hug you right then and there

“i do, and i know just the place we can go.”

jeno glowed all day

that night as the sun dipped below the horizon you led jeno to the top of the rocks above your outpost

you two talked under the stars for hours

you didn't leave until you knew you were barely gonna be able to function at work the next day

you felt a light in your chest that wasn't there before

jeno became a part of your routine

he’d greet you each morning, go off to do “pirate business” as he put it, and meet you at your spot each night

you found yourself opening up to this “intimidating” pirate and questioned if this was the right thing to do

soon it became impossible to watch the night sky without holding him

he’d tuck you under his chin and you'd wrap your arms around his waist

your ear pressed to his chest gave you your new favorite sound

the waves were drowned out by his heartbeat and the vibrations of his voice

just having him near felt warm and safe and right

he wasnt scary, or anything like anyone you'd met before

he was just jeno

jeno with sun dried skin and soft moon eyes and lips you desperately wanted to know the taste of

jeno with incredible stories of islands and treasure that you desperately wanted to be a part of

but what was scary was falling for him so quickly

“im so sorry,” he whispered into your hair one night

you felt your eyes shut, knowing what was coming, expecting it

you knew he was a traveler, you couldn't take that away from him

you would be an anchor

a burden

he had already stayed on your island for a month, he was going to have to go back out eventually

and it would hurt both of you

you couldn't leave home forever

and he couldn't stay forever

you began to push him away

you would say hi in the mornings and leave your spot early on into the nights

you'd force yourself to get out of his grasp and trudge away with a heavy weight on your shoulders

and jeno swore he could hear his heart break in his chest

when he watched you come up with excuses to leave the rocks each night he wished on every star in the sky that things would be okay

he knew what you were doing, and it was terrifying

for the first time in his life, brave pirate jeno was afraid of something

losing you

you pushed him away night after night, closing yourself off to him

you wouldn't let him hold you close, you barely spoke

‘just until he leaves,’ you kept telling yourself, ‘once he's gone it’ll be easy to forget him’

the night before his ship was scheduled to go, he was already at your spot when you arrived

jeno waited until you sat down beside him, staring off at the water as he spoke

“i've never had a home,” he started

‘this was it,’ you thought, ‘he’s gonna sail away and take my heart with him’

“ive traveled all over the ocean. ive stopped at countless places. ive met so many people,”

“ive never had a home. ive never wanted to stay anywhere for more than a few weeks. there never was any reason to,”

‘here it comes’ you felt like you were going to fall and tumble into the sea below

he turned to face you, a look written across his features you've never seen before

“you are my home.”

what?

you waited, not realizing you were holding your breath until he began again

“you are my home. home isn't a place, its a person, a feeling. and i would stay anywhere if it meant being with you. i would stay forever if forever was in your arms.”

“jeno-”

“please hear me out.” his voice cracked with an emotion you couldn't pin, fear? urgency?

“i know its unfair. its unfair that i did this to you. i leave. i fell for you and forgot that leaving is what i do. i cant ask you to come with me. but if you want me to stay, id give the ship to one of my men and stay right here with you.”

“jeno you-”

“please let me finish.”

“ive been attacked by other pirates, ive been on a sinking ship, ive sailed through shark infested water, but ive never been as scared as i am right now.”

he picked up your hand and placed it over his heart

it was beating just as fast as yours

“you are the greatest treasure i could ever find. i love you and i would be foolish to leave you on this island in search of more silver cups or red rubies-”

you pulled on his shirt and brought his mouth to yours

his lips were chapped but they tasted of coconut

they were warm against your own

he moved slowly, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek

his other hand found yours resting against his chest

the rhythm of your kiss matching that of the waves kissing the shoreline

“jeno-” you whispered against him, pulling away just enough to see into his eyes

“i can’t ask you to give up sailing, but i love you too much to let you go. i can wait for you. i can stay here and be yours, and you can be mine, and when you come home ill still be yours. ill always be yours. i can-”

this time it was his turn to quiet your rambling

he pushed you to lay back onto the rock and pressed open mouth kisses to different parts of your lips

he kissed you for what felt like hours, until your lips were puffy and red and you two were breathless

he helped you sit up and then he rested his forehead on yours

“i have something for you.”

