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lambden · 3 years ago

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What better way to break in a new blog than by immediately posting fic? In honour of Nightmare of the Wolf, here’s some Vesemir and Filavandrel!

(read on AO3)

M, 2.9K words, no warnings, Vesemir recognizes Jaskier’s lute when he arrives at Kaer Morhen

Vesemir has been expecting this day for decades. It’s rare for witchers to meet a trusted companion out on the Path, and even rarer to find one who wishes to travel alongside them. But the reputation of witchers has changed in recent years, for better or worse. Their focus is no longer on maintaining the traditional practices of their schools, but on protection— of other witchers, and of helpless commoners. Perhaps the humans can sense that change.

More curiously, the folklore surrounding witchers has changed. Vesemir very badly wants to meet the man who has done so much to change the narrative, but years pass and all Geralt brings home every winter are stories. The younger witchers entertain (and tease) him but no one ever asks where the bard goes during the cold months that Geralt spends at Kaer Morhen. Perhaps even Geralt doesn’t know.

Finally, after hundreds of stories of Geralt-and-Dandelion, Vesemir receives a letter one autumn before he himself has even considered the journey home. His chest warms as he reads Geralt’s careful penmanship, noting how the ink blots at the start of each new sentence. The paper and wax are fine, suggesting that Jaskier used his academic connections to perhaps land Geralt a few contracts near Oxenfurt. Geralt’s lettering may be nearly flawless but his message is stilted, reminding Vesemir of when his pups were nervous children. Does Jaskier really make him act this awkward? Their relationship must be serious, then.

I am hoping you will welcome my guest with open arms, or I fear he may freeze over the coming months. Vesemir looks for a signature but there is none, save a very fancy G at the bottom. No returning address has been provided either, and while he could easily pen a missive to Oxenfurt, it’s probably best not to respond. Each day Nilfgaard only grows stronger, and crueler. Perhaps Jaskier has been caught up in their hunger for power. Vesemir folds the letter up and hides it in his saddlebag.

When the frost begins creeping in, the oldest Wolf begins his trek up the mountain. He’s almost always the first one to arrive; Coën had beaten him to it once and apologized for weeks, and Vesemir would do anything to avoid that again. And if he makes an effort to arrive early this year so that he can make the Keep look as important as it is, well… nobody needs to know.

It takes a week and a half before Geralt arrives, Jaskier in tow. Vesemir spends the time flushing out a bat infestation and dealing with the most perishable of his spoils from the past year. The White Wolf seems to bring the cold with him most years but Vesemir, cognizant of Jaskier’s inferior body, made sure to set out enough furs in advance. As soon as he hears Roach’s hooves approaching he starts a roaring fire, and when the inner doors of Kaer Morhen burst open, Vesemir is ready to make a great first impression.

Upon seeing him, Geralt smiles right away, crossing the room to greet him. Vesemir looks him over; no obvious new scars, no missing body parts. Must have been an uneventful year, but… Geralt is here, safe and alive, so Vesemir allows himself some private, selfish, unwitcherly joy. It’s the sort of thing Deglan would have lectured him for. He finds he doesn’t care.

“I got your letter,” he tells Geralt, who nods solemnly. “I thought it best not to reply. Is Nilfgaard on your trail?”

“Our trail,” Geralt sighs, stepping aside so that Vesemir can meet his companion. “Vesemir, this is Jaskier.”

The bard, dwarfed by a large fur coat, moves forward so that Vesemir can properly scrutinize him. He certainly doesn’t look his age, but Vesemir knows he’s travelled as far as any witcher has gone, and seen sights no human should really have witnessed. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about you, Jaskier. I was wondering when Geralt was finally going to bring you along for the winter!” That makes Jaskier perk up, and Vesemir chuckles. “I promise that no harm will come to you here.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “Geralt doesn’t like sharing much about the other witchers, but I’m sure you must have a wealth of stories for me to hear!” Sure enough, Geralt frowns. “And I don’t know how much help I’ll be with hunting or gathering, but I would be happy to regale you on the coldest nights—”

And before Vesemir can read into that unfortunate phrasing, Jaskier shrugs off his fur coat to produce a lute. He must have been wearing it strapped around his front on the journey through the mountains, not wanting to condemn such a fine instrument to being jostled around in Roach’s saddlebags. Vesemir squints at the red-brown wood and the golden details under the strings. They almost look like a particular elven design.

Oh. Vesemir’s realization nearly bowls him over. Geralt and Jaskier stare at him, respectively concerned and curious, but Vesemir can’t take his eyes off the lute. “My apologies, I… I forgot something in my chamber. Make yourselves at home, and… I’ll leave you to it.” He leaves without any further explanation, hastening to his quarters and abandoning the pair of them to their own devices. He can still feel their gazes drilling into his back but he suddenly feels weaker than usual.

---

“I heard there was a witcher skulking around this forest,” the spy says. Vesemir is almost relieved to hear them speak; he’s been glancing over his shoulder for nearly an hour now to try and reveal an invisible pursuer. He should’ve known he was right. Just because the spy doesn’t lumber like a human or reek of magic like a monster doesn’t mean he won’t be in trouble.

He stops in the middle of the path, still facing forward. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the second he turns, a very unfriendly knife is going to introduce itself to his ribcage. Or perhaps an arrow, although he hasn’t heard the sound of anything and he’s been listening very closely.

His pursuer approaches. Fuck, they’re light on their feet. If Vesemir was just an average bandit, he’d be done for. He braces himself for an attack, balling his hands up into fists at his sides. The stranger continues, tone still pleasant enough, “Why not stay in town? A warm bed must beat trudging through mud in the early hours of the morning trying to find ground. I’ll give you some advice, witcher; there’s no dry ground. You’re heading towards a swamp.”

“They wouldn’t let me stay in town,” Vesemir admits, already grumpy. He whirls around and sees the stranger; a lean man, just slightly shorter than him. The long hood of their cloak casts a dark shadow over their face, blocking them from view. “If you’re here to rob me, I hate to disappoint, but you’ve followed me all this way for nothing.”

He holds up his empty coinpurse; not to prove himself, just to complain. The stranger titters, a lovely, high-pitched sound like glass clinking against glass, like chimes. Like birdsong. Vesemir’s eyes narrow. “That’s a shame,” they say. “You do love coin.”

There’s something disturbingly familiar about the words. Vesemir decides to gamble with his own life, stalking forward until he’s face to face with the stranger. Up close, his scent is even stronger. Frowning, Vesemir is about to reveal the man’s identity when he does it himself, pushing his hood back. His hair is tied up in complex braids unlike any Vesemir has ever seen, only a few loose strands hanging down over his forehead. But it would take more than a lifetime for Vesemir to forget that face.

“Fil,” he declares, delighted, and doesn’t think twice before crashing into the elf. Filavandrel laughs again and though it makes Vesemir feel a little silly, the sound still fills his heart with joy. He embraces his friend tightly, clinging to him for so long that both their boots sink down into the flooded dark soil of the forest. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s like I told you.” The elf pats the back of Vesemir’s neck, unwittingly sending a shiver down his spine. Vesemir’s grip tightens. “My scouts said I might find a witcher lost in the woods.”

“I’m not lost,” Vesemir grunts, finally pulling away. “I just… don’t know where I’m going.”

“Come to my camp,” suggests Filavandrel. As if he even had to ask.

Unsurprisingly, elves make their camps much differently than witchers do. When they arrive Vesemir doesn’t immediately see any sort of bedroll, and then he feels embarrassed for looking. He never feels this way around anyone else; he can make bawdy jokes with Sven or blatantly hit on Luka, but in the company of Filavandrel aén Fidháil, shame bursts through him so easily.

Maybe he just has a thing for pretty blondes who he leaves behind.

Except Fil is here, smiling indulgently as Vesemir gapes like a fool. “It’s nice,” he finally manages to say. “Want me to set a fire?”

“A campfire, sure. Not a big one,” Filavandrel teases. Swallowing, Vesemir turns to a firepit that the elf must have fashioned himself. He takes a bundle of wood that’s already been cut and easily ignites it, all the while trying to figure out why his heart is pounding so damn loud. Thank fuck that Filavandrel isn’t a witcher.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. You?”

“I was going to have some bread, and go hunting in the morning.” There’s a small noise and when Vesemir turns to look, his friend is holding out a large chunk of bread. It doesn’t even look that stale. Vesemir sees that Filavandrel has taken a much smaller piece for himself and growls about it, but the elf snatches the smaller piece away before Vesemir can lunge for it. “I don’t want to hear any self-sacrificial bullshit about how witchers don’t need to eat. Take the damn bread, Ves.”

“... Fine,” Vesemir relents, cowed. He accepts the bread, fingertips accidentally brushing over Filavandrel’s when he takes it. It’s fucking delicious, melting in his mouth almost instantly. Seeds and herbs have been baked into it too, and Vesemir savours every bite, moaning. “You should quit being a professional elf and start a new life as a baker, fuck.”

“I can do both. It’s an old recipe, needs a stone oven. And what does being a professional elf even mean?” Filavandrel reaches up to shove him, except they aren’t very far away from each other so the push nearly knocks Vesemir off his balance. Before he can tip over onto the grass Filavandrel grabs him by the collar of his gambeson and tugs him back, and, well. Vesemir may be a witcher, but parts of him are still human.

Neither of them has to say a word; he opens for Filavandrel like he’s been thinking of nothing but this since the second they laid eyes on each other. Honestly, he sort of has. Fil runs a hand over the shaved part of his head, pressing his palm against the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Vesemir moans, chasing the taste of something sweet and acidic and magic. It certainly isn’t the fucking bread.

Afterwards they lie together by the smoldering remains of the fire, both too spent to clean themselves or dress. Vesemir glances over at the cinders and thinks about making an exit soon. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to stay with Filavandrel. He’s comfortable here, especially right now, and his friend always makes his heart feel lighter. But the Path calls to him; lying here without his weapons or armour, Vesemir can nearly hear Deglan’s scolding. And that thought is enough to ruin anyone’s afterglow.

Before he can move, Filavandrel sits up, arching his back. Vesemir turns to watch him, nearly salivating at how he looks in the low firelight. His hair is radiant, and his skin isn’t nearly flushed enough. He’s beautiful. Ethereal. Selfishly, Vesemir wishes that he’d left more marks.

Fil climbs to his feet and crosses the campsite to retrieve something out of reach. Vesemir cranes his neck to try and peek, and Filavandrel laughs kindly at him. “I was just thinking that something’s missing.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Vesemir says, lowering his head back down onto the ground. “I should have kissed you more.”

The elf pauses at that before finally demanding, “Kiss me later.” A note resounds through the air, clear and beautiful; then a chord, and another. Very soon their little clearing feels more like a fairy circle than a campground as Filavandrel plays music.

He finally walks into view, still naked, still beautiful. Now holding a lute. Vesemir tries to sit up so that he can properly see the performance but Filavandrel is faster, moving over him and then sitting atop his stomach, resting his back against Vesemir’s thighs. He plays the entire time, fingers moving adeptly over the instrument.

It’s a beautiful lute, probably made of some holy dark red wood. The golden design etched into it is mesmerizing, and the strings could have been plucked from the mane of a unicorn. Vesemir hardly spares it any attention, too wrapped up in the sight of a naked Filavandrel straddling him and singing.

He’ll only realize decades later that the elf was probably trying to court him.

Someone knocks on the door to his chambers and Vesemir jumps to his feet, caught off-guard by the sound that plucked him from his memories. He finds Jaskier waiting outside his room, toying idly with the sleeves of his doublet. Vesemir shakes his head, holding the door open for Jaskier even as he apologizes. “I’m sorry for running out earlier. I meant to give you a tour of the Keep, hopefully Geralt will have stepped up in my absence, but I am sorry—”

“No— please,” Jaskier interrupts. Once more he pulls his lute from around himself, holding it out to Vesemir. “I just… Your countenance changed dramatically upon seeing this, so…”

Fuck. “Yes,” Vesemir sighs, staring at the lute. Jaskier has managed to keep it in good condition after all this time. “I… Filavandrel and I are old friends.”

The bard’s eyes bulge out of his head but he enters Vesemir’s chambers, heading straight to the desk to perch on the edge of the chair. Vesemir finds another chair for himself, moving its previous occupant— a stack of books— onto the floor. In his defence, he hadn’t expected the tour of Kaer Morhen to begin in his personal chambers.

“He didn’t mention knowing any other witchers,” Jaskier hums. “How did you meet him?”

“You’re sure you want to know? It’s sort of a long story.” The bard just nods, eager and polite. Instantly Vesemir can see why Geralt likes him. “Alright,” he obliges, reaching for the bottle of wine on the desk. They’re going to need it. “We met long before you would have been born…”

---

South of Kaedwen, the seasons are more aligned than any other part of the Continent. The winters are crisp, the summers lazy. Filavandrel likes to spend his summers here, where the canopy of trees is thick enough to provide shade but thin enough to provide colour. Everything is verdant, the flowers calling to him as he passes each one. When he was a child he had longed to visit towns and experience human delights like festivals but now he knows better. The elves live off the land well enough anyway.

Some of the younger people in his company these days have that same yearning, and some of them even manage it. One elf who resembles Toruviel always runs off to see some different show, take in some new performance. If Filavandrel thought that she could get away with it, he would pay for her to attend Oxenfurt— she’s very good. And the upside of her risking her life just to listen to music is that she’s got a very good memory, and she always brings the songs back home.

Today she’s singing some new ode to a witcher; not that bigoted anthem of lies that the bastard warbler from Posada somehow spread through the Continent, thank the Gods. This one seems to revolve more around making the right choice, and how a real hero does good deeds not for coin or his own profit, but just to be good. Filavandrel thinks about the few witchers that he’s had the misfortune of contacting over the years, and under his breath he scoffs.

Cheesy chorus aside, the lyrics seem to have some merit. The first verse is all about some terrible monster that was taking young girls, transforming them into half-beasts. The hero witcher’s judgement fails him and he blames himself for years, even losing a lover in the process. Filavandrel scowls; despite his own experiences with witches, he doesn’t want to listen to a song written by yet another prejudiced bard.

Then the third verse lands. The witcher grows old and wise and has children of his own, and he regrets his inaction and he tries to reach out to contact his lover. But at that point his lover, who devoted his life to protecting those in danger, was too busy being King of the Silver Towers. Filavandrel stops dead in his tracks as he realizes which witcher this must have been inspired by.

The elven king huffs, starting to compose a route in his head. He thinks a trip up north is long overdue.

#vesemir #filavandrel #nightmare of the wolf #the witcher nightmare of the wolf #geraskier fic #my writing #hey did anyone else see young vesemir talking to his friend fil in the bath and think we were gonna get a Bath Scene Part Two: The Remix?

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bibliocratic · 4 years ago

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tread softly

S4 Canon Divergence + Mythological Creatures AU Mermaid!Sasha, Pheonix!Tim, Selkie!Martin

cws apply - see tags

Peter Lukas has always prided himself on the timing of his entrances.

He is not there, then he is. The ward slips colder, down into single digits. Martin gives a jerking shoulder-hunch motion when he notices his unexpected arrival, coupled with an intake of breath. No noise this time, no jumping, no explications of suddenness or surprise. Martin Blackwood takes well to both shock and silence with a delightful sufferance, and Peter is indulgently proud.

The lad is, as expected, by the Archivist’s bedside. Crone-backed, ringed with an satisfying corona of misery. It’s after visiting hours, but Martin likely hasn’t even realised that the gaze of the ward staff and orderlies has simply grazed past him when he came up, when he took his traditional post, when they do their rounds. Martin has not wanted to be noticed, so he won’t be.

Peter idly watches the machinery and tubes threaded though the Archivist like mechanical embroidery. This one seems eminently more worse for wear than Gertrude ever was. Stronger, though. Peter watches Elias’ chosen as he lies still and sedate for all he stalks the landscape of dreamers, and wonders if he might see the Eye’s favoured come to fruition in a way Gertrude never did.

All the more reason to talk to Martin, it appears.

