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beccarooni · 4 years ago

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The End - Chapter 1

(Infinity war AU: Loki lives and leaves the Statesman with Bruce Banner. Multi chapter fic, enjoy the ride babes xo)

taglist: @woahthisguy (ask to be added if u like!)

When Loki woke, part of him still thought that he was on the Statesman. Still aboard that cursed vessel, with smoke filling his lungs and the maddening glare of the stones shining before his eyes. Rays of sunlight filtered into his vision, and he felt broken wood under his fingertips - but part of him still expected to see Thanos’s golden boot step into his vision. Still expected to see his brother, bloodied and bruised, a lifeless body tossed beside him. Expected to hear his last pained scream as the power stone touched his head, to smell the ozone building in the air and to see the final flash of lightning that would signal his brother’s journey into Valhalla.

What he heard was the sound of birds.

Muffled by walls, but there. Birds, nature, the faint sounds of traffic and conversation bleeding in through the ringing in his hears. He opened his eyes, grunting slightly as he felt splintered beams digging into his side from where he fell. A neat hole in the ceiling signalled his entry; he stared up at the familiar sun and sky, and let his eyes fall shut again with a groan.

Midgard.

But not just anywhere in Midgard. He inhaled the musty air, coughing out the dust from his throat. Magic - he could sense it everywhere. It clung to every surface of this place, seeping into the floorboards with a familiar sense of order and learning. Not just magic - sorcery.

Loki sat up. Pulled himself out of the hole he’d created in the floor, and almost buckled under the weight of the familiarity of this place. The Sorcerer’s Home. Where he’d been suspended in animation for over half an hour, only to be dropped onto the marbled floor and told that they were going to see Odin. He remembered Thor’s voice, then. That was one of the last times he’d sounded like himself. Before the Norns had twisted the last few strands of their monstrous tapestry, and brought their world crashing down around them. Around Thor, to put it more aptly. Loki had shed no tears for Odin. Hadn’t felt the same coiled rage in the pit of his stomach as when Frigga had died. But it had signalled the beginning of the End, for them. The beginning of Ragnarok. The twisted path that had dragged them from Midgard to Sakaar to Asgard and finally to a barely held together spaceship crawling through the stars.

And then to oblivion.

Loki flexed his fingers, stepping onto the cold marble floors, and allowed himself a moment of respite. This wasn’t good. Out of the frying pan, and into the proverbial fire. Midgard may have meant refuge for Thor, but not for him.

Voices sounded from outside the doors. Loki stepped quickly, pressing himself against the wall - not that it would do any good. The Sorcerer had sensed them from oceans away, last time. He could pluck him out of thin air if he so chose, and deposit him at his feet. But it felt right, at least. Sensible. Slinking his way in and out of the shadows was what he was used to, and he needed some familiarity right now. Stability in any form; even if it was just a repeated motion from a lifetime that was now obsolete.

“The Avengers broke up. We’re toast.” Smooth, honeyed tones from beyond the door; a voice that could have been roughed with anger, but the edges smoothed down into something more palatable. Stark.

“What do you mean, broke up? Like a band? Like the Beatles?” Another voice sounded off - this one inquisitive, confused, but still with a certain fog - like someone coming out of a long sleep, trying to recount a dream that was fading rapidly. Banner, then.

Loki leaned back against the wall, silently cursing his luck. Of all people he encountered, it had to be Stark. Someone who Loki’s last fond memory of was tossing him out of a window - and even that was marred with the faint blue tint of the mind stone’s power. He couldn’t even enjoy throwing Stark out of that window. Couldn’t even take credit for it, really.

He shifted his fingers again, feeling the familiar steel of his dagger morph into life in his hands. That brought a little comfort, at least. Even if he knew in his heart he wasn’t in much shape to fight off the Avengers right now.

He had Banner to vouch for him - maybe. But Banner didn’t have the same trust in him that Thor had. And Thor wasn’t here to echo that sentiment to his allies, because Thor was dea-

“Thor’s gone.” Banner’s voice resounded off the walls again, subdued and uncertain.

Loki didn’t know why that word suddenly made him so angry.

Gone implied things. It implied uncertainty; that they didn’t know where Thor was, or what had happened to him. Gone implied that Thor could come back. Gone implied hope.

It wasn’t Banner’s fault. He didn’t know any better, didn’t know the full extent of what Thanos could do.

Loki did.

And maybe that’s what drove him out of the shadows, moving just beyond the doorway to stand in the light.

“Thor isn’t gone. He’s dead.” Loki almost winced at his own voice - rough and jagged and far from the silver tongued smoothness he was used to.

But the look on Stark’s face almost made up for it. Alarm creeping into the eyes beneath the sunglasses, a memory of when Loki had last seemed glorious. Unstoppable. A raging inferno fanned by the mind stone, laying waste to Midgard’s streets with an army of monsters at his side. Memories of grand speeches and golden horns. Stark’s hands twitched, grabbing onto a small cord at the collar of his shirt that would probably unfold into some trinket or other, meant to blast him across the room with a quippy one liner to follow it.

Banner’s eyes widened for a moment, but softened just as fast, and he took a few steps forward. Not all the way - he was still too smart to move all the way - but enough. Enough for a placating gesture, at least.

“We don’t know that, Loki. He could’ve escaped, he could’ve-”

“Correction - you don’t know that. I do. Thanos wouldn’t leave someone like him alive.” Loki shook his head, a hollow laugh forcing its way out of his lips. “He was too much of a threat.”

“The Tesseract?” The voice of the sorcerer from his side caused Loki to turn, meeting Strange’s scrutinizing gaze with what he hoped was a mask of steel.

“Thanos has it. And the power stone.”

“Then he’ll be coming for the rest.” One gloved hand drifted idly to the necklace around Strange’s neck, his face setting in grim resignation.

“I’m sorry, am I missing something? Why are we all standing here talking to this guy? Last time I checked, he was working with Thanos, and was very much in favour of - I don’t know, murdering us all?”

Stark finally jarred himself out of whatever train of thought he’d been following, moving forward to grab Banner by the arm - like a mother, reaching out to snatch her children from sticking their hand into a campfire.

“Tony, it’s fine. Well, it’s not fine. But Loki’s with us on this one.” Banner shrugged his shoulders, batting at Stark’s hand with a twinge of embarrassment.

Stark scoffed, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation.

“So I’m just supposed to trust him because, what? It’s a ‘long story’?”

“Oh, God no. But he is on our side.” Bruce frowned, gesturing at Loki listlessly. “Look, do you think he’d look like that if he was working with Thanos?”

Loki shot him a glare, but tilted his dagger upwards to try and catch a blurred glimpse at his reflection. Even in the unclear mirror, he couldn’t deny that Banner was right. Soot smudged along his cheeks, rimming the glaring red cuts on his face with black. Dark circles stamped under his eyes, there was blood beneath his fingernails. He looked unhinged.

A stretch of the neck, a flex of the fingers, a flash of gold, and he was whole again. The grime still clung to his skin, but it was hidden now, at least. He tilted his chin up, spreading his hands out wide.

“I am not here to pick a fight with you, Stark. Nor any of Midgard. But Thanos must be stopped, and you’re going to need more than the Avengers to do it. You can kill me, or imprison me, but buried beneath that colossal ego of yours, you know you need me.”

Stark’s jaw clenched, and for a few moments Loki expected the flash of a cannon and the impact of a missile hitting his chest. What he got instead was a sigh, tight and constrained, and a small nod in Banner’s direction.

“Fine. But if this blows up in my face, you owe me like...a million cups of coffee.”

Banner shrugged, and the three Midgardian’s continued their discussion.

It wasn’t a discussion Loki wanted to participate in - and by their hunched shoulders and wary looks, it wasn’t one he was privy to, either. Which was just fine by him. He tapped his fingers against his elbows, and wandered about the room.

So many artefacts that he hadn’t paid attention to last time. This room hummed with magic, every table, every chair, every floorboard was steeped in it; like fragranced smoke clinging to a curtain.

He overheard some of the conversation, of course. Talks of a great battle between their Captain America and the Iron Man; a rift between the team that had grown into a chasm - one that strangely he hoped would be mended. Not for their sake, of course; it would just be easier to fight Thanos if they all united as one, and fought together rather than apart, and -

Norns, he was starting to sound like Thor. He shut his eyes, shrugging his shoulders to try and rid himself of the sentiment. It was funny what a few moments of desperation could do to you. The death of his mother, and he worked with Thor again. The death of his father, and he saved a world he swore to hate. The death of his brother, and now he was talking of comradery with the Avengers.

Banner kept casting looks at him from across the room. Worried looks, but not for his own safety - at least, not entirely. Banner looked worried for him, and for some reason that filled him with vitriol, anger that was acidic and spiteful.

Banner thought he was exaggerating. He still saw Thor as a golden hero, unbreakable and untouchable. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know that it was better for Thor to be dead. That when Loki said that Thor’s fate was sealed, it was not out of spite or doubt of Thor’s strength; it was out of hope. Loki would rather kill Thor himself than have him die at the hands of Thanos.

At least Loki’s steel would have been kinder. The flash of silver and the seconds it took for the blood to leave the body would be a mercy, compared to the dazzling pain of the gauntlet. Seconds still felt like seconds, when you were stabbed. The infinity stones stretched those seconds into hours. Loki knew from experience.

Before, he might have relished at the thought of causing Thor pain. Wherever this sentiment had come from, these feelings of care and brotherhood, he wanted them gone. They’d settled on his skin with the dust from Asgard, baked into the clay of his being in the fires of a supernova, watched from a spaceship window. If he had nothing from the beginning, he would’ve been fine. If Thor had died at his hand, hating him, he would’ve been fine.

Thor had died believing in him. And that was so much worse.

Screams erupted from outside, and all four of them glanced towards the doorways.

“God, already? It’s been what, five minutes since you two crash through the window and now we’ve got more party guests?” Stark rubbed at his forehead, probably nursing an oncoming migraine.

“I guess they move fast. Let’s go.” Strange and Stark headed towards the doorway of the sanctum, but Banner lingered behind.

The scientist paused at Loki’s side, looking at him with a gaze that was suddenly inscrutable. No easily provoked anger that Loki could stoke into a wildfire to keep the sadness at bay. No mistrust. Just a hint of sadness, and a twinge of concern in his voice when he asked:

“Are you alright?”

Loki’s hand lifted to his face, feeling the wetness of tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He stared at his fingers, before wiping them against the material of his jacket.

No time for this. Not right now.

“I’m fine.” Loki gritted his teeth, flipping his dagger in his hand.

Loki didn’t take much stock in legacy. He’d had his fair share of prophecies and purposes, and none of them had quite worked out the way he’d wanted - or expected. Fates could be changed with the flip of a dice - his birthright had been to die one moment, inherit the throne the next. He was destined to be the doom of Midgard and the saviour of Asgard and somewhere along these severed threads of prophecy he’d realised that it was all just chaos. He’d rather be an agent of that, than a warrior honouring the stories of someone else.

Thor’s story felt different, though. If he was going to honour anything in his life, maybe his brother could be the exception. Maybe he could help protect this fragile blue planet from this destruction; just this once.

Loki gripped the dagger harder, until his knuckles turned white.

Midgard waited on the other side of that door. A place that he had chosen to conquer, and Thor had chosen to care for.

If it didn’t die today, he knew it’d be a matter of time before it died from something else. But he wouldn’t let it be lost today.

Thor believed in him. He’d died believing in him.

Honour that, then. Honour his stubbornness, if nothing else. What better legacy was there to leave Thor with, than postponing the dying light of a planet just because?

Chaos and stubbornness. What better combination was there than that?

#my fic #fanfic #thor fanfic #infinity war au #infinity war fix it #thor odinson #loki odinson #brodinsons #bruce banner #multi chapter #mcu fic

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always-arabis · 3 years ago

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Chapter 13: Teaser

Sam was shivering in earnest by the time they reached the atrium. His arm throbbed with every beat of his heart, and when he lifted the cold compress, he could see that his skin was red and wet-looking. He swallowed against the taste of bile as he pressed the compress back against his burns.

“Are you going to vomit?” Knock Out asked, matter-of-factly.

Sam took a fortifying breath before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you certain?” Knock Out asked, turning onto the atrium ramp, “I can sub-space a kidney dish. I’d rather not clean energon and the contents of your stomach out of my interior.”

Sam fixed the dashboard with a wry look. “I’m sure. Thanks, though. Your concern is touching.”

Knock Out scoffed, but the sound was lacking its usual derision. They made their way up the ramp, past the third deck, before turning down the wide corridor in the direction of the mess hall. Sam was so distracted by both the pain and his embarrassment that he never even noticed Ratchet’s ire until Knock Out pulled to a stop in the medical bay. The Chief Medical Officer was standing with his servos planted on his hips and a furious expression on his face.

“Ohmygod.” Sam managed, staring through the windshield in sinking dismay, “He’s going to kill me.”

“Would that I could.” Ratchet snapped, rapping Knock Out sharply on the hood, “Get out.”

The Aston Martin popped open his door without protest, and Sam climbed gingerly out of the seat. The door snapped shut behind him and, as soon as Sam stepped away, Knock Out transformed into his bipedal mode. Sam was momentarily distracted from the coming Armageddon by the sound of engines rumbling in the corridor. He half-turned, glancing over his shoulder as Bumblebee, Hot Rod, Bluestreak, and Hound rolled into the hangar. The four alt modes were noticeably damaged, with dents and scratches in their usually pristine metal plating.

“You four find a berth. I’ll deal with you in a moment.” Ratchet growled.

Sam turned back around, slanting a hesitant smile up at the irate medic.

“Hey, Ratch.” He tried, “Have a good recharge?”

Ratchet did not deign to answer him. Instead, he crouched down, gathering Sam up in his servos and straightening to his full height. Despite the cold fury that was radiating off the wizened glow at the edge of his mind, Ratchet’s actions were considerate and gentle. He crossed the room to the berth filled with human-purposed medical equipment and deposited Sam directly onto the hospital bed. Sam leaned to the side, looking past Ratchet to watch as Bumblebee climbed onto a nearby berth. The yellow scout’s expression was unreadable, but his movements were stiff and pained.

“Of all the pit-blasted idiocy.” Ratchet groused as his holoform materialized on the berth, “I’m going to enjoy writing up each one of you.”

Sam glanced back at the medic, a frowning turning down the corners of his mouth.

“It wasn’t their fault.” He protested as the holoform stepped up to his bedside, “Crossblades started it.”

“Crossblades is a conniving little social climber.” Ratchet bit back as his holoform snapped his fingers impatiently. Sam obediently extended his burned arm, which the holoform grasped by his wrist and elbow, rotating the damaged appendage so that Ratchet could get a better look, “But it was your bonded that threw the first punch.” From his perch on the nearby berth, Bumblebee whistled something angry and sharp-sounding. Ratchet turned around, pinning the scout with a withering glare. “Be silent or I’ll use your vocoder as a paperweight.”

Bumblebee narrowed his optics, but otherwise he did not respond. The tension was interrupted by First Aid and Meltdown who appeared from the back office, each carrying a crate in their servos. The two medics crossed the room, First Aid going to Bumblebee and Meltdown going to Hot Rod. The cavalier was lying supine on the berth, and for the first time all evening, he wasn’t running his mouth. Meltdown whistled something to Knock Out and extended the crate he was holding towards him. The medic inclined his helm in response, accepting the crate and setting it on the berth beside Hot Rod.

“You have first- and second-degree burns over most of your arm.” Ratchet rumbled. “It will need to be bandaged.”

In an effort to lighten the mood, Sam cracked a lop-sided smile up at the medic. “Just like old times, huh?”

Ratchet fixed him with a glower that could have flash-frozen molten lava. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you.” When Sam opened his mouth to protest, the holoform squeezed his uninjured wrist in warning, “Not. One. Word.”