you couldn't imagine how he could make your heart happier than it already was

he reached into his pocket and placed his hand inside yours, depositing the small anchor pendant into your palms

it was on a beautiful silver chain, and when you examined it closely, there were now two small pearls on the tips of the anchor

“the black pearl represents protection,” jeno opened the clasp to place it around your neck, “i will always keep you safe.”

you turned around and felt yourself shiver

at his words or his breath against your skin you didn't know

“the blue pearl symbolizes true love.” he said into the shell of your ear, pressing a small kiss to it

he held you until the sunrise, falling asleep to the sound of your heart

when he woke the next morning, you were still there, fingers intertwined with his

he knew you'd always be there

you always were there

you sent jeno off with a full heart and the taste of coconut lingering in your mouth

but you knew he’d be back

he always came back

anytime you missed him you touched your necklace

anytime he missed you he would write you letters in your brown leather notebook

sometimes he took you on small trips to nearby islands and you got to watch your boyfriend in action

you became his pearl, his greatest treasure

and when The Flora did return from voyages, the kids still lined up, the townspeople still smiled, and you still felt your heart race

jeno, a little sunburnt and homesick? yes, but leaving?

never

you also became his anchor, but it wasn’t such a terrible thing to stop and stay for a little while

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zehypocriticaloath · 6 years ago

Text

Shared Nightmare pt.1

(incredibly long, my bad. Hopefully this makes up for my long absence)

The cacophonous echoes of his footsteps bounced against the barren, weathered walls. Those walls were erected in such a fashion that they still boasted of a long ago purpose, of this building and its myriad of labyrinthine hallways once being grand and pristine, free of decay and taint and filth. But now those walls were pockmarked with structural blemishes; chips and flecks instead of moles or scarring, and holes and crumbling concrete in place of cancerous boils. This building once had beautiful features, a beautiful face, that invited all into its many halls and many doorways with the offered premise of help and care. But now it was rotted and slumped, half dilapidated unto itself, like a gnarled old hag beckoning wayward lost souls into a timeless trap.

This place… was a hospital. It had to be. Even with the dust and mildew clinging to the air like a scorned heretic, he could smell the heavy stench of sanitizing agents and chemicals. He had gotten used to picking out the distinct differences when it came to the smells of a hospital. From the smell of medicines and sterilizing agents to the sickeningly sweet smell of a diseased body, sweating and wasting away as it languished in bed. He was used to everything. After all, he had spent a long time immersed in the atmosphere of a hospital. He was a doctor in his own right. Or he should have been. Either way, the past was the past, and his legal standings on whether or not he was a proper doctor had long been pushed aside. Nevertheless, his training, and his first-hand experiences dealt with hospitals and their diseased clientele had given him all the practice he had needed. His keen senses had become accustomed to the different medicines and chemicals used in his profession, and he knew the olfactory differences between sickness and health.

Yes. He could smell it all. He could make sense of it all. Except for the bleach. Cleaning and sterilizing a hospital was important, but this smell was overwhelming. The sickening, strong, cloying and all but suffocating stench of bleach took his breath away and made his lungs burn. Bleach that failed to wash away the taint and the filth and the disgusting grime that caked every surface and clung to every piece of furniture. Dirtied sludge and unsettling ichor, slipping down the wall, crusted every inch of this damnable place. The more this place had been cleaned, the more the creeping crud had all but encroached upon every spotless surface, every immaculate corner. Filth overtook purity in the end.

The lights overhead were worn out and flickering, the bulbs themselves struggling to make the filaments within functional. The shuttering glimpses of light toyed with the mind, casting loathsome shadows that shifted and morphed in their startling forms. A hunched over beast in one corner, a horned madman with a machete in the other. The color of the place didn’t help. It was gray and worn, walls the grimy pallor of a waxen corpse. Machines and medical instruments lay strewn about, as if the whole place had been disturbed by a self-made whirlwind, decades ago. Clotted bags and tubing of expired blood hung off their iv hooks, their grotesque and lumpy forms twisting, like fed and bloated snakes. They shifted and turned with the slightest hint of movement and wind.