“What do you want?” Martin says. Dulled, thick-throated. He’s wiping his face free from damp with his baggy jacket sleeves, glowering at Peter with a delayed annoyance, as if he’s interrupted some no doubt tender petition for waking. The antiseptic stench of the hospital worsens the tension in his bones.

He is perfect for their God. Peter’s so pleased the Archivist wasn’t so careless to have lost this assistant like he nearly lost both of the others. Elias told him that the Corruption had already sought to burrow into the debris of this lost soul, that Martin has taken the mantle of archivist well, while Beholding’s chosen was indisposed. And it is true that Martin’s gaze is more assessing than he would like. But Peter knows that Forsaken has long laced Martin’s lining with mist and dew-damp cold, filled his stomach with fog far longer than those petty chancers have tried to have him in their maw. That his God’s touch has been settling like thronging, subdued snow in place of Martin’s sealskin.

“I wanted to see if you’d thought about my offer,” Peter replies genially. Pushing his hands in his pockets, ignoring Martin’s radiating desire to be left alone.

Martin has. Peter doesn’t need Elias’ pretty little parlour tricks to know that Martin has likely thought about little else.

“I’ve been a bit busy.”

“Oh right!” Peter says after a moment’s pause. It visibly annoys Martin that it didn’t come to mind faster. “That spot of bother with the Flesh. All sorted now, I’m sure!”

“Why didn’t you do something to stop them?”

Peter crinkles his face in a deliberate confusion. Casting out his line.

“Why, what should I have done?”

Martin takes the bait with ease.

“It’s your job, isn’t it?” His voice pitches with accusation. His hands ball into fists, and he moves to standing, the chair complaining as it’s pushed back. “It’s your responsibility! You’re in charge now Elias is gone.”

“Thanks to you,” Peter replies smoothly. “And your companions seemed to do a good enough job. A few bruises here and there, a few near misses. Nothing they won’t heal from.”

Peter slides closer. Just a step. It makes his skin sing discordant at the proximity, but Martin stiffens, an anxious intake of air despite himself, and Peter knows he’s paying attention.

“I could ask you the same question,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you do something to stop them?” Peter doesn’t sound judgemental. He doesn’t have to, Martin will paint on layers of meaning without overdoing this particular nuance of his game. “It was very impressive, watching you all. They all held their own very well. Except you. You could argue I suppose, that it’s not the same. That you’re not like the mer or the firebird or the sphinx, no added little genetic extras, and you don’t get any boost from any old helpful Power like that police officer, or the angry one touched by the Slaughter. You’re just Martin. And that’s… that’s the problem, isn’t it? Just Martin. Nothing to offer in the fight, no way to protect them. Holding them back. They could have been hurt, and you wouldn’t have been able to do, well, anything at all.”

“I…” Martin says, and Peter takes another step.

“The Extinction is a pressing threat. There isn’t time for me to wait while you finish your grave-side widow routine. I need you to help me, and it would be only fair, in return, for me to help you.”

“Oh, what, you can fix me then?” Martin snaps.

“Not at all,” Peter says. Smiling, because he is so funny, with his rage sputtering in a fog that seeks to tamp it flameless, stumbling headlong and blinded into the conversational pitfalls Peter’s dug behind him. “No, no, I’m afraid you’re broken, Martin. I speak from experience when I say you’ll never grow your skin back.”

Martin freezes. He looks Peter up and down like he’s expecting to see something different, the scales fallen from his eyes, but this is the only skin Peter has worn for so long now, and he endures the slightly prickling gaze of Martin’s Eye-touched observation.

“You… You were – ?”

“A long time ago. Before the Lonely granted me a better shroud to cloak myself in. It is not a selfish God, Martin. It offers gifts, or payment, if you prefer that way of understanding it, to those who work in aid of its ends. Benefits that could protect your friends, should something as unfortunate as the Flesh’s assault occur again.”

“And what about Jon?”

“He’ll wake up. Or he won’t.” Peter replies cheerily. “Either way, you can’t do anything for any of them like this.”

Martin gives him a scowl. Peter lets it pass over him. He knows, before Martin even opens his mouth, that he’s won.

Sasha avoids the sea.

She does not know why. Its pull is no lesser through her absence. She has dreams of sinking and never coming up for air, and she does not know if it is serenity in the ceaseless drop or despairing surrender. She marks the high days and festivals of her people alone and unremarked upon, speaks to her landward kin infrequently and vaguely. She needs to be here, she tells herself harshly. She can’t go off when there’s so much to do, when she’s in the process of losing so much. One of her family cold and vanishing, one breathing through a machine, and one… he died, died properly, and although he came back purged of something poisonous, the shrapnel scarring of collapsed masonry on his skin and the reddest, warmest wings sprung from his back, this does not settle her terrors.

She cannot leave. Not when she could lose sight of her splintering shoal so easily. Not when she’s unsure the temptation to dive down and out, deeper, further away, wouldn’t ensnare her to cowardice.

She finds the first scales in the shower. It’s a myth that any water will have the skin of her legs go slick, then bumpy, fusing into one muscled tail with her scales folding outwards. She can have showers and baths without impact. It’s the sea, that is the essential component. The same for most deepwater kin. Not the sea, maybe, or exactly, but what it represents in the change. It’s something about floating out into endless space clad only in human skin and human lungs and trusting not to drown. The letting go of one form with the tide and permitting the waves to bring forth another.

Her scales are dimmed, like they’ve smudged. Their colour diminished.

It’s not a molt. Her people don’t. Tim does, normally annually. Before they travelled to Yarmouth, he’d been dropping feathers around the office almost continually with stress. Nesting, and growing in new and painful sections of wing, snapping with a yo-yoing temper.

Tim notices. Maybe because he’s the only one left. Basira is holed up somewhere of course, as is Melanie, but it’s not the same. They weren’t here before, they don’t have the context for how much their group is diminished, falling to pieces slowly like her own skin is.

They’ll be visiting Jon later. She hasn’t seen Martin in weeks.

Tim approaches slowly. Looks at the flakes of blue in her hand. Understand flowers gently in his eyes, and he reaches out and touches her arm, and she forgot the world could manifest in ways other than hurtful.

“You OK there, Sash?” Tim asks.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “I don’t… I just… When did it all go so wrong?”

“I dunno,” Tim repeats, and he doesn’t move away and she doesn’t want him to. “God, I – I don’t know, Sash.”

Jon’s clothes are dirt-clotted, ripped up by the grind of rock, and holding him tarnishes Tim’s feathers grey, smudges the pattern on his t-shirt into obscurity. His teeth are chattering, goosebumps bobbling up his arms and making the dark hairs up his arms stand on end. Tim suspects it’s more shock than cold.

Sasha brought him a glass of water, holding her palm under it because Jon’s long-fingered grip is so shaky it’s sloshing the water up the sides.

“Told you the rib was a shit idea, huh?” Tim says. Played as a joke and deliberately shorn of any accusation. He breathes in-and-out and Jon follows the rise and fall, and it benefits both of them. Tim’s getting better at control. He’s had to. His anger grows in like pinfeathers but so does his grief these days, a full plumage of emotions he is learning to deal with.

Jon coughs up something that could be agreement, but is mostly dirt and grave soil over Tim’s shirt.

You should have waited for us, Tim thinks but does not say because there would be too much teeth in it, and Jon’s skin is already whittling down to skeletal. We asked you not to go, we wanted a better plan, why didn’t you wait.

You could have died, down there in the dark, and we wouldn’t have even had a body to mourn, he does not say.

We love you, you idiot. We love you and even that wasn’t enough to stop you leaving, he does not say.

We’re already losing Martin, he does not say.

A room full of looping, chattering, overlapping tape recorders. Neither Tim nor Sasha stacked them, and Jon would not have thought to.

It should be a reassurance, that Martin’s been here.

God, Tim hopes he knows what he’s doing.

Sasha rubs at Jon’s back, helps him sip another small trickle. Tim’s wings, voluminous and unwieldy, knock over recorders in a clattering collapse as he scoops them around to shield them both. Against the balmy heat Tim’s throwing out, Jon’s shivers gradually subside.

“Daisy?” Jon murmurs. His teeth are grimy with soil.

“She’s with Basira,” Tim replies.

Sasha’s picked up the rib that’s dropped out of Jon’s clenched palm. Wiping the grime off it and staring at it without clear expression.

“Why, Jon?” she asks.

“I wanted to help,” Jon says. His words small, like he’s embarrassed that he even thought of it. “Even if it was one person. I wanted to be able to do something good for a change.”

“You could have died,” Tim says.

Jon’s horrible flat chuckle scrapes over his lips.

“I’m not sure I can anymore.”

“Yeah…” Tim replies subdued. He glances at the red daggers of his feathers and thinks he understands that.

“I wonder what it would take,” Jon says idly, slurring with exhaustion, and Tim grips him closer and hopes he never finds out.

Martin doesn’t react when Sasha sits down near him. The breeze, a vicious snagging chill tussles his hair, some wisps twisting into nothingness like smoke from an extinguished candle. She is still getting used to this Martin, or perhaps the Martin he never let others see. The toned-down stillness of him, the undisturbed waters of his expression. His skin not quite solid, the patches that have returned pale, sickly-pallored in the softening dim of moonlight. The rest of him is a coalition of fog, a hazy motion to his image like he’s wave-rocked, smoked out.

Long minutes pass. Sasha sits down cross-legged. The waves ripple up the stones that make up the strip of beach surrounding the loch, and they’re hard and uncomfortable under her.

“I can’t swim, you know,” Martin says finally. The sea is louder than he is, and he can make himself so quiet these days.

“No?”

Sasha keeps her tone light, inquisitive without intensity. Martin shakes his head, and his image lags, skipping disjointed, like his connection is poor.

More silence. Sasha doesn’t know what she should say, where Martin’s thoughts are at. She scratches behind the base of her gills, rubs at the dorsal fins sitting mostly flat under her sleep shirt.

“I didn’t live too far from the sea,” Martin continues. Looking at the wavering mirage of his hands without comment. She doesn’t even know if he recognises her presence. “We had Liverpool about an hour away. Even Blackpool, I guess. My primary school had a swimming club, where they’d pack them off to the big leisure centre on a coach afterschool. Kids’d get these little medals for managing like five metres, or ten, fifteen. But there was a small fee, and Mum said…” He snorts out a dismissive breath and his face twists, and neither of these actions suit him. “Doesn’t matter. I never went, and I never learnt, and that was that.”

“You could always come swimming with me?” Sasha proposes slowly. Lost in the swell of this conversation, why Martin’s talking about the sea, what this has to do with anything. She wishes he’d look at her.

Martin doesn’t answer immediately. He might not have even heard her.

“I told Peter, and he said that made it even better. That it was a such a – ” he says the word with a sneer, the words sharp-toothed in his mouth “ – gift, that I’d never even had the opportunity to know what I would miss, not even a memory to embellish or to sour. That there was so much that could root in absence. He said I should be grateful.”

“Peter Lukas said a lot of shit,” Sasha says.

She shuffles closer to him. Puts her hand on his knee.

“Whatever he told you was bollocks, you know that right?”

Martin blinks. After a moment, his hand joins over hers. His image grows denser, less likely to be stolen by the midnight air.

His eyes, fixed out on a horizon point in the slick dark of the loch, are still distant.

“I just wish I understood why she did it,” Martin murmurs.

“Who?”

“I did some research. After Elias… after I found out. I couldn’t have been the only person, and it’s rare enough but there are – help groups… you know, therapists that specialise in that kind of stuff. But I didn’t… I couldn’t face going to one. I thought that… knowing what was so wrong with me would make it easier, but it didn’t. All my life, I…. I was stupid enough to think it might be something I could fix. If – if I changed myself enough, if I said the right things, loved the right people, then I might… that someone could fix me. But it can't be fixed. That’s what all the leaflets said. That it was best to think of it like a permanent injury. Like having a stroke, or some sort of brain damage or something like that. Something irreparable.”

“Martin, sweetheart…” Sasha starts. She doesn’t understand. The flotsam of Martin’s speech grows erratic and he’s started shivering, and it’s no wonder, dressed in a t-shirt, pyjama trousers and some thick socks.

“Do you know much about selkies, Sash?” Martin powers on. Chattering teeth and goosebumps and it’s like he’s drawing something out of himself, some infection long done its damage. “Not many of them left, and they don’t usually venture landward like some of the other deepwater species. They mate for life apparently. Staunchly social communities, and some of them can’t… can’t cope, if they lose their group, or their partner. They take off their pelt, and just swim off to drown. A-and those help groups and therapists, those people who had theirs stolen, or destroyed… they’re, god, they’re all terminal. They last six months, maximum. Because it kills them, losing it. They waste away and they die. And here’s me…” Martin’s face twists again, and it’s bitter and angry and despairing all at once, “and I just get to keep going.”

“Selkies…?” Sasha says. “Why are you….”

She trails off in a gradually dawning horror.

“Martin?”

“She burnt it,” Martin says, his tone stringing higher now, distress sweeping in like a squall to break up the unnatural apathy in his voice. “I don’t think she knew what it would… I mean, I don’t know, maybe she did, maybe she wanted me gone just like dad, I don’t know, and I’ll never know because I can’t ask her why. I didn’t even… it was so long ago. I was sick and then I got worse and it was awful and I didn’t understand why I was so ill, why everything hurt just so much… and after, when I was better, Mum said it was appendicitis. I believed her. Course I did, why wouldn’t I. I didn’t know… not until Elias, and I’ll never know what I’ve lost, or why it didn’t kill me, maybe it was because I was so young, or because it’s only from one side of the family, I don’t – I don’t know! I’ll never know! It’s a whole part of me that she just… she just took a-a-and…”

Martin’s back bows like whalebone. He takes long shuddering breaths like his words are keelhauling across his lungs.

Sasha’s never heard of a selkie with only half their soul. She can’t imagine, what it would do to someone.

She moves in front of Martin and he moves forward against her like a wave crash. He’s taller and heavier than her, and the impact pushes her back momentarily before her arms catch him.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” she says, “You can do it, breathe.” She holds him so surely, and she always will. And he starts crying then, the first time since Jon was in hospital, and he won’t or can’t stop shivering, and it is horrible to hear every emotion inside him claw itself back from the brink.

She keeps telling him to breathe, and he keeps following that instruction through sniffling and sobbing and broken-voiced confusion, and she counts it as a small victory nonetheless.

Jon’s mouth cannot scream.

Tim’s in the next room, the kitchen, drying plates and bowls and cutlery, within shouting distance, and he’d be here in a moment – he’d help if only Jon could speak a word other than his unbidden, unwanted recitation.

Jon’s mouth doles out its terrible missive, and he doesn’t not feel like a person as Elias rolls out the triumphant red carpet of his plotting and scheming, the self-satisfied weave of his grand finale. And no, he’s not a person, not for a long time now; he’s a catalogue, a testimony, an archive, and he would never have chosen this.

His hands scrabble at his throat, and his eyes are blurred with tears, his vision obscured, but it does not seem to matter, for his skin ripples and sloshes like an inkwell and a hundred eyes swell and pop and inflate again like bubbles against his skin.

Someone else screams. And the multitude of Jon’s eyes are newborn, fractal-imaged, gummed up with a feast of far-reaching horror all witnessed by him, overseen and devoured in his sight, and it is hard to translate what his original set of open, weeping eyes see. There is motion. Commotion. There are apologies being spoken in his ears, fervent, petitionary, but he is hearing the rising insistent thrum of the summoning and it is as sickening as it is beautiful. Someone is holding a hand hard over his mouth, the grip painful and punishing but even then the words burble out through the cracks. Another hand clamps over his eyes, and he shrieks and thrashes as his words gather to a crescendo.

A hand tears the paper from his grip. There is an acrid whoosh of smoke. Jon drops like the rigging of a ship being torn down. The hands at his mouth and eyes lower quickly to loop around his waist, catch him and hold him up.

Jon sees Tim, wide-eyed and shimmering with terror even as his skin burns gold and his feathers shine and there are only sooty flakes left of Jonah’s statement, scattering down from his palms.

He thinks it’s Martin behind him. Jon folds further, all his weight pitching forward and Martin’s forced to come down with him as he retches the leftover words in his mouth; king of a ruined world, he vomits up with bile and ink, and it splashes with a disgusting slop over the living room floor.