“Now, now, Ratchet. It’s not as serious as all that.” Meltdown chided, coming to stand beside Ratchet’s bipedal mode, “It was a bit of youthful mischief that went awry—no lasting harm done.”

Although Sam was thankful for the intervention, he still couldn’t look Meltdown in the eye. The memory of what he had walked in on earlier that day was burned into his brain like it had been branded there.

“I will thank-you to keep your opinion to yourself.” Ratchet rumbled coldly as he started arranging medical supplies on the overbed table.

Meltdown sighed theatrically, and a moment later, a holoform materialized on the opposite side of the bed. Sam started in surprise—he was older, perhaps late fifties with dark hair that curled about his ears. Like Ratchet, his eyes were steel blue and his hair was shot through with gray. Unlike Ratchet, however, his holoform was dressed in a button-up shirt and slacks, rather than military fatigues.

“I can take over here.” He said, picking up the bandages that Ratchet’s holoform was arranging to his liking, “Knock Out will need your assistance replacing Hot Rod’s secondary fuel-line.”

Ratchet stiffened in anger, but Meltdown just gave him a small, knowing smile. “I’m his secondary care provider, am I not? This will give me the chance to work with him. Go on—your newspark will be fine.”

Sam glanced from Meltdown to Ratchet, waiting for the inevitable explosion. To his surprise, however, the two CMOs stared at one another for a weighted moment and then Ratchet gave a stiff nod. Sam’s eyebrows climbed all the way to his hairline as his Creator turned around, crossing the room towards Hot Rod. First Aid whistled as he approached, gesturing meaningfully to Hot Rod’s abdomen. Ratchet rumbled back, before taking his place next to the field medic, obscuring Hot Rod from view.

“May I have your arm?” Meltdown asked, pulling Sam back to himself. He glanced over at the holoform, who was holding a nondescript tube in his hands, “I need to apply an ointment and then bandage your burns. It won’t hurt.”

Sam nodded faintly as he extended his arm towards him. Meltdown murmured encouragement, before pulling the overbed table up to Sam’s chest. The medic worked on applying a thin, clear gel to the worst of his burns. It was cool and left a pleasant numbness in its wake. When he finished, Meltdown set the ointment on the overbed table and picked up a roll of gauze. The holoform glanced up, meeting Sam’s gaze.

“Did you have fun?” He murmured.

Sam blinked, taken aback by the conspiratorial note in his voice.

“Yeah.” He said eventually, “I really did.”

Meltdown’s eyes creased with a fond smile. “I’m glad.”

#TheSignatureSeries #thesignaturebookclub #transformers fanfiction #tf fanfic #sam witwicky #Sam Witwicky/Bumblebee

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soukokuwu · 5 years ago

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CHŪYA NAKAHARA ⚉ THE BLIND DATE

chūya x reader ⚉ fluff fluff

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“Make sure you’re not dressed like a sloth tonight,” you heard your best friend, Nakahara Chuuya, ramble over the phone. You rolled your eyes at his remark, knowing full well he was just disturbing you. He had set you up on a blind date, and it was for tonight. Why wouldn’t you dress up? “He’s a real good catch too, so step it up and bring your A-game, got it?”

You sighed and took a break from choosing date outfits, turning your full attention to your naggy friend. “Chuuya, I appreciate your concerns but I got this,” you assured him. “But hey, you haven’t told me anything about this guy except that he’s supposedly devilishly handsome and dangerously charming.”

You heard him tut and sigh, before giving you a stoic reply, “you’re supposed to find out about him on the blind date itself, you know?”

“Well, okay...”

As though he could hear the doubt in your voice, Chuuya tried to assure you further by asking, “Hey, you trust me, right?” After hearing your agreement, he continued, “Then trust me, I know for a fact you’re gonna love him.”

Night fell and you were standing outside the Italian restaurant your best friend had said to meet your date, donning a long black dress with a slit up to your thighs. You felt a little jittery. It had been a couple of years since your last relationship, and that guy had been such an asshole that Chuuya had stepped in and interfered, lecturing the guy with ‘if you can’t love her the way she deserves to be loved then you’re welcome to fuck off’. Needless to say, your boyfriend at the time turned his back on you the moment he heard that.

You found yourself smiling a little at the fond memories Chuuya had given you. You vaguely remember joking with him afterwards, about how more guys should be like the ginger, who has always been there to protect and look after you, even with his busy schedule. Being a Port Mafia executive is a tiring job after all. But of course, neither of you have ever actually thought of that– being together with each other. Although, the more you date other men, the more you somehow wish it was actually Chuuya. Then, the realisation dawns upon you.

Clenching your fists, you steeled your resolve. You knew what you needed to do. First, you had to go in and be clear with your intentions; you were most definitely not going to want anything romantic with whoever his friend is, not when the one you actually want is your best friend. Of course, no one else could compare. No one else could make you feel the way he can, with his fancy hats, his gentlemanly behaviour... Heck, you even like the way he knew every single wine like the back of his hand. Even what you were wearing tonight was because you remembered he saw you in this once when he was your date to an event, to which he had commented, “Since when did you get so sexy?” Two, you had to come clean with how you feel. He is your best friend, that much he deserves.

Your phone vibrates in your hand, snapping you out of your reverie. You look at the text that just came in. It was from Chuuya.

Ask for table 15, he’s waiting for you in there.

You let out a sigh, thinking how completely oblivious your best friend probably was as to how you truly felt. Then, your head fills with thoughts about how if he was bothering to set you up with such a wonderful and attractive friend of his, that he may as well be admitting he feels next to nothing for you romantically. It could be a rough night for you if you confess to him, having to reject his friend and then getting rejected, but you know it has to be done all the same.

Another text comes in: And hey, he’s a real nice guy, so don’t worry about it, I know you’ll love him.

And your heart sank.

Moments later, you are following the waiter who is ushering you to the table. Your fingers were trembling. You had never actually rejected a guy to his face before, much less do it before giving the date a chance.

You were approaching the table and you couldn’t bring yourself to look up from the floor. If your date could see you from where he’s sitting, he might be thinking why you were looking like such a mess.

Then, the waiter stopped, signaling you had arrived at the table, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to look up at your date, who, by the sound of the chair legs dragging across the wooden floor, had stood up to greet you.

Once the waiter excused himself, you instead screwed your eyes shut and let out the explanation you had been preparing, all in one breath, “I’m sorry I can’t do this with you, I’m in love with someone else.”

There. You did it. You said what you should have. It had only been a few seconds but it felt like ages. Still, you stood there, not knowing whether you should just run out or wait for your date to say something.

“Huh?” you heard Chuuya exclaim.

But wait– what? There’s no mistaking his voice, you knew it too well. Very much confused, your head snapped up and there you met his blue eyes– those eyes that seemed to see right into your soul every time.

“Wh- what’re you doing here? What about your friend?” you asked, still in shock.

Chuuya’s expression softened and he scoffed, lightly flicking you on the forehead with his gloved fingers. “I am your date, idiot.”

Oh, you never thought your heart could beat quite this fast, but you were wrong. You were overtaken by your relief, and the sudden bliss. So you weren’t the only one feeling it all along, then.

“So, am I right?”

You blinked twice in succession, and Chuuya could instantly tell you had no idea what he was talking about. He leaned in closer to you, and whispered right into your ear, “I said you’ll love your date, didn’t I? Am I right to say that?”

As he chuckled, you could feel his cheek gently brushing against yours. Your ears were definitely red, for sure. He knew how sensitive you were at that area, and he definitely used it to his advantage. Usually you’d pick a fake argument with him for it, but right now, you wanted more of it.

Before he could step back, you pulled him into a hug, and you could feel him stiffen up in surprise. It was your turn to chuckle as you whisper to him, “I bet you love your date too, right?”

“Ah? Someone’s being cheeky right off the bat,” he remarked, hands wrapping around your waist. “I do love this dress on you, by the way.”

“You did tell me that my date’s a real catch and that I should bring my A-game, didn’t you?”

“I can do that too, you know.”

“Huh?” Then you felt his hands make their way lower down on your back, and you could feel your face flush when you realise where his hands had ended up. You looked around at the tables next to you, and to your relief none of them had noticed anything. But still, you were flustered, pulling away from him and glaring in mock frustration. “We’re in public!”

Chuuya smirked, noticing your flushed face. You cursed yourself for being an easy read. Then he took your right hand in his, giving the back of it a quick peck. “Then I guess I know what we’ll be doing after dinner.”

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ah i wanted to continue further but i didn’t know if i should.. anyway, ‘tis something i coughed up because it was 2am and i was bored and have restless hands + i was rewatching BSD for the 48375986th time & saw Mr. Fancy Hat and suddenly got inspired to write

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futuresking · 4 years ago

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no goodbyes / drabble.

He almost got cold feet. Almost waited until the last possible second, hand clenching and unclenching on the doorknob. Surely she’d be busy preparing right now? A visit from him would only be a distraction...

Inigo, don’t be an idiot.

Before he can quadruple-guess himself, Inigo bursts out of his room. Finds her door slightly ajar, and even with the open door policy they so favor, it’s rude to walk into a lady’s room unannounced. Knuckles rap softly on the wood.

“Lucina?” Dancer enters, face tinting pink.

“Um, I just came by to wish you well on the journey. I...” gods, he really should have rehearsed this in his head more.

Plasters on a smile. “I hope you don’t have too much fun without me! Promise you’ll come back, and I’ll take you out to tea so we can laugh about our trips...” cuts his rambling off with a slight cough.

Anxiety crashes over him like a wave. Inigo brings to retreat, whispering “come back to me, Lucina,” before leaving as quickly as he arrived .

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✴ —— an air of eerie silence falls on both monarch, friend, and princess. it had fallen upon her even more than usual as she had been found; idly perusing the list and details of both the accompanier, an already curious fellow named ‘milo’ and . . a rather interesting situation with these ‘relics’ she’d yet to fully investigate. fingers that had idly perused with scarred tissue beneath her half-gloves the complete lack of any of her own. no morgan, no cynthia, she’s even heard word her own cousin was here, gods be good...and certainly no inigo, if his ashen expression as she finished perusing all too calmly the list without her people and friend’s names was absent.

absent in that her eyes would not be able to watch them, to lead them. absent in that she would not be there to step in front no matter the world, no matter the situation, and fight by their side if anything insidious emerged; and wisdom and unfathomable experience...told her it would. a clench that has been like a fist in her heart continues to grip and will not cease as inigo paces her room; watches the exalt who seems almost like a worn, solitary bright light of a statue in the room. . .

“ remember everything you’ve learned and known and use it. “ it’s calm, but quiet, in response to what he says. there’s a desperation beneath the surface that is well hidden, well placed. a terror and rising bile in her throat at the idea that she will not be there to shield him this time. that even now she cannot even wield falchion, a companion in hell, a companion in heart and comfort of soul.

“ remember everything as painful as it is, i know, and...use that wisdom to aid those here that will never know what we know.

use it for your survival because this by no means will be your greatest challenge, but it remains that. a challenge. make sure....you also talk to everyone else. i have to leave early, you see...and i’d like you check on them. please.” finally she glances at him; mismatched in color and branded in the left are her eyes; eerily glittering pale blue and royal sapphire in a somewhat fitting tandem. as if her very brand glows like a keen star that has ever led and guided the way. not this time.

her mouth is not smiling. not the calmly gentle; ever benevolent look that he would know, that many of her friends would know in few but impactful moments. it’s a firm, pained line. the way inigo stammers is so similar to when they were children; arms full of flowers for her. how his voice ached with something she feels she is nearing the end of discovery towards; and also its beginning, but there is no time for that now.

or perhaps she knows, and finds herself only able to be this because the prospect is yet another thing she feels undeserving of. a leader first, king, exalt, princess, commander, whatever phrasing, prioritizing his life over her own, as ever . a shepherd like her father, inigo a lethal, but all the same sheep eternally curled in her heart. perhaps deeper than she will let herself open her eyes at last to.

carefully she treads towards the room; walking purposefully towards him and halting his escape route with a firm but ever unsettling quiet for lucina, in her voice.

“inigo. don’t...don’t worry about me. as ever i’m thankful for you staying by our side, my side, but...you are in a place, you are all in a place i cannot be there for, you realize? even if you say i no longer need feel so, i will all my remaining life. please...try to understand my silence.

it is ... i’m frustrated. i have utmost faith in all of you in this endeavor. i know you are more seasoned than all in this academy, after all who can say what you all have endured? none. not that i ever wished it for you. “ her heart is racing like a galloping pegasi in grief; tumult; a quiet defiance of the list for how dare it keep her from her people, her own, her friends, her family, though no temper burns; only that all consuming, white-hot light to protect and once more defy her circumstances.

“....i will return.” keen senses and nights ever awake with watchful eye over her flock as the shepherd held falchion’s holy hilt against her side do aid her in hearing his whispered voice. her own voice considerably softer, yet strong where he trembles. she must be. if both crumble nothing good will come. she must let him know that she endures; she has always endured; for ylisse, for them, for the world. she will do so again.

but he must as well.

“ .... tell everyone you see that’s one of ours to take a breath, unless of course, you’re cynthia who i imagine will, “ hitched voice; but fond, no tears, only grief in her voice, “be most earnest. still i worry for her always. my brother, of course. my cousin? let him know...” i will not say tell him i love him, because he will be alright, she thinks though the phrase is clearly unspoken. every name uttered from the second generation of ylisse’s shepherds are laced in lucina’s love for them. her protective light.

when she finally smiles; as ever, it seems laced in that quiet, faint sorrow that never leaves. that fully kind smile with a hint of sadness. her suggestions made clear, the crown softens its might in gold. “and if it’s just you, try not to flirt overmuch, yes? what will i do if you come back and we are unable to have tea since you’ve once again done something silly and unlike your real self? something like have another woman there already? i’ll think you’re jesting once again! oh, and by the way...

you can’t flirt with the enemy. now i try to jest. there may and likely will be one. it all seems very contrived. but you know me, i am far too wary, or perhaps this is wisdom in the harshest sense...” oh to be old and wise and nineteen. who would ever want it once you had it?

her hand gently clasps both his arms before he can flee. he can see the battered, torn tissue of lucina’s hands and fingers; flesh that has borne sacred steel and scar tissue from facing armies both together and alone. of the devil himself, of fate and time and trial again and again until the soft hands he once held as a child laughing innocently as a fair princess are but distant memories. they are now battered and worn beyond recognition. a small price, for hope, she thinks. i never really minded if they were beautiful.

“go, i’ll be fine, you fool. worry about you. you know me. i’ll be alright. just come back safely and well, is all i ask. and use your kindness to comfort those who are not as brave nor experienced as you. it has served me far often greater even than your blade. it always will. “ lucina knows her insides for being unrattled bone and steel are pulsing with the memories of their bodies battered on battlefields, again and again -- her broken cries unheard in her heart, ‘when will we rest, when can we rest?’.

oh. this feeling...she knows it. it is anguish.

“ .... or if you come back first, set the table. i’ll...be very glad to have that tea.” gripping his arms assuringly, not too harsh nor too firm now, but gentle and ever protective, his exalt and friend finally lets go.

“ safe travels, inigo. i will see you when i return.. i know you will. all of you. “

she swallows the ingrained sentence she’s spoken so many times in the past years:

just stay alive, is all i ask.

#𝙎𝙐𝙋𝙋𝙊𝙍𝙏: 𝙄𝙉𝙄𝙂𝙊 ✴ —— the tragedy that so tender a smile became a shield.#𝙄𝙉 𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝘼𝘾𝙏𝙀𝙍 ✴ —— like a polestar in the night you emerge.#𝘿𝙍𝘼𝘽𝘽𝙇𝙀 ✴ —— hope itself speaks her truths; her light that does not end.#theindigoflirt #LabrinythForest2021 #toalabyrinth2021

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lovelahela · 5 years ago

Text

❛ high road ❜ ─ mother of the year.