His eagle-eye could make out the various shapes and lumps in the semi-flickering darkness: a scalpel here, a stethoscope there. He scoured the decimated objects and could see-- past the broken tables, and chairs, and the flung sheets and tossed about gurneys, of course-- that there were familiar machines and tools important for a particular profession, a particular career path in medicine.

The entire thing painted a picture. The devices he saw, the tools he bore witness to…

He gravitated towards a caved in table, the wood half-eaten by termites. He could see the squirming, writhing lumps of larvae wiggling in and out of the holes they created. The wood looked spongy now. At least it did on the outside. Who knew what the wood looked like on the inside. Had the termites gnawed out burrowing tunnels throughout the table's legs?

On its surface lay strewn a varying gamut of tools, each filthy and rusted, and long going without the proper protocols of sanitation or care.

A curved piece of metal grabbed his attention. To the unknowing eye, or at least to someone without little to no medical knowledge, they would have looked like tweezers, or perhaps some sort of pliers. The tips of their blunt ends met together, grooved teeth seemingly locking it into place, with two long handles and the two looped holdings for fingers, red with rust. He could see the dried on visceral gore left behind from some patient, or, perhaps, some victim.

A hemostat. That is what he was holding in his hands. He knew what it was. He had used one many times during his career. It was used to clamp off blood vessels or anything that was bleeding out during surgery or a procedure. Though these typically were used throughout the various medical fields, one subject, in particular, came to mind.

His mind told him the obvious. It told him, now, what all these wayward, lost instruments were for, who would have used them, and the age. The finely tuned age of some of these things. Some had been used in the 30s, while some… a bit more recently. But he recognized them all. He recognized every single tool-- from the lowly scalpel to the hemostat he now held in his hand-- he understood by putting together every single piece. He formed a picture. He formed a picture that stood resolute and solid, the only thing of such astounding clarity and sense. It was the only thing that he could make out; the answer that stood out among the filth and grime of this medical hellhole.

Ah, yes. The vascular system.

Someone in this place had worked on hearts.

The cardiovascular system was never a supreme topic of interest for him. He, Aldous, the eldest of the Haswell twins and first to enter medical school, had found the overall study of the cardiovascular system to be rather droll. Of course he understood and recognized its importance in the human body. Without the heart, the body would die. But his interests migrated towards an even tougher study. One that, to this day, he found delicious dark irony in all that it stood for.

He preferred the study of the brain over the study of the heart.

He furrowed his brow in concentration as he turned the hemostat over in his hand. This instrument brought back memories. Most of them were not good. Most of them involved the hostile grounds of an unknown territory, the barking of orders in one’s ears, the acrid smoke of gunpowder and destruction as the world had become embroiled in a detestable war. But like this hospital with its permeating stench of mildew and sanitizer, the memories faded away, but still it lingered. Like ghosts haunting the cemetery of his mind, the memories flickered back and forth, ducking between tombstones of thought, waiting, oh, just waiting to muddle clarity with his nightmares.

But his head was clear now. And as he put down the hemostat and returned it to its previously rotting state, he marveled at the fact his head was clear. There were no voices in his head screeching at him, bringing up his failures and his innermost insecurities. His head was quiet and clear, like an undisturbed lake in the presence of a thawing springtime. Clear and immaculate. Without taint, without violence, without chaos.

Without sickness.

This had to be a dream. Nothing else made sense. Even in his happiest moments, with medication pumping through his veins, they were always there. The voices, those whispers. Lurking, waiting. A thin, cruel voice, all too familiar but all too strange. Its only desire was to tear him apart and to plant doubt in his already paranoid mind.

Silence! Yes, indeed, he heard nothing in his mind. His mind seemed to be hollow. Nothing there, nothing to be found, but his own controlled thoughts. Such strange, new, uncharted territory.