Sasha’s partially webbed hands are holding back his hair as he hacks and gags, his lips stained black, his stomach heaving as he chokes on everything that comes up, his stomach roiling with an overwhelming nausea. Conduit of fear, he brings up, dribbling from his lips like paper pulp.

After a long while, it’s over. Sasha carries him to the bathroom, and helps him clean up, although Jon has little memory of it.

He wakes, feeling like a shipwreck, and Tim is there. Sat nearby, his head in his hands. His fingertips stained with ink and soot. He can hear Martin and Sasha talking in low tones nearby.

They're still here. Even now, he’s surprised that they haven’t left him.

And Jon has no words remaining, so his body betrays him with airless, silent tears, at all he could have wrought upon this world, at all the suffering he could have brought to their door to still be granted forgiveness for.

It is not the end. It is an interlude, a reprieve. In some ways a kindness, and in others, waiting is its own cruelty.

They’ve bought blankets to the beach in order to cushion the hardness of the stones rounded by tide and time. It’s the first time they’ve gotten Jon to come outside for more than a few minutes. The scratches up the column of his throat healing. His voice still damaged, scratchy and scraped from misuse.

They’ll have to be moving on soon. To make plans for whatever future they need to avoid.

She sits up, and stretches out from where she’s been lying against Tim’s thigh. Glances at Jon, barely four metres away on a separate towel. Grey-haired and tired-eyed. Martin’s holding his hand, the left one crinkled by burns, as they talk about something treasured for its meaningless. Despite everything, Jon’s face practises relearning its smiles, even as he touches tentative at the marks around his neck, the bruising at the edges of his mouth.

The tension has not faded from Tim’s shoulders. His plumage sharp and strange even now. Her own scales patchy and bare, whole sections that have not grown back.

She considers her battered but striving shoal, and wants to show them that their past is not all there will ever be. That there will be an after-this, whatever that looks like. She wishes they spoke her tongue, so she could gift them names, new names, for the things they have become, this things that they have survived, and all that has survived them.

“Martin!” she shouts over, a sudden inspiration seizing her. “Want to come in the water with me?”

Martin’s expression barrels through at least three iterations before it hovers between wary and uncomfortable.

“I – er… I might just be better off here, actually.”

“No pressure,” she tells him, and she means it, for all she remembers that he has never had the chance to know the sea as she has, to feel his whole weight held up by the water. “But I am a pretty spectacular swimming teacher. I promise I won’t let go.”

Martin, to his credit, thinks about it. Gnaws on his lip, stares away from her and at his knees. Next to her, she can feel Tim bite back an enthusiastic declaration of encouragement for fear of spooking him.

Martin stands gingerly, and she is so proud of him.

“I haven’t got a costume,” he says.

“Your boxers will be fine.”

“We want something pretty to look at, show us those legs, Martin!” Tim says. He times the tone playful, the perfect balance of joking and complementing, and it works, with Martin’s blushing and ‘shut it Tim’ distracting him from the enormity of his decision as he neatly folds up his jeans, and takes off his shoes and socks. Sasha peels off her long skirt, rolls down her tights. She dislikes shoes on principle, and rarely wears them.

The rocks dig into the soles of Martin’s feet as they waddle down to the shore, slow going and interspersed with wincing.

She takes his hand as they stop, stand a foot from the border between land and sea.

“We’ll just go a little way out,” she promises. “The water’s fairly calm but for your first time…”

“I don’t think I can do this,” Martin whispers. He hesitates, and she waits for his decision. And then, he creeps forward, and she follows. He swears vehement as the water hits his toes, and he almost balks to feel the frigid temperature, but he pushes forward, his swearing getting more and more creative the further he walks out against the tide.

From the headland, someone cheers, likely Tim.

“Don’t look at them,” Sasha says. “Come on, this is all you, ok?”

Her legs unfuse into her tail, and she shivers out a feeling like cramp, luxuriating in the sensation against her skin.

Martin tentatively wades out. He’s tall, but there’s a point where he stops, knowing to move forward means his feet won’t touch the ground.

“A little further, yeah?” Sasha encourages, and he nods jerkily, a frantic up-and-down, his expression petrified. “You can do this. Don’t look at the water. Look at me.”

Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she pulls him slowly into deeper waters. His fingers are pressing rounded marks into her forearms. His leg gestures are sloppy, thrashing, and at one point he dips below the surface with the disturbance he’s making, and he splutters as he resurfaces, surging up, eyes bulging in a betrayed panic. She continues to reassure him and doesn’t let go as they stop and simply float, the shoreline easily in sight.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“Wet,” he grumbles. Clearly concentrating, he treads, kicking out in a motion that gradually finds rhythm.

For a long while, it is them and the sea. The waves rub up against the bare patches in her scales, but the reminder is not painful.

Martin’s breathing calms. His terror recedes, and he looks down at the obscured water under them.

“Can we go out a bit further?”

She’s not doing as much pulling now. She shows him how to use his arms to push himself through water, and stopping and starting, correcting his gestures and posture and breathing as they go, they drift further out before stopping again, hanging suspended above the depths.

Martin smiles at his own unexpected success. He lets out a long, satisfied sound like something’s loosened in him for the first time.

His eyes, completely black, reflect the dour and overcast midday sun.

“Martin, your eyes.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Martin says, but no – he doesn’t say, he barks, and then gasps, and then barks again, stunned, unsettled. He doesn’t look upset. He’s bitten his lip with his too-sharp teeth that now line his gums, and he touches the sharp pain it has caused with incredulity, his still human fingers marking out the sensation of the new.

“What’s happening?” he asks and Sasha grins, and says “I don’t know, Martin, I don’t know” and he’s splashing, a seal without skin, something entirely himself, shivering minutely in the cold shock even as his smile shows off his pointed teeth. He barks again, the sound almost jolted out of him as he figures out how it works, and she trills in delight, and it sets him off grinning and kicking. And for the moment, for this moment, the Lonely is banished entirely landbound, and there is only them treading water, surrounded by the endless sea and trusting they will not drown.

They have to go back to land eventually. The waves around them start to wash choppy, the sky colours grey with the surety of rain. They swim back, and sometimes Sasha lets go, bobbing near his elbow as he swims slowly but steadily on his own.

Martin’s teeth flatten when they crawl onto the shore, panting and burbling out the dregs of their laughter. Tim and Jon have come over to greet them, Jon holding the towels and garments like an overladen clothes tree. Tim chucks Sasha a towel to fold around herself into a makeshift skirt before her tail bisects back into legs.

“Tim, Tim, Tim!” Sasha says excitedly, waving her hands and gesticulating. “Did you see, did you see?”

“See what…?” Tim starts, but he glances at Martin, whose eyes are slow to fade from black to blue, and Tim might not realise what exactly has happened, but he senses the tenor of the mood because he’s barrelling in, knocking into Martin, wrapping him in a hug and nearly smothering him with his wings. Once released, Jon approaches slowly, putting his burdens down. Martin glances up at him, almost anxious now that the initial buzz is wearing down, but Jon goes softly to his knees, and his smile spreads across his face like paint in water.

The grey of the sky feels far off as they allow themselves the momentarily uncomplicated gift of being happy.

#the magnus archives #tma #cw emotional manipulation #cw ableism #cw potential suicidal ideation #cw emetophobia #cw being sick #ask to tag #jonmartin #sasha james #tim stoker #jonathan sims #martin blackwood

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eurosong · 4 years ago

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Undo my ESC 2021 - Semi-final 1

Good afternoon, folks! Every year, I take a look at each semi-final and share what feasible change I would make – as small as changing a few lines of the song or an element of staging, or as big as a different song completely winning a national final – to make it even better (just in my own opinion of course!) This year will be harder than usual, but I’ll try to set aside my conviction that every 2020 artist should have been able to return to see how different SF1 might look. Let’s go!

��🇹 Lithuania: PiN was in the Roop's hands, and whilst I fell in love with some of the underdog songs they were up again, most notably Home and Never fall for you again I wouldn't take away the chance away from the Roop. There's nothing I'd change about Discoteque, and I love their nod to On fire, but the way that they also took things in a different direction to last time.

🇸🇮 Slovenia: I may be in a small minority, but I absolutely love Amen and I loved Voda too! Ana Soklič has so much presence and stunning vocals with so much texture and depth; she can sell me pretty much everything. My only change would be to insert Slovenian language lyrics!

🇷🇺 Russia: I was initially really disappointed that we wouldn't see the iconic Little Big on the ESC stage - but I commend the way they wanted to share the limelight with other artists. The unexpected Russian mini-NF ended up being a revelation and very diverse for its size. I liked all three songs, but I think that the best hands down won. There is nothing I have to change to Russian woman, one of the most powerful propositions of the season for me. I just hope juries will value it and we won't see a Telemóveis style situation!

🇸🇪 Sweden: After a year of being happy with the result in Sweden - I was always in Dotter's corner, but who can't love the Mamas? - we return to more familiar terrain of an MF result disgruntling me. Tusse has charisma and talent, but his song is lacklustre at best for me. My fav was, once again, Dotter, and I wish that either she'd taken the win or that the Mamas got their shot at ESC as main artists.

🇦🇺 Australia: I really enjoy Technicolour, one of the more out-of-left-field entries from Oz. I am so intrigued as to what the Diane Warren song offered to Montaigne was like, as I'm certain that this isn't it, but I'm glad she trusted her gut and went for something so distinctive. My one change would be to get rid of the unnecessary key change at the end.

🇲🇰 Macedonia: When there was a nationalistic furore with attempts to stop Vasil from representing MK, I was entirely on his side even though his song for me is one of the least appealing of the edition. I'd still want him to get his chance at ESC - but his Sudbina would have been such a more compelling entry for my taste.

��🇪 Ireland: Lesley Roy served nostalgic pop wonderment for the second year in a row, and another song that has etched itself already onto my life's soundtrack. I don't know what I'd change, except perhaps translate one of the choruses into Irish Gaelic - it'd make the message of a return to home even more resonant for me.

🇨🇾 Cyprus: Cyprus and I haven't seen eye to eye for several years now, and it's a shame as they were one of my favourite countries of the 90s. I do enjoy El diablo more than their last trio of songs, but I find it leans too heavy on a clear inspiration from Gaga, which takes away from some of the more original elements of the song. So, I'd rework the chorus, and also change some of the lyrics elsewhere because some lines just flat out make me cringe.

🇳🇴 Norway: I seem to have been in the minority of people delighted at MGP's final results! I had bigger favourites - the rambunctious sea shanty that is Vi er Norge, the kickass empowering Witch woods or the pulsating groove of Playing with fire - but I wouldn't take Tix' win away from him given how meaningful it was for him and what the guy has been through. My change? Revert partially or entirely to the Norwegian version, Ut av mørket; for me, it hits my heart harder.

🇭🇷 Croatia: Sincerely, my biggest disappointment of the NF season potentially - I wish Damir had been internally selected, not just because of my wish to see all ESC'20 alumni return, but because his was the best Croatian song for me since Moja štikla. Tick-tock is harmless but if we can't get a Damir return in this hypothesis, then I'd go for Rijeka, which captivated me with its epicness on first listen and has just risen in my estimation since. Though, given Nina's histrionics after coming second, maybe I'd have Albina perform the song instead.

🇧🇪 Belgium: I was prepared to not be on board with Belgium this year despite my long-lived love for the country - I found Release me, whilst orchestrated beautifully, entirely lacking in dynamism; and I really couldn't stand the way the band dumped Luka unceremoniously. And yet... this lush piece of art is one of my favs of the entire season. And there's something different and singular in Geike's voice. So the only thing I'm changing here are the dudes' attitudes to ESC so that they can value it more, especially Alex.

🇮🇱 Israël: As one of the most naturally charismatic performers of 2020, I had high hopes for Eden's return and the original idea of a mega-NF for her seemed really promising. Instead, we ended up with an uninspired strewing of songs, of which the best didn't even get the chance to be recorded by her. Set me free was my favourite of the three that got to the final, but I feel they've really worsened it with the revamp, in between the hail mary pass of the whistle vote and the extra emphasis on "I'mma". I would have Eden perform Shoulders instead - I don't know how it NQd and think it would allow her to showcase her personality a lot more.

🇷🇴 Romania: I really enjoyed Roxen's selection last year - small but quite diverse, and I felt the best song won. My change would be to have seen a similar national final with 3 or 4 other songs of hers this time, because I'm not convinced in Amnesia anywhere near as much as I was of Alcohol you.

🇦🇿 Azerbaijan: I wish they had gone with something at least a bit different rather than this cut, smudge and paste from last year that is so on the nose with its "you loved Cleopatra, so you will love this, won't you?" feel that it even namechecks the previous song. Efendi has a lot of talent and could have shown more diversity here.

🇺🇦 Ukraine: I'm getting used to the surprise revamp of Šum by now, but the question still remains for me, why did they do it? They needed to cut about a minute off the duration of the track, but to me, that doesn't explain why they also had to change the melody in large parts of the song. I'd be tempted to revert to a shortened form version of Šum version 1.

🇲🇹 Malta: Another unpopular opinion, but I'm just not that into the Maltese song this year. The lyrics are great and Destiny has poise and presence and PIPES and I'm sure she'll do well, but the style - a glammed up Electro-Velvet, essentially - doesn't heat me up, and I feel like the different parts of the composition are too dissonant from each other, like we have 2 or 3 songs in one here. My change would be for her to have gone with something more soul-ish in its sound, like AOML was.

And the AQs of this semi

🇩🇪 Germany: How did juries decide upon this, especially when there seems to have been many promising artists in the German selection? No shade against Jendrick who seems like a lovely chap, but the song sounds like the cheerful four chords on a ukulele you hear repeated as royalty free background music on Youtube tutorials, merged with a post-chorus breakdown taken from a Stefan Raab b-side. I would have gotten out my phone book and given Lilly among clouds a call - she gives me the vibes of being able to create something totally show-stopping.

🇳🇱 Netherlands: My original slight disappointment at this was more because of how high I have Grow than any fault of its own. It's another gorgeous composition from Jeangu, with probably the best set of lyrics of the year, and this is going to be a moment. I change nothing.

🇮🇹 Italy: I like Måneskin and their performances at Sanremo were brilliant - but they were far from being at the top of my favourites list. I would have given the win to Madame with Voce, or Ermal with Un milione di cose da dirti. Both would have been my #1 of the entire year, both move me deeply. Madame showcases contemporary Italian style with classic songwriting, whilst Ermal almost created a companion piece to Fai rumore - Diodato wanted to hear the sound of his loved one, whilst Ermal struggles to make a noise and say what he feels about his love.

Join me soon as I take a look at SF2 and its songs (and France, Spain and the UK, the auto-qualifiers from that semi!)

#eurovision 2021 #esc #eurovision #eurovison song contest #opinion #esc 2021

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clarionglass · 4 years ago

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tagged by @dheiress to post the first line of my last 20 fics (thank you! <3)

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 other authors!

aight my lads here we go, there’s going to be a few unpublished wips and other piece of dubious writing in here bc i doubt i have 20 stories but anyway, here we go (this is very long! press j to skip or just get that dash scrollin bc this might take a while :// ) in very rough chronological order going backwards, starting with the published work:

1. so i ran to the river (tma grifters au, unpublished yet but will be soon!): The sunlight feels different on a face fresh out of prison, and it feels even better to Jonathan Sims now that he’s truly home.

2. crowned by an overture bold and beyond (tma pretentious college au, based loosely on the secret history): It was a cool, rainy day in late March when I first approached the Magnus Institute--one of those days that served as a reminder that the London spring, that fragile creature, was still all too vulnerable to the occasional strike from the claws of winter.

3. we should ride this wave to shore (tma chatfic where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts): Friday, 3:14 P.M. “archives research & statement envestigation” Timothy Stoker renamed the group “drinks drinks drinks” Timothy Stoker changed Sasha James’s nickname to saucy sash Timothy Stoker changed Martin Blackwood’s nickname to martini kart Timothy Stoker changed his nickname to stonked stonked: so how bout it lads saucy sash: oh god.