⇢ entry for choices march challenge ! @choicesmarchchallenge

⇢ pairing: hailey young + astra young, thomas mendez x mc (hailey young)

⇢ genre: fluff, humour

⇢ prompt: high road ++ kindness

⇢ description: in which astra is paired up with ajax for a school project and seeks life lessons from her mother on how to deal with it.

⇢ word count: 1597

⇢ notes: i’m going to try my best to participate at least every other day if not every day for the rest of the month in hope of spreading positivity during these difficult times. i really do hope i'll manage to put a smile on someone's face and these dark moments just a little bit easier.

if you want to be put on my moty tag list, tell me!

❛ it's my way or the high way! ❜

❛ that... is not what i meant when i told you to take the high road, sweetie. ❜

Soft laughter and the aromatic scent that insinuated the presence of baked goods in the outdated oven filled the quaint apartment on a sunny Sunday afternoon. A brunette with a petite frame struggled against the hold of a noticeably taller and broader man wearing the goofiest grin on his handsome face. Hailey shrieked in surprise when Thomas smeared the coccoa filled batter across her rosy cheeks.

"You've crossed a line! THIS MEANS WAR!" She emitted a surprisingly powerful battlecry for such a small woman, shocking her captor into released her from his arms. He stared at her for a few seconds, dumbfounded, before he burst into laughter so genuine that Hailey's feigned angry expression softened into one of admiration and awe.

Thomas braced himself against the counter and his shoulders and entire body shook as sounds of joy interrupted the short period of silence. A small smile stretched her small, plump lips and eyes the colour of rich soil sparkled with fondness. Once his laughter died down, he coughed awkwardly upon noticing her staring and their closeness, and he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Uh — you have a pretty strong battlecry for someone so tiny." He grinned yet again, a playful glint in his steel blue-gray eyes.

Hailey whacked his shoulder jokingly. "Rude! I'm not that short, for a Korean woman."

"Emphasis on the for a Korean part." She poked his ribs, receiving a surprised yelp as a response. He raised his arms defensively. "Okay, okay, I'll stop teasing. Wouldn't wanna lose you — people of your stature are in short supply."

Hailey gasped, but couldn't fight the wide smile that practically stretched from ear to ear. "You did not!"

"You're right, I didn't." He looked at her with a wicked expression. "I wouldn't dare insult you — you're a little intimidating — and yet very good at small talk!"

She squealed in mocked offense and slapped his rather muscular arm multiple times, ignoring the fact that he showed little to no reaction to her attempted physical attacks. "You're just jealous you'd never be able to measure up to someone as amazing as me!"

Thomas cackled evilly at her choice of words. "You know what, Hailey Bear? You're right. I might need to knock myself down a few inches. Maybe lower my expectations a little bit."

At that point, she couldn't fight the giggles that bubbled out of her lips against her will. "I walked myself into that one!" Her laughter bounced off the words, chaotic and jovial, but like a melody to his ears. While he appeared distracted with her, she seized the opportunity to smear batter across his cheeks in retaliation. He gasped, pointing an accusatory finger at her.

"Traitor!" He lunged at her menacingly, and with a surprised squeal, Hailey attempted to flee from impending doom. However, he was too fast for her, and grabbed her arm with a satisfied "aha!"

Without realizing his own strength, he pulled her body up against his own, suddenly putting mere centimetres between their faces. Granted, she had to tilt her head upwards to fully look him in his widened eyes — which she realized were rather gorgeous up close. His lips were parted, shocked by the sudden turn of events, and his breathing was laboured as his heart hammered against his ribcage.

A fuzzy feeling that, as much as she hated to admit it, only ever showed up around the adorable yet dorky lawyer settled in Hailey's stomach. Blood rushed to her already reddened cheeks and ears as she tried to ignore the feeling of her chest pressed against hers. They were either too shocked to move, or they didn't want to — maybe a little bit of both.

The sound of a door being flung open snapped them back into reality, and they sprung apart from each other. The two dissolved into a fit of embarased coughs, each avoiding the other's gaze. Two small girls shuffled into the living room, oblivious to the tension between their parents. Luz, Thomas's fiesty daughter with lovely, curly hair had her arms crossed across her chest defiantly with a determined look on her adorably scrunched up face. However, Hailey's daughter Astraea, whose messy bangs shielded her eyes shamefully and gloomily, had her shoulders slumped in defeat. Hailey's motherly instincts kicked in almost immediately, completely forgetting her previous interactions with Thomas.

She rushed forward and kneeled down, gently placing her hands on her petite child's shoulders. A frown distorted her gentle features. "Hey, hey, what's wrong, sweetie?"

Though her voice was calm, it was laced with concern. Thomas furrowed his eyebrows worriedly and glanced at Luz for an explanation.

"Astra's still sad that she got partnered with that buttface August for our science project."

"Luz! Language!"

"Hey! You weren't supposed to tell!" Astraea pouted at her best friend's betrayal, bottom lip quivering inconspicuously. Hailey almost didn't notice it.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier, Rocket?" The corners of Astraea's lips quirked upwards at the use of the nickname her mother and her beloved neighbour Levi began calling her, but the smile faded as quickly as it came.

"I didn't want you to talk to the teachers, or anything. People will think I'm a snitch — and snitches get stitches," she whimpered, ashamed of keeping it a secret from her mother.

"That — that assbutt will get stitches if he doesn't watch out!" yelled Luz angrily.

Hailey bit down her laugh when Thomas choked on thin air behind her, imagining the horrified look on his face. "WHERE ARE YOU LEARNING THOSE WORDS?"

"Look, August may be a little mean — " she ignored the scoff from Luz, knowing she couldn't truly express what she thought about that little twerp " — but he wouldn't risk failing to bully you. If he tries to annoy or tease you, just take the high road. Do you know what that means?"

Astraea thought back to the time she heard her mother use a similar phrase when talking to someone on the phone, and scrunched up her face in determination with an exaggerated nod. "Yep! Thanks, mom!"

Hailey ruffled her daughter's shoulder-blade-length, jet black hair and fixed the bangs so she could see her beautiful irises, a warm brown with specks of a soft blue you could spot if you looked hard enough. After her messy divorce with her ex-husband Guy Ledford, those blue specks reminded her of his despicable eyes until Astraea made them her own.

Once the duo rushed back into Astra's bedroom, Hailey stood up and absentmindedly turned to face Thomas. Nervous butterflies ate at her insides as memories of their exchanged flooded her mind.

"I — Uh — We — "

" I mean — Um — We could — "

Upon accepting that neither of them could formulate a full, coherent sentence, they let out a single cough simultaneously and resumed their baking activities, subtly smiling to themselves despite their flaming cheeks.

The following day, Hailey drived to Bernhardt academy, anxious about seeing how Astraea handled her day with the pompous child that made her put up with incessant teasing and occasional bullying. Her blood boiled whenever she thought of him and his mother, Vanessa Blackwood, who had been throwing comments with underlying hints of racism and homophobia at her. Although his twin brother Ajax was more bearable, he was too meek.

The students began filing out of the school and ran into their parents' waiting arms. Hailey stood on her tiptoes, her eyes scanning the crowd of little ones to find her own. Finally, she spotted Astraea walking out in a fast pace, arguing with a familiar boy while clutching her books against her chest in a knuckle-whitening grip. Hailey frowned at the sight of the two bickering heatedly and waited for them to get closer to listen to their conversation. Luz and Thomas walked up beside her.

"Everything okay, Hails?" asked Thomas gently, his arm around his child's shoulder. Said child cracked her knuckles menacingly while glaring at the bully walking beside her approaching best friend. "Time to kick some butt!"

He sighed, but decided against scolding her for the time being.

"You're wrong! That would be totally uncool! We should build an airplane!" argued August relentlessly as his brother trailed behind him nervously.

Finally, Astraea whirled around and glared at him fiercly, very red-faced and teeth clenched.

"For the last time, the theme isn't aerodynamics!" The volume of her voice heightened with each uttered word, drawing the fleeting attention of near parents and children. Hailey gaped at the sight of her sweet little daughter snapping at someone, and despite the proud feeling that welled up inside of her, she warned her like any other responsible adult would do, in theory. "Astra! Inside voices!"

Even August appeared shocked at her outburst. "You can't talk to me like that!"

"Yes, I... I can!" Her voice and resolve wavered at his equally furious and intimidating gaze, worrying her mother. However, she squared her shoulders and retorted confidently. "It's... It's my way or the high way!"

No one spoke for the following seconds, unsure of what to say at her uncharacteristic choice of words. Upon processing the context behind them, Hailey snorted, earning a look of disapproval from Thomas while Luz whooped in approval at Astraea's decision to stand up for herself aggressively.

She cracked an involuntary smile, beaming proudly at her daughter. "That... is not what I meant when I told you to take the high road, sweetie."

#moty #playchoices #moty choices #choices fanfic #choicesmarchchallenge #thomas mendez #mother of the year #thomas x mc #thomas mendez x mc

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cake-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Activation (Part Three)

Pairing: Soldat x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Graphic Violence, Sexism, Mental Illness, 18+

Summary: At first glance, the Winter Soldier’s activation code sounds like a nonsensical string of words. In reality, each word has been carefully selected to break him just a little bit more. His behaviour is half-compliant at best and fully erratic at worst – and to keep him in line, you put him to use for your own… needs.

Part Two / Master List

Furnace / Печь

When you wake again, it’s just before sunrise and your Asset is already gone. Of course, you weren’t expecting him to be there, but your heart feels heavy in your chest all the same.

Hydra comes first. You come second.

With him, though, you always come first. Always.

You just can’t return the favour.

Although you look relatively normal – unbruised, thanks to a heavy coat of foundation – inside you’re a nervous wreck. The walk down to his containment chamber is slow and agonizing; the dread sinks into the pit of your stomach with every step because you know what you’ll have to do when you arrive.

His eyes almost seem to light up when you step into the room. They’re typically such an icy blue, but when he looks at you, that ice melts and what remains is purely him: little hints of warmth and sweetness and care that he only shows when you’re around. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ve grown fond of the way he treats you. You’ve grown fond of him.

It’s stupid – no, ridiculous, really, because only a week and a half has passed since your nighttime escapades began. Nine days and you’re already feeling things you shouldn’t, things you didn’t think you could feel anymore.

Stupid. Naive.

What’s worse is that too much of the real him is starting to peek through, so much that others will start to notice if they haven’t already. That, coupled with the fact that he’d killed such a high-ranking officer yesterday to protect you of all people. As much as you appreciated it, possibly even loved that he was willing to kill for you, you needed to handle it.

“In the chair,” you instruct, but your voice wavers just slightly on the words. You clear your throat to play it off like you just had something caught there, but you already know he doesn’t buy it. The look he shoots you is wary as he slowly, hesitantly settles into the chair in the center of the room.

He knows what’s coming. So do you.

Those gorgeous blue eyes are so full of hurt and betrayal, but in them there’s also a plea. He’s silently asking you not to do this to him, not again, but your features are hard and unyielding and you have to look away. You don’t want to do this, but you have to.

Hydra comes first. That’s the logical thing to believe in.

When you hold the rubber mouthguard up to his lips, he obediently bites down on it just before metal clamps wrap around his arms and skull – and then, when you flip the switch, he screams.

For the first time in years, you have to step outside. You can’t handle hearing his agony, not now. You make an excuse to your colleagues that you aren’t feeling very well today, and it’s not exactly a lie. Your stomach is in knots and you can almost taste the bile on your tongue because of what you’ve done to him.

Again.

It never used to bother you before, but now it does – now that you know who it is you’re erasing. You might not know his name, but you’ve seen enough of his personality to know that he was one of the good ones.

He was good.

Once upon a time, you were too.

The Asset still misses his previous life. His memories are a jumbled, fragmented mess, but he easily recognizes you. He knows your face. He knows your name. You’re a scientist, one of many who works on him, programs him, attempts to make him forget.

Sometimes it works, but there is still a shred of himself in there that he refuses to let go.

Some part of him wonders what a pretty girl like you is doing in a place like this, but another part seems to know why: you’re damaged just like him, damaged beyond repair. He doesn’t know how he knows. He just does.

Your hands are small and so, so gentle when you brush away some tangled locks of hair hanging in his face. He can’t help but lean into your touch just a little as your fingernails graze pleasantly against his scalp. You treat him so delicately when everyone else acts like he’s unbreakable, and in most ways, he is. He’s a soldier. He’s a weapon. He’s a killer.

To you, he’s a person.

Before he even realizes it, he’s already wrapped his warm fingers around your wrist, suddenly overcome with the need to feel you – to know that you’re real. He doesn’t know why.

The breath catches in your throat at the action. At first, he thinks it’s from fear, but then he meets your eyes – so sparkling and genuine, betraying any emotion you may have tried to hide, not that he understands – and he knows that there is some memory locked away within his head that may explain your reaction. He just can’t access it. He doesn’t know how.

“Soldat.” Your voice is sweet honey to his ears despite the bite in your tone. “Release me.”

His fingers loosen almost immediately, and you pull your wrist from his grasp.

His eyes trace every single feature upon your beautiful face as you close the book, the little red book with a black star on the front, the one that activates something inside of him that he despises. He catches just a glimpse of some bruising on your cheek, but it’s mostly covered with makeup and he wonders if it’s something he caused – if that’s the reason he can’t remember.

“You’re hurt,” he says as you turn your back to him to lock the book away. The safe used to contain it is built into one of the walls, stronger than steel and impossible for him to break into despite his serum-enhanced strength. He must have tried at some point, but he can’t quite remember.

You pause for a moment at his comment, just long enough that he starts to believe that it was indeed him who hurt you. For some reason, that bothers him.

“I’m fine.” Your response is short and succinct, and you secure the safe once again. Then you turn around to address him, but you don’t meet his eyes this time. “Rest up. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

The way you walk out of his containment chamber is brisk, almost like you can’t leave fast enough. If he was the one to hurt you, then it would certainly make sense – but he’s confused and conflicted and his mind is a mess.

The only constant is that there’s something about you he just can’t shake.

Days pass, and although the bruising on your face heals, the ache in your chest just won’t go away. You try to keep your distance, but you know deep down that it’s because of your Asset. You still see him daily, although not at night despite how desperately you want to crawl into bed with him, how much you miss him.

You miss having him in your bed, even if it was just the once.

In between your tests and experiments, you find yourself wondering about what could have been. It’s stupid and juvenile – a pipe dream – but it provides a welcome distraction. Otherwise, your thoughts wander into more dangerous territory. You try not to look at him, but every now and then your eyes meet and it’s clear that there are unanswered questions just begging to be asked on both sides.

Neither of you verbalize them. Hydra is always watching.

You’re so distracted that you start to make mistakes. Your usually impeccable reports become a little less detailed and a little more careless. There’s a clear detachment from your work that never used to exist before. Truthfully, you don’t want to do this anymore. Any of it. You want to be free of it all, but you’re just as caged as him, trapped in a life of servitude. You can’t resign. Bad things happen to people who do.

As the days turn into weeks, your mistakes become more and more frequent, so much that your colleagues start to notice. They whisper behind your back, but speak so openly in front of him, like he’s an object that can’t overhear – but he does. He hears it all.

Some of them wonder if you’re losing it. Others think you already have. They constantly put you down, blame your change in work ethic on ‘that time of the month’ or your ‘biological clock’ or any other reason they can think up to oppress you. They say that you’re just a woman and you don’t belong here. You don’t deserve to work on one of Hydra’s most important projects.

You don’t deserve to work on him.