And so, as he moved further down the decaying hallway of the hospital, his footfalls echoing off of chipped tile and flooring, he couldn’t help but come to the grim conclusion that he was in a nightmare. Another one, perhaps. One of his many night terrors that plagued and haunted his mind. But he thought this with such clarity and lucidity that that alone perturbed him more than the idea of another night terror robbing him of much needed sleep.

And yet, if that were true, and this was yet another night terror come to torture his already troubled mind, then why did he have such strong senses? Why did he smell and feel? He swore he could smell the stench of bleach, of chemicals and of sickness. He swore he had felt the rusted metal of that hemostat against the palm of his hand. He swore, and swore, and swore, but his confidence reverberated silently against the decaying walls of this hospital from hell until his confidence returned to him, a pathetic whimper of its former self.

He called out. His voice bounced back to him, drifting along the stagnant hall with the echoed mockery of a false ally. He called again. Nothing. Just his echoed return, and just the echoing footfalls as he made his way deeper into the bowels of the hospital. But those footsteps echoed less, and began to splash more.

Splashing?

The deeper he went, the more he became aware of a thin, visceral layer of fluid coating the ground. Not enough to really soak into his shoes, but enough to betray his given location if it came down to the usual ending of his night terrors. Being chased was never a fun thing to experience right before waking up. Especially when you were being chased by that hulking, mindless beast, Vladi--

A noise. He heard… a noise. A soft, almost hiccuping sound. Gentle in its tone, but bittersweet in its timbre. Lilting, melodic, but also discordant and warped. It snagged at his heart, making it hurt in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

“Is anyone there,” Aldous cried out in his native language. His voice was harsh and short, with a crisp, tempered feel about his tone. “Answer me! Is anyone there?”

Silence. The silence of creaking wood and crumbling walls. The silence of scuttling rats, disappearing into their infested hidey-holes. The silence of dripping water, steady and rhythmic in its falling pulses. The silence of death and rot and decay, the great ending to life’s story.

Moving over to a warped closed door, he pressed his ear to the aged wood. He tried to focus on the sounds within, to try and hear some sort of sign that might betray what hid within the next room.

Nothing.

Another door. The same repeated process. This yielded no result. With bated breath-- was he even breathing in this hellish dreamworld?-- he quieted himself in order to listen to what lay beyond. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Four more tries, four more doors. The same result each time. It maddened his mind and strung out his nerves, twisting them into a jumbled tangle of agitation.

The fifth door he came across sated his frustration and blunted his nerves. Ear pressed to the wood, he closed his eyes and listened beyond for that strange sound.

He heard… scuffling. Shuffling. Movement from within.

Without trepidation or any sort of logical hesitation, Aldous wrenched the doorknob in a vice like grip and jiggled it harshly. To his surprise the door opened. With a piercing whine of rusted hinges, it slowly swung open to reveal…

A room.

Not like he didn’t expect that. But it was the state of the room, and it's proper hospital decor (or, rather, lack thereof), that puzzled him.

The room was stately in its width and size. There was a long reception counter towards the middle of the room, a strange oblong rectangle shape that was missing one side, allowing entrance within. Only that. A counter, with no chairs for patients could sit in. A reception area without a welcoming vibe. Papers and files were dashed upon the surface of the counter like seashells tossed onto a beach shore; haphazardly and without rhyme or reason. The walls were once uniformly white, the common staple for many hospitals. But the walls had yellowed with age, with posters and other such health propaganda hanging from the walls, peeling away like rotten rind from a fruit. He could make out the text of those posters and pieces of paper, even with the flickering lights overhead.

Das Krankenhaus, he read on one of the posters. Of course. This was a German hospital. It made sense. After all, the fatherland was his home. Deutsche was the first language he had ever learned. He may know English and a smattering of other languages, but he was the most comfortable with Deutsche. He was born in Germany and lived in Meissen. He had gone to a med school there for higher learning. He had, briefly, worked at a hospital for his schoolwork in his hometown. How could he not be familiar with German hospitals? Of course everything would be in a language he understood. That made perfect sense to his imperfect mind. Why wouldn't it?