4. i am the maker of rules (dealing with fools) (tma chatfic, an elias-and-peter-focused accompaniment to wsrtwts): Monday, 7:39 P.M. Elias Bouchard to Peter Lukas Elias Bouchard: Peter, I need to talk to you. Elias Bouchard: I’ve had the most infuriating day at work.

5. An Optimistic Tragedy (good omens orchestra au that i swear to god i’ll finish one day): Three years ago Eve shifted in her chair, her mind clearly on things other than Milhaud and the music in front of her.

6. The Spaces Between the Stars (the Beast of a dw fic that i can’t even begin to describe; a mate and i have been working on this since 2015 and it’s a sprawling mass of writing that encompasses Many google docs--what’s on ao3 atm is a very small percentage of it,,,,): The Doctor clutched the TARDIS railing as if somehow, it could take the pain away.

7. Carol of the Bells (a chrismas chatfic companion to aot! i’ve always been a sucker for a chatfic but oof looking back on this one my formatting style sure has changed): [Friday December 13, 1:31am] Anthony Crowley to Angelface: u up? ;)

8. An Exploration into The Nature of Human Beings, sub. Homo Sapiens: A Research Paper by Milton Jones (british comedy rpf. this is my oldest piece on ao3 and it shows, but there’s a special place in my heart for this dorky lil fic about an alien researcher making a place for himself in british comedy. fun fact! i actually added the final three sentences to this a couple of days ago, and will post it when i do my next fic update): <<I knew you’d be down here, as per usual. Do you never stop working?>>

and now for the stuff that i like but hasn’t yet/will never/one day, if i get my act together, might be posted to ao3... please ask me about these bc i love them, even though i’ll probably never post them :)

9. untitled mitchell spy comedy (a show that @monimolimnion and i want to pitch to the bbc in which david mitchell and victoria coren mitchell are married spies who work for MI5 and MI6 respectively, and most of britcom pops up in one place or another. it’s nothing more than a Lot of planning and a few snippets, but i love returning to this doc): [David is sitting at his desk, shaking his head at an open file.] David: They’re taking the piss. That’s what they’re doing, they’re taking the piss.

10. In the Demonic Style (a good omens au of @teashoesandhair’s glorious smooching contest piece, which is the first piece of fiction writing in the reblog chain. i’ve promised a chapter 2 to this, which i’m halfway through, and feel incredibly guilty for not finishing. still, my quarter-year’s resolution is to finish something old whenever i post something new, so maybe it’ll get done soon!): “It’s the end of the world” was not a good statement with which to start one’s morning in any circumstances, but the angel Bryndael was in the middle of cataloguing his newest shipment of tea samples when said statement reached his ears, and he didn’t much appreciate being disturbed.

11. magpie (good omens canon-mostly-compliant fic based around the song magpie by the unthanks/the magpie folk song/nursery rhyme): Wednesday (approximately 11 years before the end of the world) From a bird’s-eye view, St James’s Park was beautiful at this time of year.

12. untitled ficlet for tales of dwrwedd (a present for my writing buddy! the link is to her fic, i just wrote a bit of her two witcherverse ocs being soft as hell): The two women seated by the hearth didn't look old, either of them. But there was something about the pair--in their movements, or their mannerisms--that suggested an age far beyond what their unlined faces would suggest.

13: Tempo d’Attacco (an original bit of Light Crime a la midsomer murders, set in a university music department that is naturally a thinly-veiled copy of my own, hence why it will never ever be posted anywhere. i wrote this for my supervisor at the end of honours (her character is the sleuth) :P ) Dr Marisa Tan didn’t exactly start her morning well, on the day that everything seemed to upend itself.

patterns...... i’m not seeing that many, tbh? idk if i could call this in media res, but there’s certainly a good bit of plot starting without heaps of setup.

my favourite? hmmmmmm i’d say my favourites would be crowned by an overture bold and beyond, and in the demonic style. i gotta say, going back to revisit a lot of my older writing has been nice! time and distance have been v kind :)

i’m hella bad at tagging things so if you see this and want to share your own writing please go ahead! i’m very shy when it comes to Fandom Interaction (tm) so i don’t feel comfortable launching myself into people’s notes (i loved this tho! i just need other people to make the first move lol), however i will give a specific shoutout to @monimolimnion whose writing i adore and who needs to do this!

#clari speaks #clari writes #long post

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thekisforkeats · 4 years ago

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Killing Care and Grief of Heart (Let all the Broken Pieces Shine, Chapter One)

Info: The Magnus Archives, D&D AU. JonMartin in this chapter, more ships to be added. Rated T. Post-Canon. Jon is amab nb and uses they/them, Martin is a trans guy.

CWs: Character death, stabbing, grief, webs, manipulation, apocalypses, alternate realities

Summary: MAG 200 from Martin’s viewpoint, setting up what is to come after. The idea of Martin being Orpheus and Jon being Eurydice comes from the poem “Eurydice’s Retort” by Aiden. The poem quoted is the last stanza of Margaret Atwood’s "Orpheus 1" from Selected Poems II: 1976-1986, published 1987. The chapter title is a line from William Shakespeare's Orpheus.

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

It’s easier than Martin had thought it would be, killing Jon.

He’s thought about it before, of course, and well before he walked through his own Domain and spoke to the other version of himself. Thoughts of Jon’s death have been a constant companion for the weeks (months? years?) they’ve been walking through the Apocalypse, and for more than a year even before that.

Keeping Jon alive was the whole reason he kept working for Peter Lukas, after all.

The first time he thought about the idea that he might wind up responsible for Jon’s death was some time after they went through Oliver Banks’ Domain, the one with all the roots. Jon had been waxing philosophical that night(?), while they were resting in one of the between-places. They’d gotten to talk about the classics, about story and narrative, about how the dream-logic of everything they were dealing with could be understood through the lens of myth and metaphor.

That was when Martin had brought up Orpheus and Eurydice, pointed out that Jon had played Orpheus in diving into the Lonely to bring Martin out. He had quoted Margaret Atwood’s poem, the one from Eurydice’s point of view. Jon, of course, had never read the poem (and honestly, how is he so in love with someone who could barely stand to read anything once, let alone twice), had questioned Martin as to why he liked it so much. (Martin’s answer: melancholy. It’s about Eurydice not really wanting to come back to the world of the living, after all.)

“But you didn’t want to stay there, not really,” Jon had said, looking perplexed.

“Well… no… I mean, I sort of did while I was in there, but once you got me back out…” Martin had sighed. “It fits, that’s all I mean, and it was the first time you’d really used your powers the way you’ve been doing here. You killed Peter Lukas, you drew me out of his Domain, you’ve been doing it ever since. You’re Orpheus.”

Jon had looked at him for a long moment, with those piercing eyes that always took Martin’s breath away, and then said, “That’s ridiculous. I could never make the mountains bow themselves when I did sing.” (Of course he knew Shakespeare, and Martin did love Shakespeare but in this case he really did prefer Atwood), and then Jon was smiling at him and saying, “You’re Orpheus, love.”

“Now who’s being ridiculous?” Martin had countered. “You’re the one who went in there to rescue me. You’re the one who led me out. Forget the Lonely, I’d have been lost in the tunnels forever without you.”

“Ah, but,” and Jon had put up a finger, “I’m the one who actually died.” He’d grinned, as if he were winning something. “I died, and you could not stand the thought, and so you dove into the underworld of whatever plot Peter and Jonah had concocted, and you sang your sweet words at them, and charmed them, and pulled me out of the hell they were trying to trap me in.”

“But… you’re the one who led me out of the Lonely,” Martin had repeated, baffled.

“Yes,” Jon had said softly, “and the problem with Orpheus and Eurydice was always that Orpheus could not trust that she would return to him. He went into the underworld to begin with because he didn’t trust that the gods would reunite them when he died. When he was leading her out he could not trust that it hadn’t been a trick, that he hadn’t lost her, and so he turned around to be sure. His doubts brought everything crashing down around them.” His gaze had been gentle, soft, maybe a little chiding. “If Eurydice had been leading the way, and Orpheus could have seen her the whole time, they would have made it out together.”

The thing neither of them had said aloud was that in the end, whatever Martin had done to pull Jon out of the “underworld” of Jonah’s plans hadn’t worked. The entire world had fallen in around them instead.

Jon had kept the thing alive since then, occasionally calling Martin ‘his Orpheus,’ usually when Martin was making up some ridiculous doggerel to amuse them both. And Martin didn’t mind, and was honestly somewhat flattered, but it started something gnawing at him. Two things, really: first, that Orpheus was the hero of the tale, and Martin did not want to be the hero, did not want to be the one upon whom all responsibility sat. Making choices for himself was all good and well; he didn’t like the feeling of maybe having to make choices for all of humanity.

The second was the nagging, aching remembrance that in every version of the myth Orpheus ultimately loses Eurydice. Death will not be overcome for long, no matter how charming one’s music. The idea that Jon would die to end this Martin had considered more than once. He hated the thought, and would rather die himself than see his lover sacrificed once more.

The idea that Martin himself would have to kill Jon to save the world? It fit perfectly. He knew it fit the moment he first thought of it, and it felt as if his heart were breaking in slow motion ever since.

Orpheus could not return to the world of light and joy with his Eurydice, after all. It just didn’t work that way, no matter how they twisted and turned to try to avoid the truth.

When they’d made a plan Jon had not wholly acquiesced to, Martin had felt that throbbing ache in his chest again. When he’d gone to talk to Jon, and hugged him, and Jon had talked about how everything was his fault… he knew. He just knew, and he did not like the decision he could feel settling in his chest. Jon was going to do something stupid, and Martin was going to have to be the one to fix it.

He could not trust Jon. That was the long and the short of it, he’d thought, as he’d stood there holding the smaller man in his arms, listening to his sniffles. And because he could not trust Jon, he’d stopped when he should have been following the other man, and turned to the others, and told them to go and blow up the gas main now. He’d turned away, and when he’d looked back, Jon was out of his sight and too far gone for Martin to catch up in time to stop him from killing Jonah Magnus and taking his place in the Panopticon.

Ironically enough, this time what doomed Orpheus was looking away from his lover, instead of looking at him.

So now Jon is in the Panopticon, because he could not be anything but self-sacrificing, and because Martin could not trust him long enough to just go after him, could not trust that he would have been able to talk Jon out of killing Jonah once they’d got up there. He’s in the tower, hooked in as the Pupil of the Eye, and Georgie’s lit the gas main already, and the whole thing is blowing up while Jon screams in pain.

For just a moment, Martin has a fleeting memory of Basira telling him that she’d convinced the police not to just burn the Institute to the ground, and oh, if she hadn’t done that…

Well, no use for that now.

For everything Martin’s said, every moment he’s refused, aloud, to admit that he could kill Jon if he had to, he’s known for some time now that he can if he must. He’s thought about it over and over, turning over everything, thinking about how to kill the Archivist. The answer is simple and obvious. Jon already gave it to him, before they’d left the Institute, and it’s narratively appropriate in that dream-logic mythic way the Fears work. So he knows what he has to do.

Martin pulls Jon out of the Panopticon, and they say they love each other, and they kiss. And then Martin pulls Jon’s head back and stabs him swiftly, once in each eye. Jon only gasps once, the first time, and maybe he’s already dead by the time Martin stabs the other, but he won’t take the chance of leaving the job half-done. It’s clear that it was the right choice--stabbing someone in the eye shouldn’t kill them so quickly, but the Eye was all that was keeping Jon alive, and so he’s dead now, gone.

And so, Martin thinks, Orpheus loses his Eurydice. Atwood’s poem echoes in his mind:

Though I knew how this failure would hurt you, I had to fold like a gray moth and let go. You could not believe I was more than your echo.

Martin sobs, then, just once, and he’d keep sobbing but there’s a rising static, the sort he’s used to hearing while listening to the tapes. And then he sees that actual tape has come into the Panopticon writhing up from between cracks and over stone to wrap itself around Jon, around his legs and arms, trying to drag him away.

Martin cannot speak, he’s too wracked with grief, but he’s damned if he’ll let the Web take Jon from him, not now. Wherever Jon is going, he’s going too. That was the deal. So as the web of magnetic recording tape grabs Jon and pulls him through the air like he’s some sort of insect to be wrapped up and devoured, Martin holds him tighter, refusing to let go.

The tapes are somehow strong enough to pull them both out of the Panopticon, through the air, across the landscape. There are other things being pulled toward wherever they’re going, a thousand or a million, too many to count. Martin can see the web of magnetic tape criss-crossing the landscape, touching all the places they’ve been, the Domains they’ve traveled through, the avatars they’ve encountered. He can see with eyes that should have belonged to the Web had Peter Lukas not gotten hold of him and claimed him for the Lonely. He can see the extent of it all, the scope of the plan, the thing the Web had wanted all along--the Fears, bound up by the Archivist’s Knowing, connected by the tapes at a thousand little points, dragged screaming out of this reality toward the hole at Hilltop Road.

For a moment it strikes Martin as a thing of beauty. Wretched, horrid beauty, but beauty nonetheless. A plan at least three decades in the making, finally come to perfect fruition. Reality re-made in order to allow the Fears to manifest strongly enough for the Web to bind them and pull them out and… ascend.

They fall toward the hole, and then into the hole, and then suddenly Jon spasms in Martin’s arms. Martin clutches him more tightly so as not to lose him, so he’s right there when Jon’s mouth opens and sound begins pouring out. Words, but more than words, and none in his own voice. It’s as though he’s become the tape recorder, playing a statement. People talking--Basira and Georgie and Melanie. The world is safe, it seems. The plan worked. And maybe it’s better than Jon’s dead, because surely whatever the people who remembered ‘the Archivist’ would have done to him would have been far more painful and horrific than Martin stabbing him in the eyes.

The Admiral’s okay. Martin wishes Jon were alive, so he could know that much at least.

The voices echo in the darkness they’re falling through. Basira’s voice: “What do you want me to do with this?” She must mean the recorder she found in the ruins.

Georgie replies, “Leave it. We’re done with tapes.”

“Want me to smash it?” That’s Melanie, because of course it is.

Basira says, “I think… we can probably just turn it off.”

Martin can almost hear the shrug in Melanie’s voice. “Okay.”

There are footsteps, two pairs, presumably Melanie and Georgie walking away.

Basira addressed the tape recorder. “If anyone’s listening… goodbye. I’m sorry, and… good luck.”

There’s a final flick, and then Jon actually speaks, despite being dead, the words resonating in the darkness:

“STATEMENTS END.”

Martin almost sobs, clutching Jon, eyes squeezed tight. He’s not sure he ever liked Basira much, and he really barely knew Georgie and Melanie--and really it’s been so hard, for so long, to be sure he liked anyone much, aside from Jon--but he takes the good wishes for what they are, clasps them into his heart. Wherever the Web is taking them, it has to be better than what they’re leaving behind.

Wherever it is, Martin is sure there won’t be any more recorders, any more statements. They, too, are done with tapes.

Next Chapter

#the magnus archives #tma #jon sims #jonathan sims #jon the archivist #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jmart #fanfic #my fanfic #tma spoilers #otp: one way or another together #tma d&d au #let all the broken pieces shine #okay here's the fic proper up on tumblr #time to post the rest of the chapters #wow i put the 'keep reading' in a weird place but it's what worked #long post for ts

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justanotherpersonsuniverse · 4 years ago

Text

Every Rose has its Thorns by Ether Solrac

So, remember when I mentioned how the Cyberpunk Mafia version of Rose managed to Kick Anakra’s ass? I decided to try and turn it into a full scene. It’s not much but I hope you enjoy it.

...

“God Damn it!”

The sound of broken glass rang through the establishment as everyone fell deathly silent to the outburst. Sitting at the bar was a woman decked to the nines in a vintage black mobsters outfit, with the exceptions being the classic fedora was replaced with a pirate’s tricorn cap and her right leg had been replaced with a mechanical peg leg, the end of which looked suspiciously like the muzzle of a rifle. The entire ensemble was littered in scrapes and tears. Her right hand was bloody with several pieces of shattered glass embedded in it. the counter was a mess of hard liquor and blood.