But you do. Somewhere in the bits and pieces of his fragmented memories, he knows how brilliant you are, despite the fact that he’s a bit jaded by the pain you’ve put him through for however long he’s been here. A few months? A year? Two? He isn’t sure, but what he does know is that you’re intelligent. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Smart. Beautiful. His.

If it had to be anyone, he’s glad that it’s you, because you’re the only one to treat him like a person. You didn’t always, but you do now, and that’s what matters to him. What sparked the change is unknown to him, but he doesn’t care.

He appreciates it. He appreciates you.

Not long after that, you’re reprimanded by your boss. He can hear it from the hallway, as can the rest of your team – terrible harsh words shouted right at you, enough to make a weaker person cry, but not you. Instead, you step back into the containment chamber with your head held high, and when you catch his gaze, you stare him down.

There’s something about the way you look at him that sends a shiver down his spine. Anxious. Dark. Wanting.

Unfortunately, the audible tongue lashing not only undermines your authority, but it emboldens those who would put you down. Snide comments are made under some of your colleagues’ breath, and you start to hear them, too. You ignore them for a long while, literal days – until, eventually, you don’t.

One particular comment sets you off: that, instead of here, you’d be better serving Hydra on your back. He doesn’t hear it in its entirety, but he hears enough.

Your fingers tighten around the large metal wrench in your hand; you’d been repairing the machine used to reset him – or maybe you were attempting to make it a little more pleasant, but that was probably just wishful thinking on his part. He can’t remember ever seeing you work on it before, just him: his body, his arm, his mind, but his memories aren’t exactly the most reliable.

The way you address your male colleague is calm. Too calm. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“You heard me,” your colleague responds smugly. Too smugly.

The sheer disrespect surprises him. They were getting bolder by the day. He knows he’s killed some of your teammates before, and he has no qualms about doing it again, just for you – but he holds himself back because he’s curious. He’s never seen you anything but calm and collected and put together, but it’s clear to him that you’re angry, especially when he notices that your grip goes so tight that your knuckles turn white.

There’s a brief pause, then, before you spin around on your heel and deck your colleague across the temple with the wrench in one fluid motion. It’s a hard, heavy blow, and only one, but one is plenty. The familiar crunch of bones against metal echoes through the room followed by a spray of blood, but it doesn’t faze you at all.

He doesn’t even have to look to see that you’ve just killed a man. He knows what it sounds like, but he looks anyway. Crumpled in a heap on the concrete floor is the motionless body of your disrespectful colleague, blood gushing like a fountain from the broken skin and skull at his temple.

The rest of your team stares at you in horror.

He knows that look. It’s the same way they look at him.

“Anyone else want to share?” you ask, smiling sweetly at the three of them as you hold the wrench down by your side, dripping blood onto concrete.

They quickly shake their heads, to which you return to your work like nothing’s happened at all. Someone squeaks out that they’re going for a break. You don’t answer, but they all leave with their tails between their legs and just like that, he’s alone with you.

Well, alone with you and a corpse.

He’s done terrible things, but never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that you could do the same. You’re so small and delicate compared to him. Pretty dresses and even prettier heels. Even though you work within the safety of an underground compound, not a battlefield, you’re just as brutal.

Even now, with blood spatter on your lips, he thinks you’re gorgeous.

He reaches out before he realizes what he’s doing – uses his thumb to wipe some of it away. Your eyes immediately snap up to his, cautious and guarded, but your eyelids flutter shut when his hand comes to rest on your cheek.

It’s familiar. He’s touched you like this before.

Over the past couple of weeks he’s dreamt of it, but now, he wonders if his dreams were actually memories. If so, then he’s certainly done more than just touch you. The fact that you seem to lean into his palm isn’t confirmation, exactly, but he takes a calculated risk nonetheless.

The wrench is still in your hand, but he doesn’t care. He leans forward and then his lips are soft on yours for the briefest of moments – not passionate or heated, but sweet, gentle. The kiss is fleeting and he doesn’t really know why he did it, especially considering the circumstances.

All he knows is that it felt right. It felt real.

Maybe it’s because he’s just now realizing that you’re just as broken as him – or maybe he knew it all along.

Part Four

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #activation

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bloodnsnowflakes · 5 years ago

Text

In Dreams She Lies

Ice blue eyes surveyed a haunted land, winter-white knuckles locked hard around frozen steel. Auresta had gone from the crypt in her full death-plate, to a land that had showed her many things, and whispered many more.

Close to her she kept a crystalline teardrop, hardened forever in shining perfection, dropped from the eyes of a despairing Drust and found ages later by the Bloody Snowflake. It was a sweet friend, this shiny treasure she kept. She felt that she ought to do what seemed only right, find whatever was left of whoever had made the Drust weeper cry... and make them cry and cry, and cry.

~*~*~*~

Two men and a woman in armor surrounded another woman on her knees in a dress. The moist earth made her dress messy. Her situation made her black hair even messier. They had her limbs wrapped in chains of silver, barking questions at her. Not a terribly curious or strange scene for living humans, but the way that the Snowflake’s crystal teardrop reacted to it made her stop and watch.

With every strike that landed on the bound woman from her interrogators, the teardrop’s inner light pulsed in protest. Finally one drew a sword, its edges gleaming with silver, and the crystal wailed in Auresta’s mind. She had seen enough.

A swift yank of her outstretched hand brought the one with the sword flying through the air to roughly land right in front of her. Her icy, wild-eyed grin bewildered him for only a moment, before one of her swords went through his gut and the other displaced his head. As the carcass slid from her blades and slumped to the ground, she drew a fist and threw a punch in the direction of the other two armored humans, standing in front of the woman on the ground. An icy wind howled through the trees to blast them in the faces with the motion. They were not long in succumbing to the bite of her frost and and her steel.

The silver-bound woman lay panting on the ground. Auresta’s crystal teardrop pulsed a light that... matched her breathing? What? The Bloody Snowflake brought forth her treasure, lifting it in the palm of her hand towards the woman’s face, and then away again. Twice. Three times. Sure enough, every time it came closer to the dark-haired human on the ground, the teardrop grew brighter, felt happier, as if it had found home.

Auresta stared for a long while, ice-blue eyes regarding her silent human companion, processing... Until her face split into a grin, and she hugged the woman close as she squealed, “I found you!”

~*~*~*~

It had been about three weeks that Auresta had stayed with Dyan. She only knew this because living humans had a need to measure passing time, apparently. The delightful witch was a good friend to her, full of bitterness towards her enemies and even to her own family, and it was Auresta’s great pleasure to wreak havoc on them all in her name. She often brought back their corpses to Dyan, and they would carve up the flesh and bones together.

The Snowflake had smiled as she watched the witch bind some of their souls into woven wicker servants, with stag-skull faces which Auresta had brought her. (Actually, she’d brought her the whole stags, as Dyan had the tedious need to eat for sustenance and not just pleasure, poor thing). The Kul Tiran had noticed the smile. “What? You like them?”

Auresta’s fond smile widened a little, “They remind me of the dolls he makes.” She didn’t explain who he was, just that he was gone for now and had promised to come back for her. That he was changed, but it didn’t change that he loved her. She couldn’t wait for him to come home so he could meet her delightful new witch!

~*~*~*~

“Do you know what you were before?” Dyan asks.

“Before what?” Auresta replies, confused.

“Before you became what you are now.”

Auresta frowns. “I was me,” she answers. “I’ve always been me.”

“I mean before you were you,” tries Dyan.

This was getting frustrating. “That makes no sense!”

Dyan chuckles warmly, patiently. “Here, let me try something,” she murmurs. Trustingly, Auresta inches closer to comply.

Ancient words flow from the Drust-descended’s lips, calling on the earth and shadows, weaving their energies to reach gently in to her undead elf friend’s being. Two work-weathered fingertips touch the center of her snow-white forehead, and the magic peels away at the fog of darkness...

Until Auresta screams.

Broken images, feelings, and voices froth in the elf’s head. Names and faces she doesn’t know, but does. She sees herself, but not herself - a sun-touched Thalassian beauty, with honey-gold hair and eyes like the ocean.

It’s not me... It’s not me! ... What am I?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!

The pain in her head threatens to burst out her eyes and ears. Stabbing shards of things she knows but doesn’t recognize, too unbearable in their jaggedness to even begin to piece together.

Kill me! End it! I don’t want this!

Her fingers scrabble blindly for something, anything to make it all stop...

KILL ME!

... and then oblivion takes her.

~*~*~*~

Dyan Witherstead stood on the glacial ground, her face solemn, stony, but her heart full of sadness and regrets. On a sled, she pulled the body of the unliving elf who had rescued her, made her life less bleak, her ritual dagger sticking out of the poor thing’s heart.

It was the only thing that halted the magic Dyan had called upon to try to help heal the undead elf’s memories... not knowing that the damage done from the decay to her mind after her first mortal death made such a task insurmountable. Not knowing the confusion of trying to repair them would bring agony rather than clarity.

The witch came to a stop in the center of Gol Koval, ancient capital of her Drust ancestors, and one of the few ruins still left standing in peace. She incanted a greeting and a summoning to the spirits residing here, asking for their counsel. Some came as figures of twisted Nature, others as wispy wraiths. They listened.

“What can be done for her?” Dyan pleaded. “She has saved and served your daughter, faithfully, unconditionally. What can I do?”

The Drust spirits regarded their descendant and the lifeless, winter-white elf. “Oblivion would be kindest,” spoke one. “Let her sleep,” said another. “Take her to the glacier, in the mountains above,” rumbled the nearest. “There, she will be undisturbed.”

“What of her soul?” Dyan had to ask.

“What soul?” Was the answer the spirits gave. “Her soul has been in the Shadowlands since her first death, her soul is not here.”

“Where?” Dyan felt a rising panic. “Where in the Shadowlands is it?” She had to know. She could not let her friend be lost.

The spirits sighed between themselves, but ultimately decided to indulge their daughter. “You may come to fetch it, if you wander the woods of Thros. She will sleep well if you keep her in one of the charms we bless and curse for you.” Dyan nodded, and began her trudge up into the mountains, pulling Auresta’s form behind her.

~*~*~*~

Dyan sat, weaving thread, wicker, feathers and crystals into what looked like a dream catcher to the night elves.

It was a soul catcher to the people of Drustvar.

She glanced up every so often to look at her friend, Auresta, in repose, the witch’s ritual dagger still embedded in her heart, letting her physical form sleep. The elf was encased in purest ice now, summoned by Dyan’s petition to the spirits of the mountain, preventing her from being disturbed, or the chance that the lich magic which animated her the first time would seep and drain away over time. Couldn’t allow that, to have her fade away, decay further. She looked glorious, like in a story.

Dyan briefly clutched the crystal teardrop that hung from her neck. She had divined through her dark arts that it was a tear that had been shed by herself in a former life, when the ancient Gilnean settlers had made landfall in Kul Tiras at Drustvar, and assimilated the Drust into their people after conquering them. Her past Drust self had wept and wailed in despair as her home was desecrated... and somehow destiny twisted and turned to place the manifestation of that agony and sorrow in the hands of this exquisite risen elf, to find her again.

I found you!

Dyan took in a long, cold breath and sighed, laying her cheek on the ice block over Auresta’s face. “I go now to Thros to find you, and when I return, you will rest well forever,” she promised in a whisper. She truned her head and placed a soft kiss upon the ice. “Sleep well, Snowflake.”

~*~*~*~

@lokkiir @drustvarhardrock

#story #canon #character death #Wyrmrest Accord #Warcraft

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lavenderthebook-blog · 5 years ago

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Chapter 1: Just me and old ghosts.

On the 3rd on June, my feet landed in the wilds of Ireland.

I shall not share with you exactly where, because I don’t wish for people to go there seeking what I found. Just know that, on that day, the clouds gave way to light, and it was bright. I looked about at where I’d come to summer this year. The old, worn cobbled courtyard paved the way between 3 structures. First was the small 20-meter-long cottage that I’d been told to not enter. It’s door crumbled to the whims of the wind, and as I tried to gaze in through the window, which was held in place by cobwebs, I only saw old furniture, baskets of nick knacks, and the occasional thing that glimmered in the light, but which I could not make out from outside. My hand touched the wall of the cottage as I attempted to perch myself upward for a better look, the warmth of the day was sucked away from me, and I was left cold. And that was the end of that. I did not fancy being murdered in a haunted cottage. Whilst that would make a great little book, be thankful it’s not this one. I certainly am. Second, the garage. One quick peek around the corner showed me that it was not simply used as a resting place for unfinished projects and lost things. It was full of every conceivable item a farmer might use, from any conceivable time. I will defend to my deathbed that I saw the world very first scythe mounted on a mantle in the back. No lights existed in this place bar that which crept in through cracks and nooks from outside. Not haunted, so, comparatively, better than the cottage. Thirdly, lastly, and grandest, was the main house. It was as beautiful brute, with no finesse or grace to it. It had been built to weather the coldest of winters, and it did so proudly. It’s hanging baskets of flowers, small rusted windows, mouldy dark guttering, and faded cream paint was nothing special, but a welcome dose of rural life. No thatched roof. A shame, as I always wanted to see what they were like. Instead, just plain black tiles. I reached under the mat and found the key, unlocked the lock, and stepped in.

Who doesn’t like seeing an agga when they walk into a home? It’s the heart of a house, and whilst time may have forgotten them, my heart never will. Fond memories of my youth came back to me. Flipping the toast whist it was in its weird rigid net. The shovelling of sausages into one of its many doors only to then shovel them into myself. The time-honoured tradition of resting sock covered feet on it when winter came to try fend off frostbite. It made me think of my Mum and my Dad. They won’t be mentioned again in this book, but if they read this, know that whenever I see an agga, I think of you both. The agga, acting as a sort of all-in-one cooking device dubbed this room the kitchen. The plain wooden cupboards adorning the bare brick walls, large steel sink, and varnished wooden island that doubled as both food prepping area and food consumption area confirmed this further. I dropped my bags on the wooden floor and headed further into the heart of the beast.

The only way onwards from the kitchen was the deep darkness of the hallway. With only one painted glass window as a light source, as well as any that happened to spill out of the kitchen, the hallway was likely as bright at midday as it was at midnight. Luckily, the small radiator, white stairs, and the cheerful nature of the painted glass did give it a more friendly feel rather than fiendish. The white stairs lay to my left, whilst further on to my right was a closed door.

The door led to a small, but cosy room, painted a now faded zinc, hosted a tv wearing its AV cable input as if a row of medals in the far-right corner, and a surprisingly new and likely Swedish bookshelf on the left, which was newer than any of the books and things that lay on its shelves. Betwixt them lay the large, ornate fireplace, its steel cold to the touch, but clearly having been used a lot as it had been blackened by soot. I’d imagine it grew a shade darker each year, as it would be necessary come winter. The sofa across from all of these was comfy. It filled the room with dust when I let myself fall into it, but its faded emerald colour and the sheer depth it let me fall into told me I’d be spending many a morning sat in it, happily munching at toast whilst guessing at the tv’s static charades in an effort to watch something.

Now up the stairs, which creaked a bit, but who doesn’t like a minorly creaky step? It gives such boring a thing some character. Upstairs were 4 rooms. Two were almost identical bedrooms, with only a small table, a single bed on a steel bedframe, and a chair in them. The only difference was that one was painted periwinkle blue and faced north, the other fuschia and south.

