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bimbosupreme · 4 years ago

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mephistopheles love post

the equivalent of a mental breakdown tangent is all going under a read more

yes believe it or not that freaky ass literally not even human clown in fgo gets love, and love from who? me and like 3 other people

first off

ok and with that out of the way,

i’m not even familiar with their lore. Reason why i stopped caring about the lore behind faust and mephistopheles is that an interlude happens that shows that mephistopheles is just some homunculi made by some mage nobody named faust. and even then the interlude doesn’t talk about the lore behind the novel, its just you helping mephy kill faust

that being said though i would hope the developers expand on their origins more and potentially even release a “true” mephistopheles (a girl can dream)

So, they’re not even the real deal demon known as Mephistopheles in the first place, and i can hear u going “well that’s lame” and like, no, we just need to redirect our feelings from appreciating a demon to appreciating a homunculi who has a weird characterization in the fate universe

Design tangent:

Fgo was actually my first gacha, and so when I came across this servant I kinda instantly fell in love with their design, I love the colors used in their final ascension and overall appearance. The hat that has horns but they're not quite horns, theyre these weird colorful pointy twisty things, the large garish butterfly ornament on their chest (which isnt ugly at all and somehow works so well with their everything on them) is cool, the tights are so cool to look at, i mean look -- a checkered pattern with golden lining on the shorts portion, the tits out look like yes we get it youre insane, the gloves??? purple and also cool, plus theyve got this gradient thing going on? and the fingers have this line going through them, thats so cool. actually the only other servant that comes close to this in terms of “out there” colorful designs is probably final ascension kama and qsh ( i love them both). Also, mephy has this scissor weapon?? thats so cool lol i dont see any other servant wielding giant scissors (for the love of god give mephy an animation update i need to see them use the scissors while doing flips) and they also have this bomb obsession going on? cant relate, but the bombs designs are so so cool i mean its a fucking centipede -- no idea if centipedes are a thing in the original faust but thats something Ill have to look up at some point. ALSO mephy is wearing heels oh my god anytime people wear heels is an automatic win. No clue whats going on with the hair but its kinda cute (dont question me on that) and it has curls and the hair colors are cool i mean its like a lavender thing with darker purple highlights? i love colorful things and i love people with wacky personalities so. Oh my god their tail how could i forget that its so cute and dumb i almost forgot it was there, like what is that even a whip? i dont.. but its got these little purple tips to them that are kinda cute/cool but more cool because tails are fucking up there alongside heels in terms of cool stuff on characters. and of course their fluffly cape -- again no idea what the designers were going for i mean look its a mess of a design i have no fucking idea what any of it means and i hope they explain it someday because that hair and the butterfly and the tail and the hat and the fluffy garb and a bomb obsession?? and this got the go ahead - yeah lets add that to the game like what

ALSO LETS TALK ABOUT THEIR EYES

appreciate these with me for a second

god.

oh and the blue lipstick and face paint god thats a cool design ugh

they can be normal too or at least as normal as possible i mean they even trimmed their eyebrow here lol but you can see the not so well hidden insanity/goofiness peaking through with the inside of the suit at the bottom being highlighter purple and a green shirt with gold accents underneath the black coat at the front <3, fuckin hate that hairstyle tho bro we gotta get that middle part hairstyle outta hereeeee--

TAKE A DETOUR AND LOOK AT THIS LINK THOUGH THIS IS THE MOST NORMAL AND BEST IVE SEEN THEM IN FANART. THE POTENTIAL IS THERE. WE CAN HAVE NICE THINGS AND THEY LOOK GREAT ITS POSSIBLE. I HAVE TEARS STREAMING DOWN MY FACE FROM THAT DRAWING.

anyways this is me going off all about why i like their design! but we haven’t even touched the nitty gritty of it all. their personality! what personality you may ask? havent they always been some weirdo laughing a lot and saying dumb shit all the time? well yes and no

Characterization:

True to their dumb little clown design mephy also acts like one.

Some servants bond 1 lines are like “fuck off” and some actually talk to you, nah this bastard mephistopheles’ just laughing. and for the second bond line it seems to imply theyre fuckin with you more (showing up and dissapearing and saying ‘afterimage’) so thats nice that theyre actually making some effort to mess with you in a way? some servants take a long time to actually interact with you so this shows theyre not afraid of interacting with you and thats just at bond 2. and of course the third bond line implies they were probably trying to betray you, its stated in more than 1 place that mephistopheles (actually isnt this a caster class thing?) will betray you or attempt to do so. So the third bond line seems to imply that their attempts have been stopped by you and that’s what they say after some failed attempts. So after stopping this freak from doing some shit their next bond line is actually doing a confession! a jester being honest who couldve seen that one coming but theyre 100% not lying, they really arent a demon but a homunculi made by faust

speaking of faust we’re going to backtrack a little into their interlude that i brought up at the start of this post, its one of those dream interludes and it starts with mephy asking you to help him plant bombs for their eventual reuinion/showdown with faust -- in the meantime faust keeps sending golems in an attempt to kill both you and mephy

When you track faust down, it’s shown that faust was your typical mage, inhumane and uncaring. It’s also pointed out that this faust killed innocents, but this typical mage behavior is boring to mephy, and they say that boring typical behavior is why they wanted to kill them

so i really cant blame mephistopheles for being the way they are, being raised by this type of guy, even if mephy was always messed up and wacky from the beginning its no reason for faust to attempt to kill him.