“Please, my love, you’re making a scene” her companion tried to soothe her fury, her short red hair was a mess and her own similarly styled suit was likewise in a state of disrepair.

“They were CHILDREN, Cali!” the woman shouted back in response, the burn of alcohol deep in her breath. “They were children and they turned ‘em inta robots!” she couldn’t stop herself from throwing herself into her still bloody hands, staining her face in her distress. “Gods! what woulda happn’ if we neva reached ‘em…”

“But we did. You’ve got a good heart Raka, but hurting yourself like this helps no one.” She grabbed a nearby napkin and, dabbing it lightly into her own glass of water, she began to try and wipe the blood away from her beloved’s face.

“She’s right you know” spoke a teen from behind the counter, her short blond hair and bright blue eyes radiated innocence but the tired upright way she carried herself spoke of the maturity gained through countless experiences she bore witness to far too young.

“Oh, what da fuck do you know Lass? Sitting here in ya wee cubby. When da fuck hav ya fought on the front lines. What I saw today nobody should hav to suffer and yet here ye be offering drinks to the fuckin corporate weasels that are makin this city a livin hell.” A few patrons with corporate logos stitched into their clothing turned their heads, trying to avoid attention. “Yeah, that’s right I’m talkin about you fuckers sittin’ with yer arses in here like ya don’t know what ya do.”

“I like you Anakra, out there you’re one of the good ones and I respect what you do. In here though? You’re just another person. There are no flags within these walls, and I will not have a fight in my garden.“ Her posture tensed and you could see the motors of her mechanical pack begin to hum to life.

“Oh! So the wee lass wants a brawl does she? Well bring it the fuck on then!” grabbing the nearby bottle of scotch she smashed it across the counter to create a makeshift weapon.

“Raka what the fuck are you doing? Stop this at once!” the red-head cried out, desperate to get things back under control.

“It’s alright Caline, I’ll be gentle” the teen replied all too serenely. “It’s been a while since I had to enforce my rules and she looks like she need to let her aggression out anyways.”

In an instant a mask flipped into place over the teens face and with a quick pass of her hands she released a spray from her gloves directly into the rowdy woman’s face. the world began to slow down for Anakra as the small bar began to melt away and thorny vines began to surround her from all sides, snaking into existence before her very eyes. At the center of the infestation stood the girl, a brilliant pink shining like a towering mass of flower petals much like her namesake.

One blink and the girl was upon her, landing a solid blow to her chin before vanishing in the next blink. Another tick of the clock and Anakra felt a sharp pain in shin of her flesh and blood leg, nearly toppling her over. And finally when she had almost managed to gather her bearings, she was met face to face with the girl in her armored splendor, her mask giving off the mystical fury of a fay with its glowing pink eyes burring into her very soul, and intricate vine carvings looking like the ancient tattoos of a warrior. It was the last thing she saw before, with one final hit, she was out like a candle that tried to hold its ember against an entire storm.

To everyone else however, the fight was over before it ever began. The gas brought the woman into a deep haze, and with a few precise strikes to her nerves, she was rendered unconscious before she could ever throw her first punch.

The victor removed her mask, but instead of the smile of a victor, there was only the tired eyes of someone still fighting a much longer fight. Pulling a small container from bellow the counter, she passed it on to the red head who was attempting to gather her partner from the ground.

“Here’s a fresh batch of healing salve from Max, it should help with her injuries. Make sure you take some yourself, don’t think I didn’t see you wincing earlier” the teen said.

“Thank you, Rose. I’m truly sorry about her. The last mission really wasn’t a good one” Caline replied, Anakra’s arm strung over her shoulder.

“I understand. Honestly, I really do feel the same way she does, but this place has to be neutral. She may not like it, but a lot of these people don’t have a choice when it comes to who they work for. I’ve seen entire families disappear overnight because someone refused to cooperate. The best I can do is make sure that they’re truly safe here.” She sighed, rubbing the space between her eyes “..But to think the Bourgeois could do something like that to their own daughter… Her and her friend will be safe here, you have my word.”

“There was never any doubt about that. She speaks harshly but I know she trusts you too. She just hasn’t touched a bottle so heavily like that in a long while. She wears her heart on her sleeve but damn it if she doesn’t have a dagger ready in the other.”

“It’s why this city needs her. She’s crazy as all hell, but she cares. I’ve rung up Luka and he’ll bring the hovercar around now to get you two.” She pushes a few buttons in her gauntlet and a new bottle pops out, a small heart shaped thing with an almost luminary pink mist within. “Take this too, maybe it’ll give her a chance to let off some steam in a better way. I hope you don’t mind me taking Juleka for the night either, it’ll give you some privacy and honestly I need something to cheer me up too.”

The red-head’s face blushed a red almost as deep as she gingerly took the small bottle from the teen. A small honk could be heard from outside. “That would be our ride I suppose, that boy is a little too good a pilot for his own good. I suppose this is a good night, enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Oh, I will, just as I’m sure you’ll be enjoying yours” she smirked as the blushing woman made her quick retreat.

With that the teen began to shut down the counter, she had a date line up with a certain goth warrior after all.

——-

OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO NICE

THANK YOU

That ending with the Love Potion was hilarious, also, fUCKING TRIPPY WOW I LOVE THEM EFFECTS Rip Anarka

#Mafia au #submission #writing #ether-solrac #rose lavillant #anarka couffaine #caline bustier

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years ago

Text

Masterlist

Warnings: non/dubcon sex, mention of blood, mentions of childbirth.

This is dark!Winter Soldier/Bucky and explicit. 18+ only.

Note: Y’all, hope you enjoy this chapter. Not the longest but it accomplishes some stuffs.

Please let me know what you think and reblog if you can :D Thank you all again for being amazing and here’s your helping of angst.

...

He was there again. The soldier visited more often these days. Still, he was silent. Brooding over whatever poor soul had been named as his last target. He was gentler these days.

When he shared your bed, he was hesitant; doting. Many times he didn’t, he just sat and held your hand or rubbed your back. He helped you stand when you found yourself too round to do so and watched you closely. He was comforting.

He was waiting. Like you. He might be but a shell but he still had some ounce of realization. He stared at your stomach expectantly. A child was coming. A child you could not keep safe. You tried not to think of it but that was when the tears rose. You hid them but he knew. He’d try to touch you then but you couldn’t be near him. Not when you thought of what they would do. To the baby. To you.

That day, you were restless. You had only a few bites of your lunch and he had appeared soon after. You rubbed your stomach as you sat on the wooden chair. It was stiff beneath your heavy figure. He entered, the door opened and closed sharply.

He saw you and blinked. He stopped short before he began to pace. He stopped before you and nodded to your stomach. You shrugged. He placed his hand on yours. There was dark blood around his nails and his glove was hard and sticky. You flinched and he pulled away. His footsteps filled the room.

You exhaled deeply. You were so tense you felt as if you couldn’t breathe. Ever since you had awoken, you had been uneasy. The nurse checked your vitals and felt your stomach. She left but said nothing. Her and her scribbles.

Your back ached terribly and you grunted as you gripped the table. You had to lay down. You tried to pull yourself up but only dragged the table closer. He turned to you as you grabbed the seat of the chair and tried again. He was beside you in a second. He had your elbow and he pulled you up easily.

A warmth spread down your legs. You groaned at the knot in your stomach. Your entire body hurt. You grasped his arm as you looked down, a clear fluid ran down your thighs and soaked the skirt of your loose dress. You gasped and looked to him desperately.

“Oh no,” You clung to him as the pain reverberated. “No, no, no.”

His eyes rounded and you squeezed his arm harder. He grabbed your wrist and slowly removed your hand. He scooped you up and you whimpered. He carried you to the bed and laid you down. You whined as he got to his knees beside the bed and took your hand. You spread your fingers across your stomach and gritted your teeth.

“It’s coming,” You panted, “The baby…”

You glanced over at him and his face went pale. His eyes flitted to the door and he grimaced. His features contorted. He nodded and patted your hand. His other hand pushed back your hair and he caressed your forehead. You cried out as the pain deepened again and his fingers wrapped around yours.

The doctors appeared when you began to shriek. You pushed your head into the pillow as you writhed on the bed. The soldier clung to you, his metal thumb rubbed the back of your hand.

Ilyich was a shadow in your haze. The nurse’s voice broke through and turned harsh. You looked over as the soldier shook his head. He stayed on his knees.

“Leave him,” Ilyich said, “Worry about the baby.”

Your skirt was pushed up entirely and your underwear cut off. The nurse bent your legs and you were on display before the several other men in white coats. The soldier moved. He kept his hold on you as he sat on the bed beside you. You latched onto him as another ripple of agony tore through your body.

“It will be some time yet,” Ilyich turned to his audience, “It is unexpected for this level of pain at this stage. So early but...this is a child unlike any other.

“What about the mother?” Yakovna asked as the nurse scribbled on the chart.

“We must allow the birth to occur naturally,” Ilyich advised, “As we have observed, the subject has been prosperous in her gestation. She has successfully carried to term without difficulty.”

“As yet,” Another doctor, Leovich or Lyonov, suggested. You couldn’t tell one monster from the next. “The birth itself…”

“Dangerous, as we’ve predicted, but should the child live, it will all be worth it,” Ilyich interjected, “We can always find another host for future incubation.”

You were breathing so loud you could barely hear. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t expected. This day would likely be your last. If the pain were proof of anything, it most certainly was the end. You cried out and the soldier rubbed your forehead as he shifted even closer.

“Will he accept another host?” Yakovna asked.

“We don’t need him to accept the host,” Ilyich assured. “We can extract what we need when he is wiped.”

“We must recalibrate,” Yet another doctor, Frolov, piped in. “Anything so sensitive as that...his programming must be updated.”

“We have more pressing matters,” Ilyich sneered. “Don’t we, Frolov. First, we must prepare for the child. Artificial incubation if necessary, hmm? It is time. You all have your orders. The child will be here before tomorrow.”

The woman screamed again. It had been a long time since it began. Even he could tell. Her hand was in his as he watched her suffering. He felt a peculiar pang in his chest for her. Hours ago he had watched the life drain from another but here he was, wanting to save another.

Her grip was tight. He had never felt anything so completely. She held him by more than his hand.

The woman in grey peered between her legs and looked to the man in white. The soldier wiped the sweat from her brow as she moaned. She was exhausted. Her face scrunched in pain and fatigue.

The man in white said something. The woman in grey replied. They spoke to her, the one on the bed, and she shook her head. They repeated the word. “Push.”

The man knelt on the bed between her legs. She grunted and roared. She squeezed his hand ever tighter and he bent over her. He held her as her entire body tensed.

She hissed through her teeth and pushed again. Her body responded to their voices as if they were the only sounds she could hear. Her head lolled against him as she breathed harder and harder.

She wailed as she sank into the pillow and her other hand latched onto his shoulder. She pulled herself up and her nails clawed at his vest. She screamed and shook.

She let go of him and another set of cries was added to the stolid room. Her hand went limp but he couldn’t let go of her. The man in white backed away from her body as her legs slipped across the mattress. The woman in grey tended to her as the squirming child was cut free.

They wrapped the new life in a large square of cotton and the man in white ordered his companion before handing the bundle over. The woman in grey neared the other side of the bed and the weak woman moaned as she tried to sit up. He helped her lean against the pillows and she took it with tearful smile.

“...feed…” Was the one word he understood as the man in white spoke.

The soldier leaned over the woman beside him and she pushed back the blanket to look down at the child. She trembled as she gazed at the delicate being and he touched her shoulder. She turned to him and nestled close to him as she held the child up. He tilted his head and stared. His vision spun and he blinked.

He bent closer and whispered. “Ours.” The other voices shrouded his own. Her eyes met his and she nodded.

“Asset, retreat,” The man in white ordered. The soldier’s head snapped up and his metal fingers formed a fist. He peeked at the child again. “Asset...return to your keepers. You require configuring. Comply, soldat.”

His jaw locked and he stood. He didn’t want to go but his body wasn’t his own. He marched away from the bed, his boots were heavy and echoed in his head. He passed the man in white and stopped. His metal fingers released but he could do no more. He carried on and opened the door. The halls were empty and cold. Lonely.

He walked until he reached the room of men in white coats; the tables, the machines, the burning lights. He sat and they approached. Shadows closing in on him. The single voice began in his ears.

Longing. He longed for her warmth. To look upon the baby. Their baby.

Rusted. He stretched his fingers over his knee. His hand didn’t feel like his.

Furnace. A heat spread over him as he closed his eyes. He could see their child on the other side.

Daybreak. A light bloomed within him. His eyelids turned white and his chest fluttered. Seventeen. How long had he been there? And her? How long would they languish?

Benign. His head fell forward and the world began to dissemble.

Nine. Her face faded from him and the cries hushed.

Homecoming. He belonged here, but they didn’t.

One. He had one purpose. One end.

Freight car. Them. Get them far from here.

Ilyich and the nurse had left you an hour ago. You were tired and sore. You had never been in so much pain but you barely noticed. That turmoil inside distracted you. Your smiles were washed away by tears.

You were weak but the warmth in your arms gave you strength. The babe suckled at you hungrily and you smiled down at him. He was beautiful and that hurt more than anything. He wasn’t yours and yet he felt like a piece of you. He had your lips and his father’s eyes. His father’s blood. That was his curse. His fate.

You laid against the headboard and clung to him. You didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. He was a beacon. A sign. Hope. Maybe one day he would be good. Maybe he would be saved. Maybe… In your arms was so much possibility even if in this place, there was only inevitability.

“I don’t care what they call you,” You whispered to him as the tears trickled down your nose, “You will be my Luka. My light.” You cooed and he drew away from your breast, “Such a strong boy. You will need that strength.”

You closed your eyes and stroked the baby’s head as his breath evened out. You sank into the pile of pillows and sighed. You had never wanted him, but now you needed him. You embraced him and rocked back and forth. As much a comfort to yourself as him.

You thought of the soldier. Would he take Luka from you? If they told him to, would he do it as easily as he had left you earlier. You recalled the single word he had said. The tender whisper against your cheek. “Ours.” No, theirs.

You knew they would take him, eventually. You’d never be ready for it, but for now, you would hold him. For as long as you had, you’d love him.

#breach #fic #series #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier x reader #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #winter soldier #au #mcu #marvel #captain america #dark!verse #darkverse #dark fic

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faewhump · 4 years ago

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Okay, I really wanna ask some questions about Cian and Lukas as well ^^ - 🐶🐱🐹 for Lukas and 🐷🐦🐺 for Cian, please! -ohmywhump

Lukas:

🐶: Where do you sleep and stay when your owner isn’t around? Is there a room, cage, or cell?

“Back when-” He swallows. “Back when I was still bad I was kept in a cell down in the dungeons, and I am so grateful to Master for taking me up to the palace once I had learned to be good. I don’t have a room for myself, so I just stay in Master’s rooms... they’re very nice, so I’m grateful. Most of the time I can move freely in them, though I’m not allowed up on the furniture. I am usually allowed to sleep on the rug beside Master’s bed, it’s very soft and I am grateful.”

🐱: What do you wear? Clothes? Collars? Harness?

“I wear whatever my Master gives me, and I am thankful for every piece of clothing I am allowed. Lately, I’ve been wearing just these trousers - and I am grateful for them! Just...” He nervously looks around, then continues, almost whispering. “It’s been getting colder now so I - I hope that Master will give me a shirt soon. I always wear my collar, it’s important that I know I’m kept. It... it hurts, but that’s okay, it helps me remember.”

🐹: Do you know why you were taken and turned into a pet?

“It was my fault, really - I shouldn’t have gone into the forest alone, I should have turned around earlier, shouldn’t have gotten lost... I - I’m lucky that Master found me, he brought me here and gave me a home and keeps me as I should be kept.”

Cian:

🐷: Is your pet a specific choice or were they at the wrong place at the wrong time?

“A bit of both, I’d say. It was pure chance I found him that night - poor little thing, all alone and lost... how lucky he was that I saved him. He was such a cutie and just so, so very fun to play with - of course I had to keep him.”