The next room was a grand bathroom and was above the kitchen, and was painted almost completely clinical, pure white. An old standalone bath, held upright by four feet moulded into the shape of lion paws, stood proudly cantered on the left wall, with the largest windows yet just next to it, ensuring that an unfortunate passing robin would be sure to catch a fright. The (thankfully) modern toilet was built into the far wall, and was next to the sink, which was a big clunky thing, and reminded me of why the saying used to be actually somewhat funny. On the right was a small dressing room, filled with now empty shelves, and a smell of very slight mildew and fabric softener. Hidden behind the bathroom’s door was a rather clinical 5 by 5 by 8 upright cut into the wall that had an almost watering can like nozzle fixed at the top, and a garden hose like tap on one of the ‘’walls’’. This was the ‘’’’shower’’’’. I saw no temperature nozzle, and realised there was no choice here, only pain. All of a sudden, I began to miss the city a little more.

I finally came to what I was to be my bedroom, which was decorated in a delicious shade of blonde (though, it may have been so appealing due to my own like for women who wore it). It was a large room, with a fittingly large queen sized bed centred along the wall, bedside tables on either side, with a large old hickory leather travel trunk at the foot of the bed. 3 differently styled wardrobes were dotted around the rooms walls. One was Japanese in appearance, with a beautiful mural painted across the two doors, and then otherwise raven. One a simple, but large oak thing, which seemed to lean slightly to the left. The last had once clearly been its twin, but was now covered in glitter, little drawings in crayon, and was marked on its side with 2 of the same names repeated upward as the age next to them grew too. It was a wardrobe that had been loved, and so I was pleased to have it here with me. ‘‘But the back blurb of the book promised me a romance story. What does a soggy description of a house have to do with that?’’ I hear you moan.

Not much really, if I’m honest. Though You’re quite the impatient bitch aren’t you? But if this book is to mean anything to you, as it does me, you have to come with me on this journey. You see, Ireland has a magic too it. Its raw and old. It lets life creep into every little thing that will hold it, and so all these pieces of furniture and appliances are just that, furniture and appliances. But for my three months there, they each took on a little life of their own and became dear friends to me. This is how you must see when reading this book. The best way to understand it is to go and hold something of yours that you’ve had for an age and feel yourself give it life. Ireland is a place where even a fence can take on such a life. And does so rather well. So yes, at times this will be a little pretentious, a little overly dramatic and poetic, and a little strange, but I will try my best to put not only my thoughts, but what I was feeling into words for you, dear reader. All I ask is that you try your hand at reading them as if you were there with me, and not simply an observer. Don’t read the moment, live it like you live the memory of your first kiss: with vivacity and a passion that you can’t escape.

But you were promised ghosts in the chapter title, and you shall have them. Unfortunately, no white sheets came to life and booed at me that night. But as I sat falling into the sofa, the fading light of day painting the bookshelf, tv, and fireplace in fantastic hues of blush and tangerine, I thought on why I’d come here. I’d come with more than just physical baggage. You thought a person ventures out into the Irish wilderness to live in a farm for 3 months on a whim? I’d like to hope my whims would land me in some place sunnier, and with more obvious ways to escape or drown my sorrows like Ibiza, or New York. Unfortunately, I came here for a reason. I am Irish, but I’d never lived there. I’d not grown up there. I’d missed out on the unique zest for life that Ireland gifted its people, and I was in dire need for it now. Why? Because I was broken hearted, broke, and hopeless. My heart had been broken, as it often is, but a love turned sour. We’d been together for one amazing year, three good months, one odd month, then one great month, and then three months where I’d watched them fall in love with someone else. Now it had been one year without them, and without hope in the idea of love. It was not a pleasant feeling. I wanted them, but at the same time knew it would be like drinking poison. Even as I write this, my hand squeezes the pen as I’m forced to remembered fond memories that I wish forgotten. I was broke because, for the last few months, I’d not written anything. Well, I’d written things. Small articles for a paper. A short story that lost an armature writing competition to a tale called ‘’Me and Rum: Fun Fun Fun’’. A children’s book that only proved to me that it was harder to write a children’s book than I’d previously thought. Turns out not every animal is cute when it can talk. Because of this, I’d lost all hope in myself as a writer, and the roaring blazes that had once fuelled me as I wrote now grew dimmer by the day.

And so, I’d returned to where my ancestors had been born, and grown, and bled, and cried, and loved, and fought, and danced, and lost, and died in the hope that they might lend me their strength, or that the zest I’d missed out on would be paid to me with a bundle of interests attached. This, oddly, would turn out to be true.

But for now, simply imagine eyes closing as a laptop slowly slides off the side of a lap and into the sofa. A head falling into a chest. And the sound of snoring filling the house. I’d fallen asleep not knowing that beyond these walls she lay in wait for me, as much as I had, in a way, been waiting for her. I wonder if she’d spotted me as I’d come into the house, and watched through those rusty windows as I met each room, cooked with the agga, and mastered a duet with the tv where I held its antenna out the window and it, in turn, played the news. I hope she’d not seen me dance around under the showers cold water though. If she did, I hope it at least made her laugh.

#Lavender Chapter1 Justmeandoldghosts

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sunshineandfangs · 6 years ago

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End of the Beginning

Step 12: Christmas in NOLA

@howeverlongs and @joey-prue

Warnings: some show typical violence, allusions to Damon’s treatment of Caroline, Darker!Klaus, alternate history and first meeting

Caroline tossed back a shot of vodka, relishing the burn of it. It wasn’t even quality vodka, but then she wasn’t drinking for the pleasure of it. She was drinking to get drunk. Well, as drunk as her vampire metabolism would allow.

Yesterday, she had honored the life her mother had lived. Flipped through old photo albums and allowed the memories to wash over her. Happiness, exasperation, fondness. Tidied up the house and boxed up all the knickknacks of sentimental value. Had the most important ones shipped to her current home. Even lingered carefully in the shadows as the Mystic Falls police department gave their former sheriff a proper send off.

But today was about the grief. Perhaps, had she been younger, not had some sixty years to come to terms with her mother’s mortality, the grief would have broken part of her. As it was, it hurt, but it was the bearable kind of hurt. The kind that she would carry with her, a new weight, but not the kind to pierce through her, it wouldn’t leave her bleeding.

Raising an arm, the blonde flagged down the bartender, requested another round of shots. She only had time to throw back one of them when she sensed another presence beside her. It was a vampire, though not an old one, potentially younger than her even.

Setting the glass down, Caroline turned, arching a questioning eyebrow.

“Yes?”

The seemingly young man looked a bit apologetic albeit firm as he requested she come with him. “I’m afraid all new vampires need to check in.”

She swallowed a scoff. There had been rumors that New Orleans had rather strict rules for the Supernatural community, but a summons of all things? That was a bit...archaic.

“Seriously?” She blurted. “I’m not planning to stay, only for the holidays.” And it was true. The rumors were one of the reasons she had avoided NOLA until now, but visiting had been on her mother’s bucket list. In fact, it had been their planned trip for Christmas, and though part of her twisted from the absence Caroline decided to go anyway. So she arrived the 23rd, gave herself the day to wallow, but firmly planned that the 24th and 25th would be full of every holiday attraction.

The man half-shrugged. “Yeah, it’s a bit much, but that’s the policy.”

Caroline sighed, stuck a hundred dollar bill under the glass, and followed the vampire out the door, making sure to snag her purse as they left.

“I’m Josh, by the way.”

Disgruntled, but not one to shoot the messenger, she offered her own name with only a hint of bite in her tone. “Caroline.”

“So, you’re lucky, the King had business elsewhere.” ‘King?’ Caroline silently mouthed, brow scrunching. Josh continued without pause, either oblivious to or expecting her reaction. “Either his protégé or his brother will see you and they’re both less...intense.”

She couldn't help herself. “Okay, but seriously, King? He calls himself the ‘King’?”

Josh actually stopped and turned to look at her, eyes surprisingly serious. He leaned in a bit closer, lowered his voice to his a whisper.

“You may think it’s ridiculous, and perhaps it is, but the King isn’t one for disrespect. I’ve seen him rip heads off for less than that. He may not be here, but he has a way of knowing things.”

Caroline frowned, but nodded. Europe had its share of old, pompous vampires, so she knew to hold her tongue. This certainly wasn’t worth dying over.

“Ah, you must be Caroline.” She looked up, eyes taking in the handsome black man before her, his teeth a brilliant white as he smiled at her. There was a cunning kind of charm to him, but he only felt a few centuries old at most. Tentatively, she marked him down as the protégé.

Standing she offered her hand with a practiced smile. “That’s me. It’s nice to meet you…”

Giving it a firm shake, he nodded at her. “Marcel.”

“Nice to meet you, Marcel.” She tucked a curl behind her ear, looking innocent and nonthreatening. “So, Josh told me about the whole check-in thing. What does this entail exactly?”

“Nothing much, just a few questions. Your name, how long you’re staying, when and where you turned. Then, you’re free to go.”

Caroline slowly nodded, doubting that was the whole truth, but it was pretty basic information.

“Well, my name’s Caroline Forbes and I only plan to stay until Christmas is over, the 26th at the latest. I was turned about sixty years ago in Mystic Falls.”

Alarm raced down her spine at the way Marcel stiffened for a split second though his expression remained pleasant. Caroline had developed keen senses over the years, unusually sharp for a vampire of her age. She could feel that the air in the room had shifted. Something about what she had just said was more important than she had assumed.

In a moment, she realized why.

“Apologies, Miss Forbes.” Caroline whirled to face the voice, though careful not to completely turn her back on Marcel. It belonged to a brown-haired man bedecked in an outrageously expensive suit. She could feel the waves of power wafting off him, older than any she had felt before. Paired with the way he had appeared silently in the doorway, a terrible suspicion started burning in her gut. “I must ask that you remain here until my brother returns. He will wish to meet you.”

“Your brother?” She asked, wary and not really bothering to hide it. It seemed the time for facades was over.

“The King,” he said simply.

Not good. Josh hadn’t exactly given the man a glowing recommendation.

“And I suppose I can’t return to my hotel in the meantime?”

His lips quirked. “I’m afraid not, Miss Forbes.”

She barely resisted to the urge to rub her forehead in exasperation, though she used the feeling to beat back her instinctual fear. Now, wasn’t the time to panic.

“I see. I’m sorry, I haven’t caught your name?”

“It’s Elijah, Miss Forbes.”

She felt him watching her carefully, but she couldn’t control the way she froze. The way her heart stuttered a beat. How many ancient suit wearing vampires named Elijah could there be? She hoped it was at least two, but judging by their reactions if there were two, this wasn’t the second one.

That was the last thought she had before her world went black with a sharp crack.

“Pity,” Marcel muttered as Elijah hefted the fallen blonde from the floor. Her neck at an awkward angle.

When Caroline came to, not only did her neck have a lingering ache from being broken, but her wrists, arms, and shoulders felt strained as well. It didn’t take her long to realize she was chained, though she kept her eyes closed.

This was very, very not good.

“We never encountered her, Niklaus, I doubt she knows anything.”

There was a dark chuckle. “Please, with a last name like ‘Forbes’ and a noticeable reaction to your name? You know better than that, Elijah.”

There was a quiet sigh. “At least try to control yourself, brother.”

A whistle of air and Caroline knew one of them left. Elijah, if she had to guess.

Footsteps moved closer to her hanging form, the weight of the power accompanying them enormous.

“You did a commendable job not reacting to my name, sweetheart, but I know you’re awake.” The back of a finger stroked her cheek. “Even vampires have little tells when they return to consciousness.”

Caroline let her eyes open, face expressionless as she took in his smirking visage. The curve of his mouth invited while his eyes threatened, a glacier blue glinting wolf-gold. He was uncomfortably close to her, his knuckle still brushing the edge of her jaw.

She steeled herself and jerked her arms, letting the chains rattle. “Is this how you treat all your guests?” She bit out.

His eyes darkened, and he leaned closer, his nose just brushing hers. “Surely, Josh warned you of my intolerance for disrespect?”

Caroline lifted her chin as best as she could. “He did.” She smirked sardonically. “But you won’t kill me until I tell you whatever it is you want from me. And after that, what I do won’t sway your decision to kill me or not. So I refuse to spend my last moments begging for my life.”

He almost looked impressed before he seized her jaw.

“Brave little vampire,” he rumbled. “You are quite correct. But I assure you, I can make the agony of your death linger for decades. Centuries even.”

She swallowed, throat dry as she read the utter sincerity in his eyes. Falling silent, she didn’t provoke him more though she refused to apologize either.

He spent several long moments just observing her before he moved back a step, releasing her jaw. Arms crossed behind his back and a pleasant expression on his face, he’d seem ordinary if not for the sinister air about him.

“Now,” he uttered, pupils dilating, “tell me what you know of the Originals.”

The smart decision would be to act compelled. But she honestly wasn’t sure how good of an actress she was, nor what orders an infamous nightmare like Klaus would give her. Besides, a part of her rebelled at the idea of capitulating to compulsion of all things. He may kill her. Torture her even. But she refused to be twisted up into a caricature of herself, living in constant fear of something endlessly stronger than herself. Refused to have her choices ripped from her a second time.

She licked her lips, held his gaze as she carefully spoke. “I will answer all your questions, but I will not be compelled. Not by you. Not by anyone.” Not again.

In an instant, Klaus was pressed against her. His fingers weaving through her hair and yanking her head to the side, burying his nose in the curve of her neck. A split second later fire ran through her veins, his venomous teeth tearing through the delicate flesh there. She felt every agonizing pull the Original took of her blood, slumping in her bonds as he stepped away.

“There’s truly no vervain in your system. How curious.”

Caroline strained to lift her head, the rapid effects of his bite as startling as they were frightening. Her vision was starting to blur, but he appeared almost contemplative as he returned her stare.

To her shock, he bit into his wrist, pressing the wound to her lips. It was like sin on her tongue, its power alleviating the burn and knitting her skin back together after only one sip.

He watched her drink, eyes glinting with intrigue. “You and I have more to discuss than I thought, Caroline.”

AN: So, this one kinda lacked the Christmas angle, though it was technically Christmas Eve...

In terms of history, Caroline had a rocky relationship with her parents after turning, but eventually they accepted her. Bill even taught her to resist compulsion.

#12KCXMAS #Klaroline Shippers Club #Klaroline #Klaroline Fanfiction #Klaroline Drabbles #My Writing

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birbleafs · 7 years ago

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[fic] augury of sins

Series: Tales of Zestiria Rating: T Genre: Character study, Game-canon ending/post-epilogues Characters: Symonne, Sorey, Rose, Mikleo, Alisha Diphda, Lunarre, Phoenix Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Minor character death... pretentious prose?? IDK Summary: Truth be told, she never was all that fond of morality plays. Or, five times Symonne struggled with meaning and one time she found contentment in simply being.

Fic can also be read on AO3

i. “Why do you still keep smiling, even when I tear open your wounds?” she hissed, vehemence laced in every word.

(Many moons later, she would find herself asking the same question, to yet another who smiled just as he did even through the anguish and pain.

How could they… How dare they? It didn’t make any sense, it couldn’t—)

Her brows creased in anger, Symonne forced herself back up to her feet even as her limbs ached and trembled from the growing exhaustion of battle. Being delicate in stature had its drawbacks; she would tire easily from direct combat. As such, she had perfected the use of her seraphic artes, weaving illusions and doppelgangers born from human hearts, an augury of one’s deepest fears and desires. She had not asked for this accursed blessing, had never wished for any of it.

But it was all she’d ever known, all she’d carried with her through centuries of misery and growing apathy.

It was (she was) enough for this, for her Lord—she reminded herself again as she struggled to stand upright, pointing her baton at the two humans before her. It was enough that she could serve her Master. She won’t stop here… no, she couldn’t stop, she must not fail—

“That’s enough, Symonne.”

The Shepherd’s voice was gentle and kind, and Symonne felt frustration flaring from deep within. She lifted her head, staring up at his disgusting concern, at the pity in those evergreen eyes.