Mephistopheles also shows up in salem, cu alter’s interlude, and of course the knk crossover event, and some other things im most likely forgetting but those 3 are ones that i find notable

anytime they show up theyre actually helpful, in salem mephy points out that the nature of the being responsible for the salem epic of remnant is something alien rather than a typical foreign god, mephy also tells you that time is also being sped up and in their weird way they try to cheer you up by spouting some nonsense at the beginning (guda needed some kind of distraction from the grim events that had just transpired at that point in the story), i cant quite remember what mephy did in the knk event but they were a part of your group and were helpful the whole time, actually @/zeravmeta does an amazing analysis of their role in the knk event as well as some extra character analysis here

mephistopheles is kinda cryptic in a weird way though,

like overall i mean theyre a jester homunculi in appearance so yeah its to be expected but come on i love morally gray characters, despite their supposed betrayal hints scattered around here and there

they have this one line that always gets to me

and this line is said with a completely serious face too

the rare serious mephistopheles face! its kinda grim to see that line, no laughs, no nothing, their voice is kinda serious and monotone too. of course this could be just to get you to lower your guard but its still kinda out there that they have this rarely used portrait and that line, so i like to take it as being said to you when youre by yourself and with sincerity

and at least sei (with her wacky outfit and all lol) seems to get along with mephy and thinks theyre nice woohoo

so at the end of the day you have this guy that laughs a lot and gives mixed signals

and they fuck with you

and will most likely try to kill you more than once but hey thats just another tuesday at chaldea

Before I finish last thing I want to point out is this snippet from the fgo source material book which provides more information on servants, and this specific translated bit under mephistopheles

at the core of it all this homunculi....can be your friend! you just need to not go into despair i guess

of course this entire post is an overanalysis into an underwritten character, quarantine + all online college classes have done this to me, i have a douman icon what did you expect

OH...BEFORE I REALLY SIGN OFF AND FINISH THE POST HEY CLOWN LOVERS CHECK OUT THESE FANARTS AND FANARTISTS...

THE FIRST ONE IS HASENDOW YES THE DOUMAN DESIGNER... <3

i cant believe they drew mephy

twice !

and for those of you on twitter check out @cuz_pb and @L0VEYAMA003

#mephistopheles #fgo #i just go off on the various things i like about this clown #a whole lot lol #this started bc someone asked about my thoughts on mephistopheles well..

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tenspontaneite · 4 years ago

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The Ceracurist (Chapter 1/?)

Rayla has been at university for nearly three months, trying and failing to take care of her horn upkeep alone, before she admits defeat and goes to visit a professional horn salon.

It ends up being somewhat less of a terrible experience than she expects.

(“You’re human?” She blurted, unthinking, and the smile he’d been wearing went momentarily fixed. A little more professional than it was genuine. Then he huffed, an easy laugh, and she felt herself go red around the ears.

“What gave it away?” Her ceracurist asked, dry, his grin a little lopsided.

Rayla stared, taken off-guard, and gestured expansively at his entire body.)

(Chapter length: 6k. Ao3 link)

---

Rayla pushed through the doors of the salon with a bearing that would have been better suited for heading into battle. Regrettably, there was no one she could legally fight here, so she slunk cautiously in, grimacing at what she saw. She might have hoped to find somewhere to lurk and get her bearings unnoticed, but there was no hiding in that open and well-lit reception area, and no disguising the way that the bell on the door chimed cheerfully at her passing. It was altogether a terrible start to what she fully expected would be a mortifying experience.

A Sunfire elf looked up from the desk and smiled. Their dark skin and hair was typical enough, but the horns caught her eye; she stared for a second before she could avert her gaze. Far from the usual plain gleam of Sunfire horns, these had been carved into elaborate patterns and dyed in an astonishing gradient of red and purple. She’d never seen anything like it outside of the mageskein, or maybe the cover of a magazine. “Welcome!” the elf chirped, friendly. “Do you have an appointment?” Beside them, on the desk, a potted melodaisy sang a tune that she vaguely recognised. It was weirdly anachronistic to find melodaisy music in a place as modern-looking as this.