🐦: Do you use your pet for NSFW reasons? As furniture? Or are they simply meant to be some kind of a companion? Tw dubcon/noncon

“Of course I fuck my pet, it’s got to be useful for something after all... And I’m not bragging if I say that it’s quite good at that.” He grins. “Besides that, I also like to have him play with other pets, it’s always very entertaining to watch them.”

🐺: Will you ever let your pet leave and return to their old life? Or is the only way they can escape is if you put them down yourself?

“Let him leave?” Cian laughs. “What a ridiculous notion! The stupid thing wouldn’t survive on its own for a week, putting it down would be a mercy, really. Maybe I will sell him eventually if the right offer comes. Letting him leave...” He shakes his head and laughs again. “How ludicrous.”

Thank you @ohmywhump!

#ask #ohmywhump #unseelie pet series #lukas #cian

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mikauzoran · 4 years ago

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WIP Folder Challenge

List the titles of your WIP files.

I was tagged by @freedom-shamrock. Thank you for picking me! ^o^

I’m tagging: @komorebirei, @kasienda, @ominousunflower, and @pawsomelybuggy, if you guys want to share the titles of your current WIPs. No pressure.

My readers are probably familiar with most of these, but...here’s a little status update along with the titles and descriptions of those you’re not familiar with.

- By Any Other Name - This was supposed to be a Ladrien companion piece to “I Would Give You Some Violets” and “There’s a Daisy”. The document just contains a partial outline. I never wrote any of it. Maybe someday. In my head I think of it as “Rose” (kind of like “Violets” and “Daisy”). Do you get the reference? Violets and Daisy are from Ophelia’s flower speech in Hamlet, but this title comes from a line in Romeo and Juliet, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”. It’s a secret identities reference...if you’re a nerd like I am. ^.^

- El and Em - That’s not the real title. It doesn’t have a real title. It’s just my headcanons about how Gabriel and Émilie met and everything. I started compiling these headcanons back in 2018 before Season Three, so I don’t think they’re anything like what canon has planned, but I like my headcanons. Émilie is a total hellion (you know, in a fun but scary kind of way that only a teenage girl can be). I don’t think this is ever going to see the light of day, but you can read an excerpt: here.

- Happenstance and Magic - This is my Marichat May 2019 story. ^.^; I kind of got sidetracked from it when Daisy turned into a monster. I’m actually planning to work on this after I finish Serendipity, so you should be seeing chapters early next year, if all goes according to plan.

- Lady Noir Secrets - This is a working title too. It’s probably going to end up being Rooftop Secrets or something, but I started it late last night and haven’t gotten around to christening it yet. It was supposed to be a one-hundred-word drabble based on the prompt “Tell me a secret.” Emphasis on supposed to be. It probably won’t be more than two thousand words, but...maybe I’ll have it up on Sunday (10/11/2020).

- Late to the Jabberwocky - Lukadrien and Lukadrienette with some Lukanette. It’s the companion piece to Daisy. I’m not really in the right headspace to work on this right now. The universe is kind of heavy. Next up is Adrien and Luka’s reunion and trip to the opera, though, and that’s fluffy and cute, so...

- ML Prompt Drabbles - This is where my one-hundred-word drabbles are supposed to go. T-T I currently have no one-hundred-word drabbles. Sitting in this document is one seven-hundred-word drabble based on the prompt “I’m pregnant”, but I doubt it will ever see the light of day because I accidentally wrote Chat Noir/Adrien as a trans guy because it was late at night and I thought, “Oh, wouldn’t it be interesting to explore a scenario where Chat/Adrien was the one who was pregnant because the expected route to go is Marinette being pregnant”. I’m kind of permanently scarred from my one attempt at writing about gender identity, so it’s probably horrible and offensive and wrong and not worth reading. So it will probably die in the word document while its brothers and sisters go out into the world...you know, once they exist. -.-; I hope to write an actual one-hundred-word drabble eventually. Wish me luck. I NEED it apparently.

- Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses - I’m working on Chapter Thirty-Eight right now, and I have basic ideas for most of the remaining kiss prompts. I just need to sit down and bang the rest of it out. I’m not feeling very motivated, though. ^.^;

- The Rejects Club - I just finished posting all the chapters I have of this story. I plan to continue eventually, and I have my outlines and notes, so...someday. I have other things I want to work on first, though.

- There’s a Daisy - Adrienette. It’s the companion piece to Jabberwocky. Like I said, I’m not really in good mental space for this universe right now. Maybe next year.

#Miraculous Ladybug #Marichat #Adrinette #Adrienette #Lady Noir #Mikau's WIP #Mikau's Writing Process #Sneak Peek #Status Update

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catisawells · 4 years ago

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Spelunking

Chatter filled the bustling streets of the small town of Lakeshire while she waited out by the docks for her new friend. She stood with crimson robes wrapped about her person. A light breeze rolled through and pulled at raven locks indicative of the seasons changing, her satchel by her side and a smile upon her soft features.

Snowyn joined her new found peer, Catisa shortly armed as well as any mage should be on a rescue mission. Snowyn knew all too well what could go wrong and so equipped herself proper – her twisted birch wand at her side, her banged up staff with a sand-worn stone at the top, and a small dagger – just in case. She wasn’t going to risk either of them getting injured and wanted to make sure she was ready. The red-headed mage bounded over to Catisa, heavy, purposeful steps echoing on the wooden dock. “Thank you for waiting, Miss Wells! I do hope I didn’t keep you waiting long. Had to make sure we’re ready for this venture,” she said waving her hand about and producing a pointed, worn-out blue hat that matched her blue worn out robes. She popped it on her head, but it did little to tame all the wild curls on her crown.

A giggle escaped Catisa as she grinned to her colleague, "I wasn't waiting long! It's good to see you again, Miss Silverfield, though I wish it were under better circumstances than a search party." She patted her hip, gesturing toward her satchel from before with the endless bottom much like her own. "I brought along some supplies that might help, and if we need it literal breadcrumbs, just in case!" She gave Snowyne an awkward thumbs up, "Shall we head that way?"

“Breadcrumbs,” Snowyn replied, “A perfect idea, Miss Wells. Wasn’t thinking that far ahead. Hopefully nothing eats them, otherwise we’ll be stuck in there as well!” she snickered. Snowyn unhooked her wand from her hip and gave it a gentle blow; the stone at the tip lighting up in a soft, blue light. She drew in a deep breath and nodded, “Let us find Mister Reeve and Miss Twistphase. I just hope we’re not too late…” Snowyn trailed off and lead the way to the tunnel entrance, just beyond the edge of Lakeshire.

"Yes, lets!" Catisa corralled with her new friend and colleague and trotted off with her toward the entrance. The walk was short, though pleasant, with the birds chirping and cool breeze wafting through. After a time she pointed to a fold in the mountain beside them and shouted, "There!" As they crested the hill the cavern entrance fell into view before them, the arcane guardians posted out front motionless as statues.

Snowyn approached the entrance, looking at both of the arcane guardians. She looked them over, her right brow cocked into place as she began investigating them and inspecting them for any flaws. Seeing no such errors, she shrugged, “They seem perfectly fine. No one has tampered with them or put any spells on them to get past their defenses,” she hummed in thought, “I guess we’ll find our answers inside I suppose!” she said cheerfully, pointing her illuminated wand into the darkness of the tunnels. Torches were spaced out evenly along the tunnel walls, but even they weren’t bright enough to see much in there.

Catisa tapped her chin with a forefinger in thought, "I don't know much about them in particular, but they look fine to me too!" She shrugged and looked around before she stepped forward and waved a hand around in an intricate pattern, "It looks as though the wards weren't tampered with either, at least in this area." With a wave she summoned Snowyn to her, "Come on! Let's stick together, just in case." She smiled at her companion for the journey and started to lead their way into the caverns.

Just as Snowyn was about to take out a magnifying glass and investigate the guardians further, she was instantly teleported over to Catisa. The mage stood there for a second, blinking a few times and trying to gain her bearing before following Catisa into the caverns. She held out her wand, the blue light emitting from the tip lighting their way. The mage scanned the area, her green eyes darting from one thing or another; she didn't want to miss any clues or creatures that would come out of nowhere and chase after them!

Soft footsteps padded carefully down the cavern, brown eyes alert as she examined each rune and ward they passed. Farther and farther in, the tunnel seemed endless until at last they reached a fork in their path. Both seemed safe enough, all that remained was to find out which way they should go in their search. "Which way do you think goes to the market?" Catisa inquired as she reached into her bag and began to dig around for something. There didn't seem to be any clear indicators of which way they should take, simply the same repetitive patterns along the cavern walls where the runes were inscribed.

Snowyn shook her head, "Your guess is as good as mine, Miss Wells - I've only been escorted through here once and the arcane guardians are the ones that walked me through," she pointed her fingers at each path, "Enee, meenee, minee..." her finger landed on the left path "mo!" she snickered, "Let's give this one a try shall we. Should break out those bread crumbs you have handy? I believe we're going to be needing them right about now."

With a giggle she nodded and pulled out a loaf of stale bread, "Great minds think alike!" Catisa paused a moment to reach up and mark the wall at the entrance of the path they had decided to take with a small scorch mark in the shape of a star. "For added assurance." She stated to her colleague before she ripped a corner off of the bread and began to sprinkle it behind them as they proceeded. There was very little space between them as they moved, her willingness to not allow any distance between them so they wouldn't get separated was very apparent.

Snowyn noted the closeness between them and smiled; best to stick close together! Snowyn continued holding out the wand in front of her. In the darkness of the cave, a small, but very benign article of clothing lay on the cold, hardened dirt beneath them. Much like a child with a stick, Snowyn poked at it before gently picking it up. She stared, pursing her lips: a lacy, purple bra! "I'm guessing this must be Kisles..." she looked it over, "no blood. Signs of any rippage...." she shoved the bra into her small purse, disappearing into the void, "I do hope she's okay. Her and Luka."

"Me too!" Catisa nodded in agreement as she inspected the garment as well, brow arched. "Though, what a piece of clothing to lose here... where are the rest of them?" She sighed with a huff, uncertain if they would even find the answers. As they continued shuffling along in the dim light of the cavern with torches that grew fewer and farther in-between, she conceded, "At least that tells us we're headed in the right direction."

"I just hope we're not too late..." Snowyn said sadly. She pointed her wand forward and took Catisa's lead, looking for any more signs of the pair. For what seemed like ages, Snowyn walked beside her companion, trying to find any other clues. So far, none to be found. The last article of clothing had been the bra and nothing else had turned up just yet. Snowyn sighed, concern growing on her features each minute that passed by with nothing to be found.

Every few feet she tore off a new piece of bread to sprinkle in their wake, her brow furrowed with worry, "Agreed." Catisa stated, but just as she thought to quicken the pace a chill ran down her spine. From somewhere ahead of them a low and haunting wail reverberated off of the cavern walls and it took all the poor girl had not to shriek as she turned to cling desperately to Snowyn. Her hands trembled and she looked even more pale than she did in the artificial light from her wand.

Being the scardey cat that she was, Snowyn clung to Catisa back! She held her close, perhaps almost too close that she could very well suffocate Catisa, if she didn't do anything to push the red-haired mage back. "What on Azeroth was that!?" she said in a low, panicked whisper to Catisa. She held out her wand, swinging it back and forth in a rushed motion, "You heard that right? Of course you did. Goodness..." she said turning pale herself.

Catisa nodded as they clung to each other, though color quickly returned to her cheeks as she realized how close they were and blushed heavily. "M-maybe-" She gulped in an attempt to compose herself. "Maybe that was the reason they're missing." Came her conjecture despite trembling hands, still white-knuckling any fabric of Snowyn's that she could have clung to. "D-do you think ghosts are real?" She asked suddenly in her paralyzed state.

Snowyn drew in a deep breath - it was time to woman up! She stopped clinging to Catisa and gently reassured her with soothing rubs to her upper arms. Gazing into the dark for a moment, she looked back at Catisa, "I do... which is why we're here. To put them to rest if they're the reason Luka and Kisles are missing...." she cleared her throat, standing up straight, "We got to be brave. Too late to turn back now..." she said, crouching low and moving quietly forward. She blew at the tip of her wand, dulling the light in it just enough for them to see in front of them. She looked back at Catisa and smiled warmly, "Come along now. Lets not surprise whatever ghouls lurk here... If things get bad, just start shooting and run, understood? Follow your marks and bread crumbs back."

She cleared her throat and nodded, "Right." Her features hardened as she took the possibility of a threat far more seriously, and continued spreading bread crumbs behind them and marking the walls at each turn they took. The silence was near deafening as they proceeded to creep along in the darkness of the caverns seldom traveled, her shoulders arched with the mental preparation to brace herself for the next surprise. Catisa dared not speak even in a whisper in case something was listening, laying in wait for them to be caught off guard.

Snowyn carefully stepped through the darkness, her wand raised up over her head. She stayed vigilant as the two of them creeped through the darkness. The same sound from earlier echoed through the tunnels, only this time it was a little louder. It was unnerving, to say the least, but Snowyn crept forward. Her steps became hushed as to not surprise whatever it was they were going to find in the tunnels ahead of them. In the darkness, a dull flame lit up the tunnels. Shadows danced across the walls. Snowyn paused, pointing as they neared their destination. "Get ready..." she said in a padded whisper.

Catisa nearly dropped the bread as a second wail echoed through the cave, though she was able to maintain her composure this time. With brows knit the mage flicked her free wrist and flames began to dance at her fingertips. "Whatever it is... I have your back." She tried to reassure herself as much as her compatriot. There was a dim light further down the tunnel as though there was another torch or lantern that flickered erratically. Strange elongated shadows of misshapen and malformed creatures flashed down the tunnel walls accompanied by rustling sounds of movement in the distance.

Snowyn nodded to Catisa, a look of determination disguising the nervousness she felt going forward towards the light. As they made their approach, rustling could be heard, but no voices; nothing to give away it or all of it was. Snowyn rounded the corner, her back pressed to the cavern wall as they approached what appeared to be another tunnel that had been lit up completely to the right side. Snowyn drew in a deep breath as she inched closer to the entrance to the side tunnel. She looked over at Catisa, whispering, "On the count of three..." Snowyn said, pointing her wand out in the direction of the tunnel, "One.... Two...."

The fledgling mage had been counting with her, right by her side with the flames in her palms at the ready. "...Three!" They would have said together and Catisa rushed forward into the lit up cavern before she could think about hesitating. A pair of gasps filled the air and the rustling noises quickly turned to scrambling with belongings and garments being thrown about. What she assumed to be the rest of the clothing was outstretched before them in a trail to what appeared to be makeshift bedding. "Wha-?" Her confusion was palpable as the pair they had been searching for sat mostly nude before them save for a single sleeping back that they cowered behind, clearly having thought they would be undisturbed.

"D-don't hurt us!" The human male she assumed was Luka yelped.

On three, Snowyn pointed out her wand with her companion in tow before letting out a gasp and covering her eyes. She saw what she saw and immediately turned away for a moment, allowing the couple some time to cover up. Looking back and seeing they were somewhat decent after covering themselves up, she placed her hands at her hips, "Miss Kisles. Mister Luka. You could've at least sent a letter or a notice or something before gallivanting into the tunnels!" she scolded, sheathing her wand into a makeshift loop in her belt, "The director will be most displeased! I'm sure if the both of you would've explained your relationship to her, you wouldn't have to hide out in the tunnels. You had us all worried..." her tone softening at the end. She let out a long, drawn out sigh. She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head, "Please - for all our sakes, let's get back to the estate and inform the Director of your return, if that's what you want to do. I do not know of your intentions, but either way she and the rest of our company has the right to know..."

"Oh thank the light!" Luka exclaimed and the pair breathed a sigh of relief while they reached for their respective clothing.

"Uh, anyone seen my bra?" Kisles asked to no one in particular.

Catisa just covered her face with both hands and turned around, successfully hiding the crimson in her features from everyone except for Snowyn who might have also heard the small 'meep' that escaped her. She had not been prepared for such an outcome to their search! The poor girl remained like that while Luka continued from his earlier exasperation.

"We lost our way, but somewhere along the way wandering about these endless tunnels..." He paused and smiled at his companion, Kisles. "We found each other."