“Why do you keep fighting back? How can you smile like it doesn’t hurt?!” she cried, hurling all of her anger and confusion outward, streaks of magic dancing in violent crackles around them. She wanted to smite them down; wanted to rip that infuriatingly radiant smile off his face, to gouge the kindness out of those eyes with sharp nails—

“When all that awaits us in the end is inevitable doom, a hollow death? Is it not natural to welcome that?!” Symonne snarled. She raised her baton once more, threading wisps of magic through the thick violet miasma around them, even though she was already worn from their earlier battle and from the crushing weight of Heldalf’s domain bearing down upon her.

The illusions danced briefly around them—shadows of the bandit children laughing alongside the Cardinal, crimson blossoming against the pristine-white of her robes; of the old Explorer, his hefty leather book strapped to his back; of the blind wind seraph who gnashed his teeth, lips curled in derision at the Shepherd and his Squire.

Both humans faltered at the sight, sword and daggers wavering in their hold, their expressions clouded with grief. This would throw them off, surely, and turn them to despair, it must—

But the Shepherd only closed his eyes, steeling himself, before he slashed forward with his burning blade. The shadows screamed and flickered weakly, fading along with the remainder of her strength and Symonne was left curled against the cold, hard ground.

“Don’t you wish they could have at least survived? I can make it a reality, so why do you keep fighting back, why?!” she spat, feeling a last spike of defiance as she struggled to her hands and knees.

“If Forton, Mayvin, Dezel, and even those children were brave enough to have endured the pain that comes with reality…” Sorey began, his sword still bright with the silver flame. “Then we as the Shepherd and Squire—we surely have to do just as much, maybe even more so.”

“And that’s why we’ll keep pushing onward,” Mikleo said. “We could never cast away the memory of these people by accepting your illusions, no matter how perfect they are.”

Rose nodded, a rueful look in her eyes. “Doing so would be a disservice to all the pain and hardships they’ve had to suffer.”

Symonne set her jaw, fingers clenched so tightly around her baton that her knuckles turned bone-white.

How could they not see, not understand the futility of it all? If she could not do this one thing for her Lord, if she failed him—no, she cannot allow it—then there would be no reason… She would have no meaning…

“The more you fight, the more you suffer… What use is there to struggle?! So why must you resist Lord Heldalf vision’s? He will rid the world of perpetual agony and restraint!”

There was the sound of approaching steps then. She froze, shoulders taut, agitation a churning knot deep in her belly.

Sorey knelt before her, smiling gently—that abhorrent smile, bright and untouched like the sun, she hated it so—and reached out for her, only to pause and thought better of it, pulling his arm back to rest at his side instead.

“It may be true—the more we struggle, the more we’ll suffer. But it doesn’t always have to be like this. It’s what I’ve come to realise and learn from my friends. From those I’ve brushed paths with throughout this journey.”

His countenance grew softer, his voice low, almost as if the words spoken were for himself as much as it was for her. “We’re more than the suffering and burdens we bear, Symonne. You are so much more than the pain you carry with you—and you don’t have to keep thinking of yourself as evil, of deserving of all resentment.”

“W-What?” she echoed, feeling her throat constrict and her eyes growing moist.

“Ah…” Sorey faltered then, struggling to articulate the words right. He offered her an apologetic smile, seemingly self-conscious at how he abruptly had her full attention now as she waited for his answer.

“W-Well, what I mean is… It’s all right if you are as you are. You exist just like the rest of us, in the here and now—that’s what really matters. Everything will work out somehow because I’ll keep searching for a way, for all of us.”

Symonne lowered her head, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

As the party left, making their way through the labyrinth and into Artorius’ Throne, Symonne felt his words lingering, striking a chord deep within.

She wailed then, and despite her angry, bitter tears, felt a euphoric sense of relief, of affirmation taking root within her chest.

How truly selfish of you, Shepherd.

ii.

Many moons later, she found herself—yet again—asking the same question, to another who smiled just like he did even through the anguish and pain.

(How could they… how dare they? She had pondered over it then, seething, infuriated at the young man whose heart would not be corrupted. Who had refused to fall, even when his family’s blood had stained his hands crimson.

This time though, the ire driving her question had dimmed into waning embers; all she was left with was genuine bewilderment.)

“Thank you,” Alisha said, bowing graciously. Symonne did not miss the grief and sorrow lining the corners of her eyes, but what puzzled her most was the Princess’ smile. It was a tiny smile, tugging at the corners of her lips, but one filled with immense gratitude nonetheless. “Because of you, I was finally able to see Lady Maltran off with a proper farewell.”

There it was again, the look upon Alisha’s face. The same look of pity and understanding that Symonne had so much contempt for. She had scorned the Princess’ gaze then, turning instead to face the Squire—Ah, no, not a Squire anymore; our darling comedian has taken up the Shepherd’s mantle now, hasn’t she? —only to find she detested Rose’s cheeky grin and unflinching sureness nearly as much. Symonne hated how the woman’s blue eyes were still as sharp as the blades she twirled languidly in her palms.

“Selfish and as pitiful as ever, I see,” she muttered, almost thoughtfully, before the air around her rippled and she disappeared into velvet shadows once more.

iii. Humans were obnoxiously stubborn beings. Even when they had shed all trivialities, mortal customs, and ingrained social graces; when they allowed the darkness in their hearts to fester, allowed the ferocity of their desires to run amok and then consume them, transforming them into hellions.

Symonne twisted her lips ever-so-slightly at the thought. Even from her vantage point high up the Shrine walls, she could see the battle below was drawing to a close, the two opponents seemingly at a stalemate. It was clear as day who the true victor was though and she wasn’t the least bit surprised. With a hum, she calculated the distance to the square below and took a graceful leap off the ledge.

The sphere of illusions disintegrated just as her feet touched the cobble-stoned streets: the ghostly silhouettes of a tawny-haired boy and red-haired girl shattered into fractals, the children’s laughter dissipating into a sheet of crystalline dust that settled over the two opponents—the fox hellion and the darling comedian Shepherd.

“Traitorous wench!” Lunarre spat viciously at her approach, fangs bared. “This was all your doing? I should’ve known.”

“Traitorous? Always the dullard spouting inane commentary, aren’t you?” Symonne countered sweetly. “My master is long dead ; there is none left to betray. And I serve no one now, least of all the likes of you.” She tilted her head, turning a coy smile towards the Shepherd Rose. “In your bid to carve each other up, you’ve all unknowingly waltzed into my domain—surely it isn’t necessary for me to remind you how my blessing works?”

“I won’t play your games, wench,” Lunarre growled, amber eyes feral and burning with blood lust. “If you get in my way, I’ll kill you too, after I gorge on little Lambkin Rose and her friends.” He threw back his head in a fit of maniacal laughter, tongue lolling over cruel and yellowed fangs.

Symonne only scowled at the sudden surge of malevolence, at the growing pressure settling against her shoulders as she continued to hold her ground, unyielding.

“And after that, maybe I’ll even sniff out everyone’s precious sleeping Shepherd.” Lunarre hissed, voice dripping venom. “Wrench his limbs apart and split him open, flesh and bone, just so I can rip into that delicious still-beating heart, drain his blood dry and—A-AARGGH!!”

There was a flash of movement, a whirlwind of red, green and white.

Lunarre tried to scream but could only choke on blood, crimson stains blooming from his chest where Rose’s daggers had found their mark.

“May these weary bones find peaceful rest,” Rose murmured through clenched teeth, driving the blades deeper as she listened to his dying gasps. “Good-bye, Lunarre. I’ll always remember our better days together.”

The fox hellion shuddered, his form dissipating into a miasma of black and violet tendrils.

The emblem over her glove was still ablaze with silver flames as Rose purified the last of the malevolence. With the malevolence cleared and the illusions wavering there was no reason to linger around—Symonne could hear the approaching steps of Rose’s seraphim as they broke through the dying hellion’s crumbling domain to reach her side.

“What display of audaciousness. Seems like you’ve come a long way and we’ve just only reached the interlude of this brand-new play. But alas, the curtain must be drawn for now.” Symonne paused, sparing a glance at Rose—she was still crouched low to the ground, staring silently at the bloodstained path. “Oh, has our darling comedian Shepherd finally broken? Did the fox really get to you that much?”

Rose let out a tired laugh before she straightened up. She wiped the grime from her face, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“He’s kind of right though, you know. I’d be a really cheap imitation of Sorey. Not that I want to be known as a maniac who goes nuts over mouldy architecture and dead people’s possessions, mind you—we still have Mikleo for that. But sometimes…” Rose’s voice grew soft as she touched the blue scarf around her neck. “This whole Shepherd business is just…”

Symonne hummed, almost amused now. “No need to flatter yourself, dear girl. You humans are the same wherever you go, whatever you do. Stubborn, supercilious, and always with the self-serving monologues.”

“Aren’t we all?” Rose gave Symonne a crooked smile, before turning to nod at Mikleo. “Like you’re pretty stubborn yourself too, so not all that different from the rest of us. And Shepherd or not, I’m always gonna be getting stuff done the Rose way. Gotta live up to that true name I was bestowed so graciously with, after all.”

Mikleo quirked an incredulous eyebrow at that, even though he couldn’t quite hide the amusement creeping over his features. “Huh. I thought someone once lamented how Wilkis Wilk was a lazy sort of name.”

“It is still a lazy sort of name. But guess I just grew into it!” Rose cracked another easy grin, hands upon her hips.

“Presuppositions again. Such is your lot.” Symonne sighed. Dawn was fast approaching, the first slivers of sunlight visible over the edge of the cityscape—and her cue to take her leave.

“Hey, wait!” Rose called after her retreating form. “Why... why did you help us, Symonne?”

“That wasn’t assistance,” Symonne murmured quietly, her form elusive as she faded away with the mist.

It wasn’t assistance, but…

Was it mercy, hope?

Salvation?

She had grown weary of pondering this act.

(Truth be told, she never was all that fond of morality plays.)

iv. If she was honest with herself, she could not say she remembered in detail the events of that particular day, decades ago. Human lives burn so brightly throughout the march of time, and yet the fire of their souls was merely flickering candlelight, winking out, one by one, in endless cycles.

Even so, she remembered those smiles, the sound of their laughter.

She remembered the littlest things, the crinkle in the sides of their listless eyes, their face contorted in fear and pain. Their voices pleading for release from the bitter harshness of reality— —the world is too cruel, please just let us dream, let us sleep forever— —no! this wasn’t what I… forgive me...! — —you brought this upon us, your gift, youyouyOUYOU...! — The ringing silence that came thereafter.

She had expected the malevolence here to have festered long enough to overwhelm her, perhaps even driven her to draconian madness. But as she picked her way carefully through the debris and remnants of the small village—of a place she had almost called home once, a lifetime ago—all she sensed now was tranquillity, a calm relief.

There, before her and basking in a patch of sun, was a small plant. A fir wood sapling, its bright green vines curled around a stick, tiny leaves already sprouting from the ends.

Symonne knelt beside the sapling, brushing a finger gingerly over the leaves, running her hand through the loose soil. There was no longer any trace of malevolence, not in the air or beneath the earth. Only the buzzing of insects, of life once again slowly taking root.

There were no echoes of the past (no desolate screams of the dying villagers) whispering from haunted shadows into her ears.

“Our darling comedian Shepherd, so hard at work these days.”

Symonne sat beside the sapling a little longer, exhaling slowly as she savoured the warmth of the sun upon her back.

The water seraph was a frequent visitor of the cliff edge grave.

Others came by as well, to present flowers and offerings of traditional curry buns, to pay their respects—the humans, during the Vernal Equinox every late autumn; the seraphim at every turn of a decade, sometimes a century. But it was the silhouette of a smallish creature perched over Mikleo’s shoulder that, for one reason or another, she remembered most.

Symonne did not care for normin in general. They were a contemptible lot, simpletons easily beguiled by fleeting contentment. And she especially did not care for a pompous one with too zealous an attitude, and who seemed overly keen with pointless nattering. “I see you’ve made the annual pilgrimage as well, little one.” Phoenix nodded in approval, chest puffed out importantly. “And I see you still possess the proclivity for presumptions.” She scoffed in return by way of greeting.

With narrowed eyes, she studied the way Mikleo’s hair now skimmed over his shoulders in loose, silver-white strands. A single lock braided with a bright yellow-orange feather was tucked neatly over his left ear. Then, with almost a resigned reluctance, she moved forward to sit as close to the cliff’s edge as she could manage, peering down at the ruinous landscape below. After a moment, she asked, her voice barely a whisper over the rising gust: “How are you not a dragon, loving and being around humans as much as you always have? Yearning so much for his return and yet… never truly certain if he…”

She fell silent, unable to finish the question. Mikleo did not reply, did not look her way. He seemed to have curled in around himself, arms wrapped his torso as he sat beside the grave—whether he was trying to keep the questions out or perhaps just protecting his most treasured memories, Symonne could not say.

“I can’t say for sure, honestly. But I guess I’ve learned not to dwell too long in the past,” Mikleo began, a pensive look in his violet eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing them, my human friends. And yet at the same time, I don’t think I can ever not see what’s before and around me still.” He paused, raising his hand to the weathered headstone, tracing a finger over the engraved name Numin. “Maybe… maybe this is what it really means to be a seraph?” “So that is your answer then?” Symonne asked, unconvinced. “Finally casting aside your shackles?” “Shackles?” Mikleo shook his head. “The time I shared with Sorey, with Rose and Alisha—and all the humans I’ve ever met? They’re the foundation to who I am now, who I’ll continue to grow to be. And my answer is simple: I believe in Sorey, in our dream. I can’t reach that dream if I’m always going to keep looking back over my shoulder in despair, can I?”

Symonne only sighed, dangling her legs over the cliff side. Still such a simple fool then, she thought.

“And what about you? You’re no dragon either even after serving a Lord of Calamity for as long as you did, and then lurking among humans nearly as often as I have.”

His question caught her unawares. She tilted her head towards him, brows furrowed, pondering for a moment.

“Spite, I suppose. And sheer obstinacy.”

The brief silence that followed was awkward, but easily broken by Mikleo’s soft laugh.

“So, not that different from humans and the rest of us then,” he said, violet eyes bright with mirth as he looked ahead to the pillar of light glimmering from the ruins below.

“No,” Symonne said, smiling wryly. “I suppose not.”

vi. “You really saved my skin back there! Thanks!”

The young seraph wasn’t anyone she’d ever chanced upon over the years, Symonne was certain of this. His messy oak-brown hair was pulled back into a short pony-tail, the tips of each strand now a bright, radiant gold; his travel cloak casual and unadorned.

But it was in the curve of his smile, the tentative sincerity of his expressions and little mannerisms.

And those evergreen eyes—she had recognised that childlike wonderment, that boundless zest within them all too well.

“I’m Sorey, a wandering seraph,” he introduced himself readily, once the dust had settled around them.

Symonne studied the broken stone monument in the tall grass before them, listening intently for any tell-tale creaks or shifts in the stonework to suggest yet another collapse in the structure.

“Symonne,” she replied simply, once she had ascertained there was no imminent danger. “I was merely passing through. You… don’t remember anything, do you?”

“Well, I did kind of bumped my head a little,” Sorey said, brushing at his nape sheepishly. “So yeah, I’m a bit fuzzy about the details. The last thing I remember is the prickleboar rushing at us, and then... uh, falling off from that stone wedge there in the structure, all while trying to dodge it...”

The familiar angle of his head-tilt only lifted the corners of her lips into a knowing smile.

(He was not yet aware of it himself during his fall from the crumbling structure, but Symonne hadn’t missed the brief glimpse into his thoughts, his memories: the way her illusions had reacted—fractured pieces of emotion weaving through the wind—to the indiscernible fears he had kept folded behind that bright smile, buried deep within the eaves of his heart.) “I managed to scare it off with the illusions, so it’s highly unlikely to return,” she said instead, already moving ahead. “You’ll still need to tread with more caution through these woods. Prickleboars aren’t the only creatures that are territorial.”