But it also didn't make sense. He had read something where dreams never had words written in the languages you knew. Dreams were made of a number of jumbled up bastardized languages that made no sense; words that had unfamiliar shapes and sounds to their pronunciations. But he understood this. He knew what those posters were saying.

He walked along the posters, squinting at them in the semi-dark, cursing his half-blind state, wishing he had two functional eyes instead of one. But with time and care, he began to read them off under his breath.

Take your vitamins. Take your medications as prescribed. The doctor is a friend, don’t be afraid of him.

Standard stuff. Posters with smiling chubby children and the doctors who were taking care of them. The saccharine sweet false smiles of the nurses and of the dressed up looking mothers, their blissfully unaware children in tow. It made Aldous sick. Such blasphemous false pretenses.

He continued.

Come in to get that cough looked at. Fight illness and sickness with proper care. Fight disease. Fight tuberculosis. Listen to your body. Obey your body. Obey your health. Obey. Obey. Obey.

Aldous blinked. The posters were changing, warping. Images were shifting. Words were slithering around the surfaces like snakes rearranging themselves to form a proper, better message.

Support your nation and support the army. Listen to what others are saying. Are they spies? Are they degenerates? Are they weak minded citizens that will bring down the strength of our nation? Protect your nation. Notify your friendly polic--

No, wait. That didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. These posters suddenly changing their logos and captions didn’t make sense. The ominous feeling he got didn’t make sense. And the sudden piercing pang to his left temple threw him off.

Snarling, he pressed his palm against his head. It was intense, throbbing. His face screwed up into an agonized mask. Pain. Pain. He wasn’t supposed to feel pain in a dream. Not even in a nightmare. This felt like what he imagined a lobotomy to feel like. A pick driven straight into the brain. Deeper, and deeper, and deeper,

and

[ CR-ACK ]

D E E P E R.

He stumbled back and away from the posters, buffeted by a blast of baseless, cold wind. It whipped at his face, ripping the posters off of the wall, flinging them at him. With unsteady hands he grabbed them from the air and shredded them in his spiteful rage.

The twisting pain stopped. The wind stopped. The attack of the papers stopped.

Everything stopped.

The gust died away, and the whirlwind of posters settled at his feet. He stood his ground, surrounded by a mound of disgusting propaganda.

He could feel his body tremble with rage. Slowly he raised his gaze up towards the walls, where the posters had previously been hung before the unknown but sudden gust of wind had ripped them astray. He expected to see warped walls or crumbling plaster and concrete, but something was hung in the place of those posters.

Paintings. But not just any painting. Not a series of different paintings, either. The most abstract concept he had ever seen in his life, copied over and over, hung in a militant straight row, one beside the other. Blank canvases, mostly white and devoid of any properly painted imagery, saved for a grotesque smear of cloudy gray across their middles. Same placement, same smear, same color. An unsightly blemish that caused Aldous to mentally recoil at how discordant it all seemed. He could sense the chaos and unbridled uncertainty that came with those marks.

Something wasn’t right. He felt an overwhelming sense of dread wash over him. He stumbled back once more, his footing unsure. He heard splashing. The water from the corridor hall-- it was now leaking into the room, making the floor a little slick. Like a sinister oil spill nearby, the water spread out and into the room, the thin river-like veins stretching out to reach every distant corner of the ill-begotten place.

He had to get out of there. He had to wake up. His mind was playing tricks on him, and the night terror was taking hold. He couldn’t make sense of the paintings. He couldn’t make sense of the flickering lights. He couldn’t make sense of the distant sounds of anguish and turmoil. He could hear it-- yes, yes! The sounds! The cries! Of chaos, the sins committed, of their wrought hell! The anguished cries not of a hospital, but of war.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt the floor beneath him tremble and shake. There was a great rumbling sound from below and above, as if the very foundation had been shaken loose by the force of some bomb. With a lurching, stumbling step he made his way to the receptionist check-in counter, tripping against it and falling over the paper strewn surface. He landed behind the counter itself. The safety of the closed in space did not comfort him. He still had his unsteadiness. The paintings rattled and trembled, shaking like leaves in the wind. The papers, sodden from the water, trembled until they disintegrated into the liquid; no pulp, no residue, no reminder of those violent, cruel words.