Snowyn giggled seeing Catisa's reaction and turned back to the couple. She looked to Kisles and walked over to her, fumbling through her purse and procuring the bra she had left in the tunnels. " Best keep this on you," she snickered. Addressing both, "Well now that you've found each other and we've found you, let's get out of here. This is nowhere to... well.... I know it's private and all, but the Director can find you both a room, if you like. That way neither of you have to lose yourself in the tunnels and you can continue your...." she cleared her throat, trying to find the right word, "Business with one another there instead. Likely wards can be placed to mute any sounds," trying to sound as professional as possible, but her own cheeks lit up a slight red as she tried to find the right wording.

Kisles snatched up the Bra, "Thanks!" and continued to dress herself while Luka smiled to Snowyn and elaborated.

"Now that you're here to guide us I'm sure that will be much easier! We've just been wandering about getting more and more lost." With a hearty chuckle he pulled his shirt over his head and the pair, though dirty and unwashed, were ready to go.

Catisa turned around once she heard them stop moving around so much and breathed a sigh of relief to see that they were dressed once more. "Yes, quite, let's get out of here. I've had about enough of these caverns." She stated as she tucked the bread loaf away at last, "We marked our tracks so it should be fairly easy to find our way back." Still blushing red, she tried to use her hair to block the view of her rosy cheeks.

Snowyn snickered again. She held up her wand, lighting it up with a brighter glow. She walked over to the other side of the tunnel and much like a school teacher, "Alright everyone, let us get to moving then. The tunnel is no place for... a great many things. Let us be back before it grows dark on the outside world. I'd rather not be caught dead in the middle of redridge with all manner of foul creatures about. Or if there are any in the tunnel - let us avoid them!" Looking to Catisa, "Miss Wells. Would you kindly lead the way?"

"Of course!" The fledgling mage was more than happy to lead the way and set the pace for leading them out of there. Kisles and Luka filed in close behind and almost clinging to each other including Snowyn and Catisa. She flicked her wrist and flames ignited once more, illuminating the path ahead as she lead onward.

"Sorry for causin' ya so much trouble." Kisles finally piped up, "We never meant anyone to fret."

Luka nodded his agreement in the dim light, "Yes, and thank you so much for your help." He added with a sigh.

Snowyn ushered them along, "Quite alright, we're just glad you both are safe. And the director and the rest of the company will be glad too," she smiled, watching as Catisa lead the way. Looking back to Luka and Kisles, "I do suggest talking to the Director and explaining yourselves... she's worried sick, I imagine. Two of her finest workers. Tsk tsk," scolding playfully.

Catisa snickered to herself up front and smirked at Snowyn, "Yes, quite!" Her still flushed features hidden by the blend of warm light emitting from her palm.

"Oi we will, but honestly I would love a bath first!" Kisles responded with a giggle.

"Yes, a bath would do both of you well..." she humphed playfully at the two.

"I'll join you..." Luka purred to Kisles, sneaking a kiss to her forehead.

"Oh you two - wait til we're back at the estate, if you will," she snickered behind them, keeping her wanding raised up.

@snowynsilverfield @thevioletbastion

#job board posting #violetbastion #guild #snowynsilverfield #catisawells #magic #rp #caverns #labyrinth #WoW #wyrmrestaccord

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haberdashing · 5 years ago

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No Puppet Strings Can Hold Me Down (8/?)

The Magnus Archives fanfic. An AU that diverges from canon between episodes 159 and 160, in which Peter Lukas’ statement that “he got you” takes on a different meaning.

on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8

Jon had a dreamless sleep for the first time in... in a while, now. For longer than he’d like to admit, even to himself, he’d had the same dreams over and over, seen the same nightmares erupt in front of him as he could do nothing but watch them unfold.

Waking up wasn’t really much better, though. In the waking world as much as in those nightmares, it seemed that all Jon could do was watch and wait for the inevitable. At least in those dreams, he knew what he was waiting for.

Instead, he just sat up in the bed--the bed that he didn’t deserve to have alone (the bed that he should have given to Martin, if it really could only fit one of them)--and watched Martin sleep, listened to him snore as his legs dangled off the end of the couch. It took Jon a moment to realize that the warm hues streaming in from the nearby window were those of sunset, not sunrise, but maintaining a regular sleep schedule was the least of their problems right about now.

Jon heard his stomach gurgle loudly, and apparently so did Jonah, because he got up shortly thereafter, got out of bed and rooting through what was to be his (their?) and Martin’s new home. A few snacks remaining from their stop at the petrol station were scattered on the kitchen table, but instead of going for any of them Jon found himself rooting through the cabinets, seeing what Daisy had left there in the way of supplies.

Going through old canned goods and various other detritus wasn’t a quiet task, though Jon was sure it could be done more quietly than he was doing it right now, and it occurred to Jon that all the noise might wake Martin up a few minutes before he heard Martin’s plodding footsteps approaching him from behind.

“Looking for breakfast there?”

Jonah made a show of having Jon look towards the window, where the sun was hovering around the horizon, preparing to plunge below at any moment. “Breakfast or dinner?”

Martin took a moment before responding, and Jon looked over at him then. He looked a little groggy still, as if he’d been woken up mid-dream. (Why couldn’t he have just eaten one of the snacks and left the loud sorting of the cabinet goods for later? Did Jonah want Martin to be rudely awakened by their movement?)

“Brinner.”

Jon laughed, and so did his body, though he could swear the two laughs didn’t sound quite the same. “Suppose that works.”

“What’d you find so far? Anything good?” Martin inched closer, until he was close enough Jon expected to feel the body heat radiating off him, but instead there was just... the cool air of the safehouse, if anything slightly more frigid than before Martin had approached.

Martin wasn’t radiating heat at all. Martin was... was cold.

Jon put together the pieces and didn’t much like the picture they portrayed.

“Those peaches have your name all over them.”

Jon looked up at Martin, who was making a face while looking at a small pile of canned peaches that had been among the foodstuffs left behind in the safehouse. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I haven’t eaten a can of peaches in two years, and I’m not going to start now.”

It took Jon a moment to remember when Martin had last eaten a can of peaches, and why he’d sworn off them ever since, and the reminder hit him with all the subtlety of a truck. Martin, trapped in his flat for nearly a fortnight, terrorized by a living flesh hive, and Jon was just- just working, going about his life thinking things were fine, thinking Martin was fine, thanks to a few stray texts sent from the phone Martin had dropped along the way...

And now it was Jon’s turn to be trapped, stuck with a supernatural entity that’d killed before as his only companion, and the outside world not realizing, thinking he was just fine, because he couldn’t communicate otherwise...

God, thirteen days of that. No wonder Martin knew loneliness so well.

Jon didn’t notice himself picking up one of the cans of peaches, only leaving behind his current train of thought when he heard himself say, “Probably for the best, actually. It looks like these expired two months ago.”

“Only two months ago? They’re probably still fine.”

“I’ll just toss them, I’d rather not risk it.”

“Can’t you just...” Martin wiggled the fingers on his hands in a gesture that was both patently absurd and oddly endearing. “...Know if they’re fine to eat?”

Jon wished it worked like that for him, but of course nothing was ever that easy for him, was it? His brain volunteered the story of the factory worker who’d helped sort that particular can of peaches, but rather than giving, say, a date on which said sorting had happened, he instead got to know that the worker in question had scratched his hand on the unexpectedly jagged edge of a can six days later, that said scratch had gotten infected and had led to the factory worker losing his thumb, his job, and nearly his marriage. All of which was entirely useless to know and a bit unpleasant to think about. Thanks for nothing, Beholding.

Jonah, though, he seemed to have more control over his abilities. Maybe he could just look at a can of peaches and Know whether it was still safe to eat or not.

Jon wasn’t sure if that’s what Jonah did or whether he was just taking a guess, but soon enough he responded to Martin just the same. “You’re right, they’re safe still.”

“Called it.” Martin’s face was set in a tight grin. “So you’ve got brinner set, then. As for myself...”

Martin scooted even closer, and one of his arms brushed against Jon’s side, and it was like brushing against an icicle. Martin kept talking, rambling on about which of the canned foodstuffs he found most appetizing, but Jon couldn’t get past how freezing Martin’s arm had felt.

Jon might have dragged Martin out of the Lonely, but it seemed he hadn’t quite dragged the Lonely out of Martin.

#tma #tma au #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives au #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing

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verfound · 5 years ago

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Fic: MLB: Peachy (Lukanette)

Title: “Peachy”

Rating: K Plus / PG / General Audiences

Characters/Pairings: Luka Couffaine, Marinette Dupain-Cheng; Luka Couffaine/Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Summary: The only reason Luka was at the bakery was because he was craving some macarons. Not because he had the feeling Marinette was avoiding him and he missed her or anything. (Companion to WM2019: Hope.)

Author’s Notes/Warnings: This is technically a companion piece for Ch15 of the Writer’s Month ficlets (Aug 21: Hope) – more specifically it’s the bit where Luka goes to talk to Marinette. That was written before Reflekdoll & Desperada aired, so this pretty much ignores those two eps, but that ficlet should probably be read before this one. (The gist: Juleka is a Concerned Baby Sister and tells Marinette to stay away from Luka if she still loves Adrien. Marinette respects her wishes; Luka doesn’t.) This also follows the Day 10 theme of Lukanette month (Baked Goods). I’ve got like an hour to kill between work and class on T/R, so I wrote this up then because the one scene would not get out of my head, and it just tied in perfectly with Hope. (There are so many cheesy Labyrinth jokes ahead of y’all, but if you haven’t serenaded your crush with Labby!Bowie what are you even doing with your life?)

Luka Couffaine was annoyed.

…no, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t annoyed. He was…not upset, not really. Perplexed? Maybe. Agitated. Concerned and trying to keep the concern from turning into worry. A little afraid. A little lonely, too, if he was being honest.

The point was he didn’t feel good, and in a city where feeling bad can lead to looking like Daft Punk and stealing voices he felt keeping his emotions on the positive was a decent priority. He’d been watching the road by the river for over an hour now, the confusing tumble of negative emotions getting worse the longer he picked at his guitar.

#lukanettemonth2019 #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng #lukanette #miraculous ladybug #lukanetteseptember2k19 #day 10: baked goods #fanfic #ver fic #companion to WM2k19: hope #labby references #and baking #those cakes are actually the bomb #luka is a giant dork #but so is mari #fluff and angst #like teeth-rotting fluff #and light angst

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cxhnow · 5 years ago

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Chloe and Halle Bailey, Jeremy Scott’s Newest Front Row Stars, on Beyoncé, Their New Album, and the Black-ish Spinoff

When they first entered Jeremy Scott’s New York showroom Friday, Chloe and Halle Bailey were a bit overwhelmed. They were confronted by a kaleidoscope of colors, a daunting array of garments, and a wide mandate in the designer’s archives. That is, the sisters—who are musicians, actors, and protégées of Beyoncé signed to her Parkwood Entertainment label—had arrived with a deceptively simple assignment: to select looks for the designer’s Spring 2018 show, which they planned to attend that night. But that left them with a lot of choice.They eventually emerged, as they often do, with coordinating looks. “We’re the same, but we’re different as well,” Chloe said. “We like to incorporate that through our fashion.” She opted for a black sleeveless minidress printed with trompe l’oeil butterflies formed out of two pistols in blues, pinks, yellows, and greens, with blue and black calf-hair platform shoes, while her younger sister selected the same print in a silk motorcycle jacket, paired with distressed Levi’s and platform heels in black with yellow flowers—“our favorite pieces, and the ones that were cohesive with one another,” Chloe described.These were the looks that hung in the wardrobe of their Midtown hotel room Friday evening, just more than an hour before the show was scheduled to begin. It was a crisp, early fall night, and as they explained their selection, the doorbell rung a couple times—at one point, to let their dad Doug, who is also their manager and frequent fashion show companion, in, and then to welcome in a room-service delivery of spaghetti. (“I love carbs,” Chloe later said enthusiastically—especially as vegans, which she and Hall have been for more than two years now.)

Though Friday marked their first time at a Jeremy Scott show—and their first show of the Spring 2018 season—the sisters are now nearly fashion week veterans. They attended their first fashion show, Tory Burch’s Spring 2017 runway, almost exactly a year ago, proceeding to sit in the front row at the Louis Vuitton show later that season (along with Sasha Lane, their “dear friend,” as Chloe described her). Then, earlier this year, the sisters got a glimpse of the other side, making their runway debut at Dolce & Gabbana’s Fall 2017 show. They sauntered down the runway in minidresses, tiaras, and red boots—holding hands all the while.“It’s like a different stage,” Halle said, comparing walking a runway to performing music. Still, “it was very different for us because we’re used to, we go on stage, we sing, and we feel this, like…” She exhaled with a sigh, a release of tension. “We worked so hard.” When they finished their brief lap of the runway, by contrast, “We were like, ‘Oh, that’s it? Cool.’” (She added, as a disclaimer, “but it was really fun.”)The sisters had just arrived in New York the previous day, fresh off a week of filming the first few episodes of Grown-ish, the new Black-ish spinoff in which Yara Shahidi’s character Zoey Johnson departs for college. Chloe and Halle already get mistaken for twins “all the time,” they told me in unison (perhaps an understandable misconception, considering they speak in unison, often finish each other’s sentences, and dress in coordinating looks), so it probably won’t help that, in the series, they play twin track stars Skylar and Jazz.The Bailey sisters were already close friends of their co-star Shahidi—last year, she described Chloe and Halle as her “BFFs”; they also share a fan in Michelle Obama—so being cast alongside her, as well as fellow Dolce & Gabbana model Luka Sabbat, was “a great feeling.” And though Chloe and Halle are now best known as musicians, they acted on screen as children growing up in Atlanta, making Grown-ish something of a return to form for both. (Indeed, as we drove to the show later that night, the sisters’ mom Courtney pulled out her phone to show me an image of Chloe, at age three, with Beyoncé, then 21, from the 2003 movie-musical Fighting Temptations, in which Chloe played a younger version of her eventual mentor’s character.)Chloe and Halle were making the most of their New York Fashion Week sojourn. In addition to the Jeremy Scott show, they stopped by a party hosted by Refinery29, where they finally met Issa Rae, the creator and star of Insecure, for the first time. They both avidly watch the series, which featured their song “Red Lights” in its first season, and it appears the admiration is mutual: On Thursday, Rae told them she was “so excited to see you guys’ acting debut,” Chloe recalled with a small gasp. “I was like, You know?”