“Right,” Sorey nodded, reaching down to collect the book he’d dropped earlier. He dusted the covers before slipping it back into the small leather pack he wore at his hip. “And thank you again, Symonne. I really owe you one. I’m going to look for Phoenix—ah, he’s a friend… a normin I sort of picked up?—we got separated just before I found this monument and the prickleboar attacked. Maybe you’d like to go with me, if we’re heading the same way?”

Symonne had almost, almost considered taking up his suggestion, if only for curiosity’s sake. “My path leads elsewhere for now,” she said, declining the offer with a slight shake of her head. “We may however chance upon each other again another day. And while I’m not fond of platitudes, but... Some advice for what you seek, your heart’s desire.”

She held his curious gaze, unwavering, her thoughts drifting to the words that had stayed with her, that she’d held on to at every turn of the century.

It’s all right if you are as you are. You exist just like the rest of us, in the here and now—that’s what really matters.

“You’re more than your lost memories, more than the burden of a selfish Shepherd’s legacy.”

There it was again, the tiniest hint of emotion, flickering over his features. Sorey blinked—and it was gone again—head angled in confusion. “I don’t think I quite understand…”

Symonne only smiled, retreating once more to the comfort of shadows before he could question further.

“Good journeying, seraph Sorey,” she said, her voice the soft rustling of leaves in the canopy above. “May you find luck dancing, wherever your heart leads you.”

Sorey was still deep in pensive thought when Phoenix finally found him, watching the way the leaves bobbed over the spot where Symonne had last stood.

—End—

Notes: - I wanted to re-write some of the scenes with Symonne during the battle before the game ending. Somehow it turned out longer and ended up being a character study of sorts. Not sure how I feel about this but l o l [/I-tried.jpeg].

- The fourth scene is inspired by Symonne’s character notes found in the Zestiria World Guidance Book translations. Before working under Heldalf, she was a seraph who actually loved humans and had tried to live among them, only for her blessing to bring disastrous results to a village.

- The last scene where she meets seraph Sorey takes place a little after Chapter 1 and before Chapter 2 of my post-epilogue fic, Chasing Dreams.

Thank you for reading! Comments and critique are welcomed for my fics—I'd like to hear what you think, if you've enjoyed this so far.

#tales of zestiria #symonne #sorey #mikleo #rose #fanfic #i've been re-writing this too many times #so time to just release it into the void and be content with whatever... this is #/wHEEZES at character studies...

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marquis-teren-kiden · 7 years ago

Note

Lived long enough to become the villain (You wanna be bad because you're perfectly good at it.)

Crystalsong Forest

“We had an agreement.” I remind as I pour myself a glass of Nightwine, pausing only briefly to make note of my two guests.

“It wasn’t our fault he was able to escape.” Trea replies with a defiance in her tone I once found refreshing. Once.

“Karrista took the liberty of aiding and abetting in the Subject’s escape from the ZIG.”

“Karrista,” I remind, “Has no recollection of the ZIG’s location. I erased her memory of it quite thoroughly. As well as what she’d learned of you.” I remind the other figure in the room.

The Blood-King of the San’Dorei, Enochi Brysin, has the temerity to scoff at me. “Oh, I think we all know that she’s only able to accomplish something like this with additional help. Subtlety isn’t her strong suit.” Withdrawing a narrow phial from a small pouch, he holds it up to reveal the familar golden sands of a Chronomancer’s magic. “I suspect you’ll be able to help us discern the likely culprit. Though–” he pauses to share a look iwth the woman beside him. “–we do have our suspicions.”

Malura. Bugger all and damn. “Do you have them in custody?”

“Not yet. But, very soon. It seems that your pet Chronomancer thinks she can out maneuver everyone on the board.” Lady Stone replies, the smugness of her tone impugned by the failure under discussion.

“I wonder where she acquired such over-confidence.” Brysin adds, narrowing his crimson orbs to me. “Perhaps we should discuss her impudence with her Mento–”

I’ve never been overly fond of warnings, and Light knows Enochi has had more than his fair share. Even cut off from the full function of his mind, he’s far from helpless.

Trea Stone is a former Silver Hand Knight and retired Scourgelourd. The moment I lash out at him, she lashes out at me.

Lycan strikes here with a Sacred Arrow from the balcony. Immediately, her heart is engulfed in flames and her body is overwhelmed with holy flames.

Sighing softly, I remind my companion, *I need them alive.*

Chuffing to himself, Lycan moves forward to remove the arrow while I wrap Brysin’s mind in a multi-layered Gilded Cage to prevent him from escaping until and unless I wish him to. With the Darkfallen under control, we’re in a far stronger negotiating position for the Revenant.

“Where. Is. Nas’zeth?” I fancy myself a rather reasonable man on most occasions. This is not most occasions. This is unacceptable.

“They took him… off world. Somewhere… in Time. We can’t follow.” she croaks. Where? Where would they take him? Why risk all of this wrath and damnation to take Nas’zeth from them? From me.

Winterspring

*Methuselah.*

*Yes, Father?*

*Malura and Karrista have stolen something irreplacable from me. Something which poses a clear and present danger to my Sister’s well-being. They are hiding him somewhere in time and space. Or, perhaps out of it. Find them. Incapacitate them. Then bring them to me.*

*Yes, Father.*

Tanaris; Another world. Another Universe.

It’s painful, this particular betrayal. Inisidiously well-conceived and considered, my Little Spider has been… Patient. Just as I taught her to be. She laid the web. Let everything in my world come to a glorious fruition, that my attentions need not turn from all that was joyous to this dark past of mine. I wonder, did you think? – did you truly believe? – that I would allow this trespass to go unanswered?

Did you believe you had so thoroughly wooed my son with your kindnesses that he’d disobey me, or spare you my wrath? Or, did you foolishly believe you’d successfully planned for every contingency I might act upon?

I’m sure that’s what it was. You calculated everything you knew about taking Nas’zeth. Reviewed all of the various timelines for what would follow. I’m quite certain of it.

Which is why we are here, now.

Because I thought beyond our Timeline. Beyond… any of our Timelines. Beyond any timeline which might have been conjured within our Universe.

Nas’Zeth is now in my son’s world. Where I can manage his continued suffering ad infinitum.

But first, my dear, I must manage yours.

And Karrista’s.

Karrista’s sin is no less in this affair, than Malura’s. Worse, because she has been my daughter for so very long, now. Because I have loved her wholly and fogiven even that she attempted to assassinate me in the sanctity of my own home.

I have for her a Father’s love. I know I will not properly deliver the magnitude of suffering required to communicate just how vile this betrayal is to me.

So I give her to Lycan, to do with as he pleases. Like all Nishanians, he knows he is forbidden only in two manners. He may take no sexual congress, and he may not allow her to die.

Beyond that, I’m quite sure his imaginings have been very thorough.

I can hear Karrista’s screams echoing throughout the corridors.

Bound and helpless before me, so can Malura. All of the steel and grit in her pale blue gaze cannot hide the pain emanating from her in waves; nor the guilt her carefully crafted thoughts fail to obscure.

“Did you think that you could take this from me?” I ask, settling myself with a glass of Nightwine beside her. “This, of all things in creation?”

“No…” she whispers through dry, cracked lips and the painfully parched throat each breath is pulled from. Still, she continues as what little moisture her body posseses slips down her cheeks. “We– we were trying to s-s-save you!”

“Save me?” I ask, sipping casually? “You took one of the three most despicable figures I’ve had the privilege to personally brutalize and torture over the last decade and stole him from me. How is that beneficial? How does that save me?”

“F-from this… I saw this. That you were going to start killing us… people you love… because of Nas’Zeth. We were trying to stop th-this!”

This elicits an ascerbic laugh from me as I rise from my seat. Lycan arrives with Karrista bound and tethered, a negation bracer in effect to prevent her from wielding any magic. With a torque of his wrist, he sends her sprawling prostrate on the ground before me, even as D’ashu brings in her wife, Tara’Lena.

Pulling Karrista’s head back as far as it will go, he makes absolutely certain that she can see the punishment he has intended for her. I must admit, even I am surprised by the malice he carries in his heart. But, I approve. After this betrayal, I wholly approve.

Dangling the Star of Agony in front of her, he nods toward the Darkfallen woman prostrate before them, bound by a negation bracer and my own psychic cage. For just a moment, - that’s all this will require - I release her to bear witness to what is about to unfold.

As the fugue leaves her mind, she sees her wife. She sees Karrista’s desperate gaze. Hears my daughter’s agonized screams of denial.

“You know, I’m not an idiot.” Lycan remarks in the most casual of tones. “I know you’d have thought to protect yourself from this fucking artifact when you made it.” Leaning in low, he presses his lips to Karrista’s ear. “But, you left out a couple of things. One of them, was your wife.”

It is over in moments. The Star of Agony siphons what remains of the Darkfallen’s soul, casting it into an eternal suffering from which there is no respite or escape.

The thoughts echoing in Malura’s mind are almost amusing. ‘It’s not real. He wouldn’t do this. It’s not real. He wouldn’t do this. It’s not real–’

Making my way from my seat to a nearby hutch, I withdraw a fur stoll and return, draping it across the Half-Elf’s shoulders. For just a moment, she is comforted by the thought that I am rewarding her for her trust in my good intention.

I do not reward betrayal.

Settling back into my seat as she draws the fur more tightly around herself, the scent lingers in her mind like a tiny alarm warning her not to think too hard on it. Which, of course, she must. She knows that scent. She’s been captivated by it often enough.

With realization comes a skin crawling disgust as she writhes and wriggles helplessly; suddently desperate to escape from the overwhelming scent of another dear friend.

Kelladen Slater.

Like a symphony of agonized misery, the twin screams of these two once precious children of mine echo through the halls of my getaway home like sweet music in my ears.

For hours, I listen to them scream, sob and plead. Useless. My love is all-encompassing. My forgiveness for sins immense. But it is not limitless. This is one of very few sins which someone might commit, and find themselves the recipients of my truest, most unabridged, wrath.

As exhaustion takes hold upon them, I have D’ashu draw them together to face their more direct sentences.

Malura, I bind within her mind, much as I have Enochi Brysin. The difference being, I will free him once Trea and I have finished renegotiating our contracts.

Malura’s fate will resolve in a singularly distinct manner. She will touch the face of Heaven, and meet the Gods others have never thought to conjure.

Karrista’s fate, will be far, far worse. This is the second time she has betrayed me.

Wordlessly, Ync steps into the room with Evangeline, heartbreak in his eyes as he stares down at the Succubus he’d worked so hard to salvage. Setting the toddler down beside D’ashu, before exiting the room.

There’s violence and terror writ large across my daughter’s face as she struggles against the restraints, desperate for any ounce of means to save her daughter from her wife’s fate. “Father, no! No!”

Lycan interjects a honeyed whisper in her ear that catches her attention sharply. “Do you want to save her?”

Mad with grief at the fate set in front of her, my daughter does what any Mother would. “Yes. Yes. Do whatever you want to me. I’ll- I’ll remove the protection. You can use it on me instead. Please… Please, don’t hurt Evangeline! Light, please… please, Lycan. Just use it on me!” All the while, her thoughts are cast to the oldest and most powerful of her kind. *Ync! Ync!!! Ync, I’m begging you!!! Not Evie! Save Evie!!!*

“Oh, eventually, I fully intend to feed you to this fucking thing.” Lycan purrs softly against her ear. “But first, you’re going to submit to me. Yield to me as your new Master.”

There’s not a moment of hesitation, curling up with her head bowed she offers herself to Lycan; fully aware that he will suffer her every single moment of every hour and day for the rest of their lives. In her mind, this is her daughter’s only chance of survival.

It wasn’t.

But, I would not tell her that. Nor would anyone else who serves me.

“Kiss Evangeline goodnight.” Lycan orders in a measured tone, bordering on kind as he cuts Karrista from her restraints.

Again, there is no hesitation. This isn’t mercy. Karrista understands full well that this is just… farewell.

When Ync returns, he offers a helpless look to her before retrieving Evangeline and escorting her from the room. Here, I make clear the fate in store for my daughter.

“D’ashu. Open a portal to Icecrown. We’re going to give the Blood-King an opportunity to express his own - rather extensive - dissatisfaction with Karrista’s behavior.”

“What do you want to do with Malura, Master?” Lycan asks.

“Bring her to Methuselah. He’s already made arrangements to scatter her consciousness across several Timeways. She’ll never be whole again.”

[ @karrista - For Mentions: @maluraunderchild, @ly-canthos, @khan-of-the-ruruan, @professor-ync-ubu, @dashu-nivan @treadstone, et al. ]

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tafferling · 7 years ago

Text

Canvas

Fandom: Resident Evil | Characters: Chris Redfield / OC | Rating: T | 2800 words | Domestic Cuddles

Home is where the heart is. Where your wifi auto connects, and your fridge has got a full row of eggs stocked, and none of that low-fat-bs-milk. Mostly though, home's where Chris Redfield wanders without gear on his shoulders, and I'm free to pad about in socks, sweats and something heavy, soft— and mostly dreadful if we're going to be honest about it.

I'm fond of home. How can't I be. Fond of him in his favourite grey t-shirt (one of the many variations of it, at any rate) and that pair of sweatpants with the green waistband. There's a neatly tied loop on that, one I can't not tug on whenever he shuffles by.

Yeah, temptation and me have always had a volatile relationship. Tug-tug-tug I'll go, and he'll swipe at my rump with the palm of his hand and reward me with a throaty grunt of fake protest.

Home is that, and it's worrying what's on telly— or him being a terrible backseat gamer full of bad advice and an excuse of I'm too old for this shit . Nevermind that he still beats me a good three out of five times if I'm daft enough to challenge him, so what gives?

Tonight though, home is quiet. It's him exhausted and beat from a deployment that's got him limping and aching, so the most of what he's interested in is a sum of fuck all until it's time to squash a pillow under his ear.

I plant bare feet on the coffee table, my cold toes curled together tight, and balance a pad of paper on a knee. There's a half finished sketch of some fantastic dream covering half the page. It's shoddy. Real shoddy, and I tap the black marker pen against the paper while I whistle through its cap held between my lips and wonder how to fix it. But the movie on the telly distracts me a little, my eyes idly cutting between the drawing and Toothless enthusiastically bucking through the skies with a distressed Hiccup on his back. Right then, somewhere between a half disaster and some grand aerial acrobatics of dragon and Viking, Chris huffs next to me. An amused huff, I note, and when I look at him he's got a small smile on his lips.

Yeah, who'd have thought? Chris Redfield; Veteran Field Captain of the B.S.A.A, an occasional sampler of animated movies? Either that, or he's too weary to grope for the remote.

Nah, I like to think he's full of surprises, that one. And I hope to be fishing more wonders out of this steel drum of a man for a long while yet to come. It's… nice.

Much like the gentle curl of his lips, how it lifts into the light shadow of his stubble and breaks up his hard features. And then he laughs. A small laugh, much like that smile, but that doesn't mean I don't get my heart squeezed, because those laughs come around as often as snow donuts. Or blue moons. Or good men.

He catches on to me staring and shoots me a glance. Well. There's one sitting here. A good man, not a snow donut. But my point still stands. His brow arches, an unspoken What dancing about in his muddy blue eyes. Nothing, I almost say, but then my eyes flick to my pen. Then back at him. Back to the pen. Back at him.

Hmmm— Inspiration strikes with a giddy little jolt and I'm wiggling in my seat while he looks on with just the faintest hint of alarm.

I grab for his arm and tow myself across the couch and closer to him. Chris watches, but doesn't protest. He's the sort that makes a show of not being big on affectionate gestures. Keeps them private. Keeps them simple. Meaningful. Me? I'm not that reserved, and I know he's a fan, even if he's not about to admit it.