“Goddammit,” he wrathfully spat under his breath. He braced himself against the counter, nails attempting to dig into the solid surface of the floor beneath him for a false sense of security. He could hear the chaos closer than before. He could hear that odd and strange bittersweet sound from earlier, louder than ever. All of this noise, all of this noise! He covered his ears, fearful the noise would attract the whispers and draw out his own personal hell from within his mind.

The noise, the noise, the noise.

Obey. Obey. Obey.

The gray smear across canvas. The dripping water from the ceiling, like tears. The rusted tools, filthy from disuse and lack of proper sanitation. Tools from the past, familiar and uncomfortable. The smell of bleach, strong and rank. Bleach to cleanse the rooms of filth and taint and grime, but still, the disgusting ichor crept ever closer. Threatening to cover up everything, to smother it all in its wake.

“Make it stop,” Aldous bellowed out in desperation, his voice raised so high that his words cracked. “Make it stop! Make it stop! Stop!”

The sounds melded together into a long, agonizing wail, like that of a siren. A siren alerting of an invasion. Of bombs. Of the enemy come to slaughter them all.

“Stop, stop!”

He crumpled in on himself, hands still covering his ears. The wailing of the sounds came at him like nails on a chalkboard. Like souls being tortured in limbo. Like the world engulfed in flames, mother nature shrieking out in her death rattle. The noise was too much. He felt himself screaming, his vocal chords straining to be heard over the offensive sound, but nothing escaped his lips.

Silence against the sound. Peace against the chaos. Stillness against motion.

And then… nothing.

Aldous could feel his panicked heart slamming against his ribs. Or perhaps he imagined it. There was no heartbeat to be had. This was a dream-- it had to be. Nothing else made sense. The last thing he remembered was reading a bit before bed, and---

But it was silent. The trembling and shaking had stopped. The world seemed to right itself once more. Slowly he slid his hands away from his ears and he opened his eyes. He was still in that hellish place, cowering behind the receptionist’s counter like some scolded child. Here he was, a fifty-something year old man, petrified and terrified of a nightmare. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

His mind, however, began quarreling with itself. Was this a dream? Or was this reality? Maybe a twisted sub-layer of reality that he had slipped into. Or was this, in itself, one gigantic hallucination on the behalf of his mental illness?

Nothing made sense. But, for the sake of his sanity, he had to make sense of it.

Aldous cast uneasy glances at the papers around him. When he toppled over the counter surface, he must have brought the papers down with him. In the swinging gaze of the flickering lights overhead, he just managed to make out forms. Forms, and profiles, and faces all drawn up on the papers. These clearly weren’t medical files. They were…

Shakily he reached out and plucked a paper out of a fallen pile. He studied it closely. The profile of a man. A strong jaw, a jolly face. Short, shaggy hair and innocent eyes. And what a smile. He wore a smile that radiated with the warmth of the sun. The profile and facial structure spoke of Russian origins, but this wasn’t any Heavy he knew of or recognized.

He peeked over the counter, just to see if the paintings were still on the wall, and if they had changed. Most, if not all, had been knocked down. But none of them changed. Sliding back down to his previous sitting position, he began rifling through the pictures.

They were all expertly done in charcoal and ink. Immaculate in form and poise. Some were faces he didn’t recognize, like that presumed Russian man. Of course, there were people he recognized from the industry he worked for. People who worked for the mercenary business, too. And then there were people and faces he recognized who didn’t work for the industry. People he still knew, but whom were outside of the ugly profession of his.

As he looked through the pictures something caught his eye. Buried beneath the pile was a familiar face. Hesitantly, he uncovered it.

Charcoal, expressively done. The facial structure of the drawn man was unmistakable. The stern set to the man’s jaw, and the imposing nature of his gaze, was inescapably impactful. The regal professionalism, touched with unsettling mania. The countenance of a rebellious raven, full of a hidden fire and an insatiable desire to ram against the system and dismantle what he thought was unjust and unfair.