But for all the activity in New York, by Sunday, they would return to Los Angeles to continue filming Grown-ish. The Freeform series, which is slated for premiere early next year, was just one of several projects Chloe and Halle were juggling. For example, back in Los Angeles, the sisters had the opportunity to pay homage to their mentor (and rumored fellow vegan) for her recent 36th birthday. Her mother, Tina Knowles, “wanted to do something spectacular for her daughter,” Halle said, so she recruited some of Beyoncé’s closest friends and collaborators to recreate a now-iconic image from the Lemonade visual album—Beyoncé in a wide-brimmed hat, a black dress, a bib necklace, and two thick braids. Knowles provided each of the participants—including Serena Williams, Michelle Obama, Ingrid, and even Beyoncé’s daughter Blue Ivy as well as Chloe and Halle—with a hat, braids included. She photographed the whole thing on an iPhone.Plus, earlier in the summer, they released a new project entitled The Two of Us that they described, upon its debut, as neither album nor mixtape, and that presages a full-length album they hope to complete soon.“All of the songs were rejects we knew weren’t going to make the album, but we still kind of liked,” Chloe explained as a makeup artist blotted electric blue shadow onto her lids. “We warped them together into one long song. It was really fun to create, because it’s, like, 25 minutes long.” But their album is coming, too: “It’s like, 85, 90 percent done,” Halle explained, adding that they were hoping to begin releasing new music early next year.They write, record, and produce their own music at their home studio in Los Angeles; once in a while, Beyoncé will drop in like a fairy godmother with feedback.“She allows us to have our own mind and our own thoughts and creativity,” Chloe said. “Her main thing, she wants us to do what we want to do,” Halle added. “She’s like, ‘Let the world catch up to you. You girls’ talent is so immense, don’t dumb it down for the world.’” It’s a message they also communicate on “Simple,” one of The Two of Us’s standout songs:

“No, I’m not calling anybody out, it’s just people telling us, ‘Oh you know your stuff’s too complex for the average ear to get it. Maybe you should just be simple,’” Chloe murmurs, singsong.“We hope that one day we’ll be legends, because legends break barriers and don’t follow the rules, you know?” Halle said.Though Chloe and Halle had just met designer Jeremy Scott earlier in the day, he has long cultivated relationships with musicians: Björk was reportedly his first celebrity client, and his inner circle currently comprises Katy Perry, Miley Cyrus, and Madonna. The sisters slipped into their Scott-designed looks—“Oh, come on,” their mom, Courtney, cried approvingly when she saw her daughters transformed—and Chloe daubed her favorite oil, which she dubbed “the smell-good” and smells of cotton candy, onto her wrists. A last-minute change of hoop earrings for studs, and they were ready to go: The four Baileys hurried out to the car that would shepherd them downtown to Spring Studios. (Back in Los Angeles, Chloe had just passed her driving test and obtained a bright blue Mini Cooper she christened Cleo, making her her own chauffeur.)When they arrived at the show, Chloe and Halle took their seats just down the front row from Lionel Richie and Jimmy Iovine, who their mother introduced as a “legend.” They sidled up to Erika Jayne of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, of which, apparently, they are big fans, and began chatting animatedly with the reality star. The lights dimmed, and Scott’s retrospective of a show got underway, with models like Karlie Kloss, Sofia Richie, Gigi Hadid, Devon Aoki, Coco Rocha, and even Liberty Ross, the ’90s supermodel married to Iovine, making their way down the runway in Scott’s silver-sequined club kid attire.After the lights came back up and before Chloe and Hall dissolved into the crowd, they offered their final review: “It was fantastic,” Chloe said. “I loved how it shined under the lights.”“I liked all the sparkles,” her sister echoed. “Beautiful.” [s]

[more photos from this event]

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niyes-lahiffe · 6 years ago

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Soapy Decks and Flying Underwear

Listening to Pirates of the Caribbean while reading is not required but is strongly recommended.

The Jade Crew and the Coral Crew are mortal enemies. It all started when the Coral Crew went to go find an ancient treasure to which they finally discovered the whereabouts, only to find the Jade Crew sailing away from that exact location the moment they got there, taking the prized possessions with them. Now, they always seem to find out about the same treasures at the same time and one crew ALWAYS beats the other, only heating their rivalry. The crews have never actually met each other face to face, but they do indeed recognize one another's flags. With disdain and scorn.

The Jade Crew: Nino Lahiffe (captain) Adrien Agreste (co-captain) Le Chien Kim (lookout) Rose Lavillant Juleka Couffaine Chloe Bourgeois Sabrina Raincomprix Luka Couffaine

The Coral Crew: Alya Césaire (captain) Marinette Dupain-Cheng (co-captain) Alix Kubdel (lookout) Mylene Harprele Ivan Bruel Nathaniel Kurtzberg Max Kante Kagami Tsurugi

Ao3

Chapter 1: Stormy Seas

The sound of the waves gently lapping against the edge of the boat was one of the most relaxing things in the world, Nino found. He placed his elbows along the trim of his ship and closed his eyes, letting the way it slowly rocked back and forth lull him away from his far-from-unwinding thoughts he had previously. This was definitely his favorite way to calm down after a stressful day.

Still, the back of his head prickled with annoyance and he couldn't stop himself from pondering about the day's earlier events. That blasted Coral Crew...they thought they could just go ahead and steal something his own crew was after for days without punishment! He knew he couldn't just let them off but he was stuck on ideas of what to do.

"Uh, Captain Nino?"

He jumped back slightly, startled enough to have his hand automatically wander to the gun that rested near his waist. He sighed in relief when he realized it was only Luka, his shipmate's ocean blue eyes wide from his captain's sudden threatening movements.

Luka held up his arms with a nervous smile. "Ah, sorry, Cap, didn't mean to startle ya, there!"

Nino noticed his hand still resting on the tip of his weapon and he quickly straightened himself so as not to scare his companion. "It's fine, Luka. I apologize if I startled you." He put on a friendly grin before continuing. "Is there something you needed?"

Luka smiled back before gesturing behind himself. "Yeah, Kim wanted me to warn you that the clouds are darker further in the direction we're going, so there may be a storm up ahead," he replied. "Do you want to change direction or tackle it head-on?"

Nino turned his head to stare at the seas ahead. The water was a beautiful blue as it continued to rush with the wind. The sky ahead was also bluer than Luka's hair, but the ship's captain had learned in the past not to judge what Kim said. He was an expert up in the Crow's Nest, after all, even if there wasn't a cloud in sight.

Nino sighed again. "I'm not feeling risky tonight...tell Kim I'll change the ship's course."

Luka saluted without hesitation, saying, "Right away, Cap!" before running off.

Nino barely had any time to register what he was about to do before a plate of food was shoved into his chest. "Hey there, captain! You look hungry!" That cheerful voice could belong to only one of his crewmates. He looked up to meet the friendly face of Rose Lavillant, her eyes as big and as blue as ever.

A bit thrown off by her sudden interruption, Nino quickly righted himself by grabbing hold of the plate. He smiled at her weakly while trying to push the food back in her direction. "Heh, thanks, Rose, but I'm really not that-"

"Oh, I insist, captain!" she happily interrupted, pushing the plate back towards him a little too harshly, causing Nino to grunt from the force. Bits and pieces of food were starting to fall off from the excessive movements but she persisted nonetheless.

Nino's second in command walked up to the two with an amused expression. He gently grabbed the edge of the plate and pushed it back towards Rose. "How about we don't kill the captain by stabbing him vigorously with a slab of stone, hm?" he teased.

Rose stepped back and giggled. "Sorry!" She used one hand to hold the plate while she played with a strand of her short golden hair with the other. "I just noticed Nino was looking a little down so I thought some food could possibly cheer him up."

"Well, who could say no to that?" Adrien beamed, grabbing Nino's hand so he could lead him to a table once Rose had joyfully walked off.

"Seriously, Adrien, I don't-"

Adrien stopped and grabbed Nino's shoulders, giving his captain a look so stern that he shut his mouth. "Look, sir, I get it. You're disappointed. We're all bummed after what happened today. But should we wallow in pity until the sun falls, hoping that tomorrow we'll have better luck?" Nino opened his mouth to respond but his co-captain continued before he could say anything. "No! The Pearls of Rapum aren't the only treasures to exist! We're pirates, Nino; we don't give up after one measly disappointment. We find the whereabouts to a new treasure and go for that. This isn't the first time the Coral Crew has beaten us and it probably won't be the last, but do you know how many times we've beaten them? More times than we can count. So let's find a new location and go for something of value there. And, of course we need food in our bellies before we can do anything so sit. And eat."

Nino was rendered speechless at his friend's sudden motivation as Adrien grabbed his shoulders and gently but firmly pushed him into a seat.

Adrien had always had that ability and Nino couldn't even be mad about it. They had been best friends since they were toddlers running around half-naked but the captain never got used to Adrien's spontaneous positivity.

Still, Adrien was right. He shouldn't be sulking around all day when there was still tons to find. He smiled as more of his crew came and sat with him at the food-packed table. “Heh...I guess you’re right,” he murmured.

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

Alya yelped as she jumped and clutched onto the main mast. She liked to tell herself she wasn’t afraid of anything but her pet fox running around psychotically with a sword in its mouth was a bit frightening, to say the least. She didn't know how Trixx was able to get his jaws on the extra weapons lying around the ship and yet here he was, pelting through the ship at speed that would rival a cheetah's, everyone leaping out of the way frantically so as not to get unnecessarily chopped into pieces.

This wasn't the first time it's happened, either, but it was always an exhilarating experience.

Alya heard laughing from up above and she looked up to see her lookout guffawing relentlessly, pointing her finger at all her scurrying crewmates.

"Alix Kubdel, if you think this is so funny then you get down and deal with the fox!" Alya yelled angrily.

"Nah, I think I'm good." Only Alix would talk back to the captain without worry. "He's your fox, why don't you deal with him?"

Alya grunted as she climbed slightly higher, replying, "I'd rather not get sliced into bits of pirate today," as she went.

"Well, same goes here, Cap," Alix said, leaning her arm against the edge of the Crow's Nest as she peered down at Alya.

"I'm more important than you." Alya felt a hint of a smirk appearing on her lips.

"Maybe so, but I am your only lookout," the other pirate playfully argued. "How about we send Nathaniel after Trixx, then?"

"HEY!" an offended voice sounded from below.

Alix and Alya started snickering. After a moment, Alix said, "Uhhh, Cap? You might want to look down."

The captain didn't exactly know what to think of the sight of her fox running circles around the mast she was clutching to. It looked ridiculous and terrifying at the same time.

"Okay, okay, someone's got to deal with this and it might as well be me," Alya mumbled, steadily climbing lower. Trixx noticeably slowed as she got nearer to the ground, looking up at her expectantly with those big and purple eyes of his.

"Trixx," Alya said, trying to keep her voice as firm and demanding as possible. The canine tilted his head. "Put. It. Down."

To her surprise, the fox opened his jaws immediately, sending the weapon to the floor with a loud, metallic clank. He wagged his tail joyfully at Alya as she stared in disbelief as though he expected some sort of reward for his obedient behavior.

"Well, that was easy," Alix's voice said from above.

"Shut up," Alya found herself replying. She picked up the sword and pointed it at Nathaniel, who squeaked in surprise. “Nath, take this-“ She tossed the sword at him and he leaped to the side with a yelp. “-and find anything else lying around that could be dangerous and put it somewhere so my fox can't get his grubby paws all over it." She winked at him to lighten the mood.

As Nath picked up the sword and ran off, Alya heard someone from behind her excitedly yelling, "Captain! Captain!" She turned and smiled at Mylene, who was holding a rolled up piece of paper as she ran up to her captain. She clutched her knees and took a few moments to catch her breath, but when she lifted her head and started talking again, there was a joyful spark in her eye and a beaming smile on her face. "Look what I found!" Mylene handed Alya the piece of paper. It was slightly yellow in color and had a texture resembling that of an old leaf, indicating it's age. She carefully opened it so it wouldn't tear as Mylene continued, "I went downstairs after Trixx started running around rambunctiously. While I was down there, I decided to explore a bit and I found a tiny trapdoor underneath one of our barrels. In it was this!"

Alya first gawked at the map before her eyes, then at her crewmate. She couldn't stop her huge grin that was steadily growing bigger by each passing second. "Wh-was there anything else in that trapdoor?!"

Mylene shook her head. "It was barely big enough to fit that map."

"Mylene, this is AWESOME!" Alya squealed, engulfing her friend in a hug. "I can't believe you found this!" Mylene giggled and Alya pulled back to study the map once more. "First the Pearls of Rapum and now this? This is the greatest day of my life!" After thanking Mylene excessively, the captain ran off to go tell her second in command the news.

Marinette was currently in charge of steering the boat, obviously lost in her own world as Alya peeked through the window. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Alya dramatically kicked the door open.

"ALYA, you scared the living-"

"Look at this!" Alya slammed the map onto the steering wheel and Marinette blinked at it, the bright red parrot sitting on her shoulder squawking quietly. "Go on, look!"

As Marinette examined the ancient piece of paper, her eyes steadily grew wider. "This isn't..."

"It is!" Alya nearly screamed with joy. "It's directions to one of the world's most famous and sought-out jewel: the Jade Turtle!"

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

Nino smiled to himself as he wandered to the back of the boat, feeling pleasant with his now full belly. His crew always found a way to cheer him up.

Juleka was leaning against the edge of the ship, staring at the water as though its every movements were mesmerizing to her eyes.

"He still there?" Nino asked, coming up behind her to peer over the trim. Without glancing away, Juleka nodded, a small smile gracing her lips.

The captain chuckled. "That turtle sure has guts following a pirate boat. He's lucky turtles are my favorite animals." He tilted his head at the green creature as it bobbed back and forth in the water, keeping up with ease. Nino hummed, "Maybe it already knows that."

"That turtle looks smart," Juleka added coolly. "I think it knows something we don't."

Nino felt a raindrop on his hand as he nodded in agreement. A few days ago, Sabrina informed everyone that a large turtle was following the boat. Everyone thought it was a little peculiar, for none of them had experienced anything like that before, but they decided to pay it no mind. What was really odd was when they found it still there a day later, swimming along with them as though the boat was now it's new destination. Everyone had started talking about it, wanting to adopt it and give it a name. Nino hadn't exactly wanted to do that yet because he didn't know how long the animal would be following them and he knew naming it would only get him attached to it.

The boat suddenly lurched sharply, throwing a few people to the side as a surprised grunt escaped from Nino's lips. He turned around and felt another raindrop on his nose as he looked up at the ominously dark clouds. A sense of dread overcame him.

They were about to run into a storm! Hadn't he changed the vessel's course so they could avoid it?

Then he realized he got distracted by his crew before he could do anything. He cursed as the rain began to fall harder, members of his crew already scurrying to their prepared positions for bad weather.

The ship shifted again, this time much harsher than before. Nino ran forward and grabbed the ship's rigging as it wandered into the ever-worsening storm, climbing a bit before he turned and tried finding the easiest way out. He shook his head rigorously and placed his hand above his eyes to avoid more water falling into them as he continued to search.

"CAPTAIN!" a voice cried desperately. He looked down and found both Rose and Luka trying to steady the steering wheel, gritting their teeth in frustration and concentration. Rose looked up at him and wheezed, "It won't budge!"

He leaped down and ran over to them, not hesitating to grab the wheel and help make an attempt to steer it in another direction.

"Which way is the best to go?" Luka asked through clenched teeth.

"I don't know," Nino responded, voice strained. "The clouds are dark in every direction!"

With one final heave, all three of them were able to turn the steering wheel to the right. They huffed successfully, a bit too out of breath to cheer loud and sincerely. Nino grabbed the compass in his pocket and told them what direction they were going. He made sure they were good on their own before he ran off to check on everyone else and make sure everything was alright and well prepared for the storm.

He found Chloe leaning over the edge of the boat. He went up to her and placed his hand on her back, and when she looked up at him, her face was a sickly shade of green. She never did do well whenever the boat decided to do anything but sail smoothly.

"You need to go downstairs," Nino commanded gently yet firmly. He was worried that if she hung around the edge of the boat for too long while the weather was out of control, she might fly overboard. He wasn't going to let that happen to any of his crew. For once, Chloe nodded without arguing, most likely too ill to protest, and she ran in the direction of the door leading to the bottom of the boat.

Nino knew he should've been prepared for when his vessel powerfully tilted once more, but the force of it threw him forward. His stomach rammed into the boat's lining and he wheezed at the pain and sudden loss of air. Before he had a chance to catch his breath, there was another lurch and he flung overboard with a yelp.

He opened his mouth to scream as he fell but the rushing wind grabbed whatever was escaping from his lips and tossed it away. He tried to catch a rope hanging from the side of the boat but his hands wouldn't cooperate properly and before he knew it, he slammed into the dark water with an inaudible splash, excruciating pain flowing throughout his entire body like a river of death. Nino opened his eyes despite himself and found himself sinking lower, farther and farther away from the surface of the water that would grant him the gracious air he was loosing by each passing second. Ignoring his agony, he kicked his legs sharply, trying to swim to the top.

Try as he might, the low light from his destination only grew smaller and blurrier.

Nino knew it was bad when he started to see black in his worsening vision. Okay, saying it was bad was an understatement. He needed air at that moment otherwise he would drown.

His head throbbed painfully and his eyes closed without his consent. His heart was nearly beating right out of his chest and he was sure every creature in the sea could hear it. That was the least of Nino's worries, though, for before he knew it, his consciousness slipped away and everything grew black.

#miraculous ladybug #djwifi #djwifi pirate au #soapy decks and flying underwear #nino lahiffe #alya cesaire #fics #my fics #SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG #BUT I GOT IT DONE WHOOP

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