He smiles when I lift his arm and drape it atop my knees. The sketch pad is forgotten. Slides right off and onto the carpet. It was going shit anyway, no one's going to miss it.

While the drawing gets cosy with the floor, and he turns back to the telly, I study the hand splayed out on my knee. It's a big hand. Heavy. Scarred. The clear ridges of veins run under well worn skin beat at by time and sun and work alike, and a dusting of coarse hair tracks over the ridge and up along his arm. I flip the hand, tap my fingers against his.

I love these hands. Their texture, every rough calloused patch and the soft bits between. How they can be unrelenting. Firm. But also incredibly tender and gentle with a knack for fine details.

I'd been on both ends.

My thumb slides into his palm, has a go at divining his past and future from the landscape of deep furrows. There are horrible things written in there. But a few good ones too, except mostly I read what's for dinner: Chicken stir fry. It's right there, plain as day, in how this one intersects with that other one. I trace a path back out over the heel of his hand, right down along the dark lines of veins under his skin, and then I finally get to work. The pen flicks up and then down, and I set the tip just below the sinews stretching along his wrist.

Skånsom, I write. Careful and at an awkward angle, with my breath whistling through the cap pinched between my lips. His pulse shudders against my thumb.

Chris blinks down at the letters once I'm done, and after a slow pump of his fingers asks: "What's that mean?"

I turn my head and puff the pen cap from my mouth. It lands on the table with a few muted clacks. "Gentle."

His brows rock up while I track my knuckles under the words. My handwriting is atrocious.

"And I've got more." The pen waggles between my fingers. When he doesn't protest, I set it down again, land the tip on the firm, warm skin of his forearm.

Unlike me, he tans easy, that lucky bastard. Though on his arms the light nutty colour of his skin only serves to make his fading scars pop out glaringly. There are plenty of them, left by god knows what or who, and I focus my attention on the discoloured patch of a well healed burn.

Skaists I write across it, whisper, "Handsome" for his benefit.

"You think so?"

"Mhmm—"

Chris breathes out a quiet, well contained laugh. "All right. Keep going."

I shoot him a sideways glance, startled. Here I'd been thinking that this'd be as far as he'd let me paint him, but if I'm going to get permissions, then who am I to disappoint?

My lips slant down in a frown. "I'm running out of space though."

"Liar."

"Nuh-huh—" The frown is hard to hold and crumbles quickly into a smile. With a drag on his arm and a light push, I swing a leg up to straddle him. My knee digs between him and the couch arm, wedges in tight.

His hands go for a bit of a hike while I'm busy wiggling myself down on his lap. They leave a trail of tender warmth along my sides, right until they come to rest on my rump. And then the bastard peeks over me and laughs at the telly.

I'll never grow tired of his laugh. Truth be told, I can't rightfully think of many things I love more than that particular sound rumbling in his chest. Well. Okay. Maybe the feel of him rocking about under me while he's chortling away comes in a close second right now.

"Nevermind me," I mumble with mock irritation while he goes on to ignore me. Least to have a good go at pretending. I grab the bottom end of his shirt, start to pull it up. Slow and steady, my knuckles dragging against the collected heat on his skin, until the collar catches on his chin.

"Work with me here?"

He lifts his arms and the shirt whispers up a little further. Not all the way. Just enough to cover his head and block out the movie. I press in closer, drawn to warmth like an eager little moth. My nose goes to look for his, plays a little hide and seek while he's stuck under the shirt. A gentle bump here. A brief touch over the bridge of his nose there. Until he pushes his legs up and I get shoved forward to bump my forehead against his.

Fine. The shirt comes off.

Oops— He blinks. Perks a brow. His eyes settle on me, and I study the shreds of brown in the stormy blue of them as they flick left and right like he's studying me in turn. And then I give his hair a half hearted pat in an attempt to put it back in order. Though I admit I like it when that usually well behaved, short cut of his gets all ruffled. How it scatters the bits of gray in it, that hint of salt along his temples giving away the years he's carried. He's got some in the evening stubble on his cheeks and chin too.

"Oh," I say and poke a finger two inches away from his ear. "You've got a new gray hair."

He grunts. "And whose fault is that?"

"Huhm— Probably Piers?"

Chris drops his arms back down, sets his hands against my rump again. Squeezes. He mouths Yours at me, and I flick the pen at the tip of his nose. Then I bunch the shirt together and chuck it on the backrest before I get settled in better on his lap. And then I stare for a little while and sift through words in my head. They don't come easy though, because he's distracting. From his broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his collarbone, and the shadow of coarse hair that gathers on his chest and dives down in a dark line before it vanishes into the band of his slacks.

There are marks on him most everywhere I look. He's got them all over, and I've spent a lot of time memorising them. Tacked memories to them, some of them lived, others told. Most told, to be fair. They're terrifying.

"So?" he interrupts my study, right as I think of the badly scarred stitches left behind by a horrible Christmas day. Yeah. Terrifying. My eyes dart up to him, catch him once again not looking, his stare glued to the telly.

"Art doesn't like being rushed," I chide and adjust my seating with a few wiggles until I'm resting snug against his pelvis. He exhales a somewhat shaky breath in response and his hands go back to busying themselves on my rump.

Damn stubborn, that man.

Leaning forward, my hand splayed out on his wide shoulder, I let the pen get back to work.

Tendre, I write above his collarbone. His eyes flick down.

Finally, I think. But his attention is short lived. Or at least he's making an effort to get back to watching dragons and vikings do their thing, whatever that thing may currently be. His jaw flexes as he wrestles with a smile. One more shift of my weight, and an unfocused look settles in his eyes, telling me he's not really fussed about the vikings and dragons any more at all, but he'll be damned if he'll let on that fact.

It's a game he likes playing.

And a game I like winning.

So while he keeps his gaze stubbornly set forward, I go and refill my vocabulary.

I arc my back away from him, my hip snapping forward with the movement, and twist until I reach my phone lying on the table. Stretching far as I can, I almost topple backwards once, but he props me up with a gentle hand resting against the base of my spine, only to let his fingers glide back down the moment I'm sat straight again.

"Give me a sec," I mumble while I swipe the phone on and start looking for a matching word to go with the next piece on him. Hello Google translate my old friend. It doesn't take long and I've stocked up on a few, toss the phone back onto the couch, and move on to his left arm.

Veli, I write just below the curve of his shoulder. "Brother."

He hums.

It's got two meanings, that one. Brother to a wonderful woman, one much prettier than him, which I let him know often enough. And brother in arms to those who'll trust him with their lives.

I move to the right next. Put the marker down on his biceps, and paint Fort on that particular piece of well maintained muscle. Perfect a spot as any, no? The t smudges at the end though, leaves an unwanted blotch, so I shuffle closer and lean in to wipe away the ink. For a little while, I linger there. Take a drag of air. Ink. Fabric softener. Soap. And a familiar scent of his skin. Rainy days, a promise of earthy grit and passion.

Nothing can hide it all the way. And hardly a thing is better.

Once the word is cleaned up, I straighten and ride my hip forward slightly. My reward is a slow exhale of air that almost gets stuck halfway up in a throaty sigh. Might be I'll win this yet.

Back to the canvas: the next piece of it squarely in front of me. Mutig , I write gently over his chest, stretch the word diagonally and go out of my way to have it cross his heart— and that a line goes right over a nipple, because why not. For that I get a grunt and a hearty squeeze of my rump.

"Brave?" Chris asks.

"Richtig," I say, and he gives a faint nod. He likes me speaking German, though I've got no clue whatsoever whyever he would.

But anyway. Moving on. With his chest labelled appropriately, because I don't know a man more willing to put himself in harm's way for the good of someone else, I hunch forward and lower the pen to his abdomen.

Amante, I write. The line of dark hair gets in the way though, so I have to space the letters out a little. And apparently the whole deal tickles. His muscles flex under the tip of the pen and he puffs out a quiet chuckle.

"Hold still," I mutter, since now the lines are all wonky and I have to try again. That, and the line of dark hair diving down into his trousers gets in the way. Ama nte the word ends up reading, with the letters a bit bent. And because he's caused me trouble, I duck down and blow air at the ink. A few more twitches later, I lean back, prop my hands up on his knees behind me, and look him up and down.

And he looks back. He's staring, actually, and carries a small, crestfallen frown.

"That's it?"

I blink. "Getting a little cocky, are we?"

Chris shrugs. "You tell me."

"All right. I have one more." Scoot-scoot-scoot, and I'm almost perched on his knees so I can grab the band of his slacks and pull them down. Slightly, mind you. And careful.

"Well," he hums up there somewhere. "You didn't have to go through all the trouble just to get my pants off."

"Shush." Said pants stay on, I decide, but they hitch low enough so I can put the pen down above the line of neatly trimmed pubic hair. He looks after himself. Really, what's not to like?

What's not the like at all?

Mine, I paint, one careful letter after the other, and sign it with a flourish.

When I look up, he's got an odd smile on him. Slow and slightly lopsided. And quite weighty, his eyes heavily lidded. He steals the pen. Swipes it right from my fingers before he pulls me forward, his hands hooked into my knees. One of the hands tracks up along my spine, and settles firm around my neck. Locks me right in place. The corners of his mouth hitch up a little higher, turn the smile to an inviting grin. Playful.

And that's home too.

The comfort of things found rarely anywhere else.

A warm finger drags the collar of my jumper down, rolls it over my shoulder to bare a little more skin. He carefully twists my head back, and the tip of the pen lands a heartbeat later, a light touch on the ridge of my collarbone.

I count the letters— one, two, three, four— and a warm, scratchy kiss down the curve of my neck.

Yeah. Home is pretty damn nice.

[I was told this should have ended in smut. Should I continue it?]

#Chris Redfield #Resident Evil #Domestic Fluff #Cuddle Fic #Self Indulgent Taff Drabbles #WordSoup #Redfieldium #ChrisX?#Sorry #Tafferfield

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shamankingasakuraworld · 7 years ago

Text

Towns

Yoh can't imagine better place on Earth than Funbari. He isn't really sure that even Heaven can compare. He would bet it couldn't.

On it's own, Tokyo is a pretty impressive city. It is giant and sprawling, with buildings grander than any tower from legends that almost seems to reach towards the stars. Millions of people, going on with their lives-mundane or not- and somehow they are all connected.

Funbari isn't in stunning parts of Tokyo. In fact, you could even say it is boring, hidden away on outskirts. But Yoh loves it. Loves trees and cemetery and small sweet shops and quiet neighborhoods and even school. He was born in Izumo, but Tokyo is his home.

All cities are amazing-how could they not be? So many people living together, sharing same space and air, their homes so near each other, their lives bound together. But everybody has their city, one whose name brings warmth to heart. And Yoh's is Tokyo.

No other place in world has Anna and Manta, Amidamaru and Hana.

Lyserg's soul belongs to London, and London belongs to him. He is detective, investigator, dowser.

It is his job and birthright to walk through shadows and lies, to seek truth and secrets on both streets and in homes.

It is an ancient city, and centuries of tradition and ghosts lay over each other, like layers of skin. It is his job, his duty, his blood to travel and document all he can.

He will never uncover them all. No lone person can. City is too wide, too massive, too many streets and secrets. And it is always growing, with each new life. But it doesn't bother him.

If you peel off every layer, you are left with nothing.

Horohoro has traveled over good part of world. He had seen capitols and grand cities. He had seen hidden villages and mythic, sunken kingdoms. He had even seen otherworld. And he would never leave Hokkaido, not for anything in any world.

As young, he hated and loved it. Hated people there, laughing at him for so many reasons- because he was Ainu, because he could see strange thing, because he cared for plants, because he would talk to air, because he had blue hair. But he loved it's sky and soil and snow, loved shops and food and games, loved few friends he made.

But only when he left for Shaman Fight, for grand Tokyo and wide Atlantic and distant America, did he realize how much he loved Hokkaido. He seemed to remember every detail, every cobble on street, every stranger. And he missed it as much as he wanted to be Shaman King.

When everything ended, he could have gone everywhere, became anybody. But he went back home, became "simple" farmer, doing everything in his power to save coltsfoot fields alongside his family.

His home isn't perfect, but it doesn't need to be.

Anna doesn't remember her hometown, for all that it is such important part of basic itako spell. She doesn't know whether she has sibling, and concerning her parents she remembers... well, not faces, but expressions (wariness and confusion) and feelings (fear and disgusts).

That is fine by her. What need has she of memories of people that abandoned her? If she could, she would never return to Shimokita. It is foolish, and irresponsible, but memories bury her like avalanche until she chokes on grief.

She could never understand concept of home, of town that is part of your soul, but if it existed, Shimokita certainly isn't it, for all that Osorezan shaped her.

Now, travelling over world with Yoh, seeing hundred different but same stories playing out in thousand towns and villages, she finally understands. She thinks of Tokyo, and Funbari, and her soaps, and Ryo and Manta and Tamao and Hana and goes on.

She can't stop, for her onsen isn't yet most famous in Japan.

For sake of Paris, Jeanne would die. Not the Iron Maiden, who must bleed and endure and bring justice to darkness, but Jeanne, little girl fond of sweet cakes and puffy dresses.

She loves every aspect of her city. From dirty slums where charity is needed to glamorous halls from which it should-no,must-be given. She loves her home, and she loves orphanage where she was found, and she loves shining restaurants and X-Laws's storages of weapons and Paris's magnificent, breath-taking churches.

God made man in His image-a creature of stunning intellect, endless charity and uncontainable imagination. Towns, villages, communities-they are epitomes of His gifts, fortresses of kindness, order and law.

It may be selfish, and stupid, and selfish, but she would dare say Paris is greatest of them all. The city of light, kingdom of art and science, bastion of freedom and virtue. It may be blasphemy, and so she prays for forgivness if that is case.

But to her, the whole city is the temple, holiest of them all after Jerusalem.

Hao snarls and bites his cheek and spits, one hand holding on rough, vandalised wall, other curled in fist, lego gauntlets hitting bricks, breaking paint, carving his name in alley. Just why would anybody live in something as ridiculous as town, with it's buildings and streests and poisoned air and tainted rivers and starved animals and humans and people and million horrible thoughts and oh Heavens how are they even breathing?

He spent nine centuries in Hell, and he can say with certainty that any human dwelling is far worse. He couldn't stand even Patch village, with all of shamans and Great Spirits presence. Even less could he stand palaces of Imperial Court, full of greed and treachery and selfish nobles, just as he couldn't stand streets, cold and starvation and fools that do nothing. It is wonder he doesn't shatter and destroy all of this (of course not, he has excellent self control, but watching those concrete skyscrapers melt would be such lovely sight...).

Forests and deserts and volcanoes and icy wastes and seas and what more could you need? If you couldn't stand open sky there were always crowns of trees and caves and you could make shelters... But then, he lived on the edge of village, and he and his mother were demons and foxes and could walk in and out of dark woods and he was born there, between roots and branches, so she once told him, tired and sad and unaware and half asleep. Wolf for midwife, bird for doctor, demon for nurse, kodama for guardian, fox for mother.

But this abomination, this monstrosity, this city is still part of earth. Trapped and crying and inert, but living and eternal and hateful. Walls and steel and glass remember being stone and ore and sand. Hao feels ground hum, and smiles, caressing the walls, as mother earth grips his heart and soul and roars with hatred, demanding justice and retribution from only one who can hear her venomous words. Buildings crumble and shatter. Dust and soil are eternal. Earth is broken and betrayed, tormented and fractured, and yet...

There are flowers, growing despite asphalt.

#My work #asakura yoh #lyserg diethel #horohoro #anna asakura #iron maiden jeanne #hao asakura #shaman king #fanfiction #my fic

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