But one thing stood out when it came to that figure. It wasn’t his gaze, or how his jaw was set. It wasn’t the way his hair was styled, or how he glared out at the viewer with an indiscernible emotion despite his deeply set, intimidating scowl. It was the scar that raked across the man’s face, blinding his one eye. That scar. That damnable scar.

His scar. His face.

This art style. He recognized it. This was his br---

A strangled sound escaped his throat, and a fluttering noise reciprocated his shock. Aldous jumped, startled at the disturbance. He reflexively crumpled the picture in his hands, all but destroying it in a balled up, wrinkled mess. His heart began to thrum again, and he could feel the world subtly shaking once more.

No, no. Not again.

The fluttering! There it was again! A shifting sound, like the wings of a bird. His panicked mind flitted to the notion of his unkindness, and without thinking he pulled himself to his feet, rising up behind the counter to call out to them.

As he did so, he felt his stomach plummet.

The pictures on the walls were replaced. Everything had returned to its proper place (except for the disgusting posters). The paintings were no longer white with an ugly cloudy gray smear across the surfaces. They had form, and color; shape and purpose. Each one told a story. A story that blinded Aldous in its meaning.

A childhood. Two brothers. Family. A father. A grave. A home. Grief and mourning. A star. A mother. Love and safety in a mother's arms. Children growing up. A country torn. A death.

This wasn’t happening. No. No. It couldn't be!

Recognizing the faces of the people and the places depicted, he backed up against the opposite side of the counter, staring at the offensive pictures and their retelling of the past.

A war. Faith lost. A house on fire. A desire to protect. Pain and bandages, burns and a hospital. A mercenary base. The smiling Russian. Blood covering the snow. A death.

The pictures began to rapidly change and morph, the stories being told flitting from one subject to another so quickly that Aldous could no longer keep up. He could only get a faint grasp of the emotions and the vague meanings behind the images. Faces and figures began to run, like watercolors bleeding and oils melting off of the canvas surface.

Hatred and resentment. Cold and standoffish. Distant and closed off. Unsocial, uncaring, uncertain. Defensively fearful. Fear. Fear. Fear.

His racing mind tried to make sense of it all. The painted faces and places continued to become heavily distorted, warping with each passing second. A gruesome guise of horror; the terror of life.

A fractured family. A fractured personality. A grudge. A fight. Blame. Pain. Love found. Acceptance. Understanding and grief. Reconciliation. Faith found. Joy. Brief but glorious joy. A crash. Lost and alone. Pain. Sadness. Worthlessness. Uselessness.

Aldous took a step forward, as if to get a better look at the paintings hung up all along the walls, but he felt the ground shift beneath him.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

With a startling cry, the ground gave way beneath him. A crack like thunder ripped through the air. The floor crumbled and fell away, great chunks of structure and tile falling into the great maw of darkness. And he, too, fell. He fell despite his poor attempt at reaching out, hoping to grab onto that counter. But he fell down into the darkness, that never ending void. He looked upwards as he fell; the hole above him, created by the caved in flooring, remained the only small spot of lighted hope he had. It grew dimmer and more distant as he fell. Hopeless in its crushing entirety.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

The light of hope grew dimmer.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

The rush of the fall ended as he slammed into something. Something that gave way beneath him, allowing his intrusive form to fall into it. A rush of icy coldness enveloped his being, and his body reflexively thrashed in his turmoil.

His ears popped as the pressure changed around him. Pressure, so much pressure. He couldn't breathe. Had he been able to breathe?

No, no, no.

Water. He had fallen into a vast, deep, dark ocean.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

He couldn’t see anything around him. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t feel anything except the mind-numbing cold. He opened his mouth to unwittingly cry out, but in the inky darkness only bubbles escaped him. Water rushed in. His throat was strangled. His world was spinning. He thrashed. He struggled. He tried to make sense of his current state, his direction.

Discordance. Disconnection. Despair.

Was up really up? Was down really down?

Drowning.

Aldous bolted upright in bed, assaulted by his panic and dread. His still groggy mind swirled with the remnants of that nightmare. He felt drenched. He could feel that a cold sweat had settled on his clammy skin, and his body was numb and cold. His fingers were tingling from how tightly he had clutched the twisted up covers.

His chest rose and fell with each labored breath. Instinctively he reached over beside him, but, alas, he felt an empty space. Ah, that was right. Alexei Rosencoff, his beloved Heavy, had decided to sleep over in the greenhouse to make sure he got up, bright and early, to get a head start on his ‘springtime planting’.

His fingers curled in on themselves as he dragged his hand away from Alexei’s empty space. He could hear the gentle snoring sounds coming from his beloved ravens. A quick glance over at his dresser and table told him that his meagerly small unkindness had all gathered about his room and bedded down for the night, keeping him company in the absence of the gardener.

His beloved children cared about him. How it warmed his heart.

Flopping back down, Aldous let his head hit the pillow with an air of finality. He stared up at the dark ceiling, replaying the nightmare over and over in his mind. The hospital, the filth. The posters, the paintings, the pictures. The tools, familiar and uncomfortable. The piercing pain to his temple, the mirroring of a lobotomy. The water, the shaking, the hole. The falling down, down, down.

Drowning in that ocean abyss, detached from the world and everyone around you. Staring up at that tiny hole, far, far above, the only lighted source of hope to be found. But he couldn’t reach it. He just couldn’t reach it.

He felt himself trembling. Reaching up, he wiped at his eyes and was surprised to find moisture. Had he been crying? No, no. It was only a nightmare. Only a nightmare.

He told himself this several times, but he found no comfort in his mental repetition.

A voice from his past drifted to his mind. Such a sweet voice, feminine and kind. It sang to him a lilting mantra that served to settle his troubled soul and mind.

The morning is here, there is nothing to fear, the shadows have all gone away.

Repeating that line several times in his head, he forced himself to close his eyes. Soon it would be morning. He would wake up, make his coffee, and take his medication. Alexei would return for breakfast, and all would be well. The world would stop spinning and the walls would stop dripping. His nasty voices would leave him be. The chaos of that nightmare would be gone from his mind. No more filth, or rust, or ichor. No more water soaked floors and paintings gone awry.

Sleep did not come for him, however. He languished in the state between sleep and awareness, and he became tortured over the replaying memories of that nightmare and the faint hissing at the back of his mind.

Somehow… it all seemed familiar. But of course it had! Of course it was! He saw his mother and his father in those paintings. Their faces were mostly obscured, as if the oil paints that had been used to capture their image had been smeared forcefully, like wax melting, but he couldn’t miss them. He had easily recognized them. So of course the paintings would seem familiar. The events in those paintings… he could identify some of them. He had lived through them. He had seen his family thrive and his family die. But the other events? The kind smiling man, the blood on the snow, and the myriad of disconnected emotions and traumatic experiences... those did not seem familiar. Those memories seemed warped; to come from another source, another memory. They came from another person’s memory entirely.

As the first beams of watery, weak light crested over the alpine mountain range surrounding the base, Aldous had to wonder if that wasn’t a typical nightmare. Indeed, even as the snow lazily flitted about outside, and the frozen base began to rouse itself once more, the doctor obsessively ran over the details of the nightmare in his mind.

There was only one conclusion he could make.

The blizzard. The blizzard… would be stopping soon. In a day, perhaps. In two. At least slow down enough to go over there and check on---

The morning is here, there is nothing to fear, the shadows have all gone away.

He had lost his sense of time. He had somehow gotten out of bed, relieved himself with a trip to the infirmary’s bathroom, and had begun to ritual of making his coffee. And as he stood there, exhausted and slightly disheveled, idly turning on the coffee maker… he began to realize something.

Perhaps the nightmare he had was not of his own.

Perhaps… it had been his twin’s.

- - - -

[Pt. 1]

[P.t 2]

[P.t 3]

[Pt. 3.5]

[Pt. 4]

[Pt. 5]

[Pt. 6]

#writing featuring Aldous #writing featuring Aldo #Demented Dreamworld

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