Rayla stopped short, tension locking her joints. Her neck prickled with self-consciousness. “...Do I need one?” she asked, after a moment, with an edge to her voice. She eyed the door, already wanting desperately to escape. Shouldn’t have listened to Ethari, she thought morosely. This had been a bad idea from the start.

The receptionist inspected her, and in that moment Rayla was entirely certain that they knew exactly what she was about. It was unnerving, the calculating weight of that look. Then it passed, and they waved dismissively. “If you wanted something complex done, yes. But I’m guessing that’s not what you’re here for.”

She gave serious thought to the idea of just...walking out. She could do that, right? But then she’d have to explain the cowardice, such that it was, whenever she next called her family. And what a stupid thing this would be to lose her nerve over. “No.” She agreed grumpily.

“Touch up?” The receptionist questioned. “Basic buff and polish?”

Her shoulders hunched. “Just the filing and buffing,” she relented, in the end. “I’m not here for anything fancy.”

“Polishing is part of our standard service, I’m afraid. Nothing fancy about it, as far as we’re concerned.” The Sunfire elf smiled at her in a placating sort of way. It grated. “Why don’t you go take a seat and I’ll see who’s available?” they gestured at the row of seats, smartly upholstered, arrayed along the wall. Again, Rayla eyed the door. This was apparently noticed. “It’s alright, we’re used to first-timers,” they assured her, already receding from the desk and heading for the door into the salon proper. “It’s really not that scary. Just wait a minute, alright? I’ll be right back.”

They couldn’t have known it. Or maybe they did? But Rayla heard ‘scary’ and stiffened before she could help it, setting her jaw. Very stubbornly indeed, she stalked over to one of the chairs and planted herself in it, staring grimly at the assorted posters and advertisements on the walls. They were, of course, largely advertising different things one could have done to one’s horns. Because this was a horn salon. A horn salon that her entire family had suggested, implied, or outright stated she desperately needed the services of.

It wasn’t her fault that it was hard to get to the undersides of her horns on her own. Even using a complex set of mirrors, working on what you couldn’t see was decidedly challenging. She’d filed off the nasty parts, but apparently, that wasn’t good enough, and she looked unkempt, and undignified, and how do you ever expect to follow your parents into their line of work looking like that, Rayla-

“Ugh,” she muttered to herself, disgruntled, and folded her arms. She glared at a poster that implored her to, in very bold and cheerful lettering, ‘Ask about horn art today!’. Rayla had absolutely no intention of asking about horn art today.

While she was waiting, a Skywing elf emerged from the same door the receptionist had entered, and approached the desk curiously. He turned to her, and as he did, the light caught on his horns. “Did the receptionist leave?” He asked, and Rayla tried very hard not to stare. Not only did this elf have elaborate patterns carved into the horns, but there was – some sort of silvery metallic inlay in there, gleaming bright and almost liquid in the daylight filtering through the window. She hadn’t even known people did that. It was startlingly striking.

“Er,” she said, and “yeah, I think they’ll be back in a minute, though.” The unfamiliar elf accepted this agreeably enough, and stood by the desk to wait.

Sure enough, the receptionist returned in short order, pausing briefly in the doorway to do a double-take at the man waiting there. “Oh, so that’s why he was free,” they muttered to themself, just about loud enough for Rayla’s excellent ears to pick up. More loudly, they said “Tairas! You look fantastic! Glad you decided to try the metallics after all?”

The elf, evidently some sort of repeat customer, chuckled at them as they strode back up to the counter. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure at first, but-“ he waved expressively at his horns. “-wow, right? You’ve got some serious talent working here.”

“We’re very glad to have him, yes,” agreed the receptionist, and then conducted what ended up being a rapid exchange of a staggering amount of currency. Apparently, fancy horn-decorating did not come cheap. Rayla glanced uneasily at the price lists on the walls to reassure herself that what she was here for wouldn’t be so extortionate. Finally, the customer with the fancy metal-patterned horns left, and the receptionist approached her again. “Well, you’re in luck, Callum finished up with Tairas just in time for you,” they told her. “So I can take you through now.”

“Great.” Rayla said, unenthusiastically, and the receptionist snickered at her.

With a friendly pat on her shoulder, they said “It’ll be fine, trust me. And Callum’s one of our best ceracurists anyway, so you’ll be in good hands.”

The words didn’t soothe her. They’d be stranger’s hands, no matter their skill; that was what had unsettled her. Of course it was what had unsettled her. What else?

Still. She supposed if she had to have a stranger’s hands on her horns, at the very least it could be a stranger who knew what they were doing. Rayla sighed, resigned, and followed the receptionist through to the treatment area. She entered a long corridor with yet more doors arrayed along it; some further down its length marked ‘staff only’, others nearer and unadorned. The receptionist took her into the closest, revealing a large room lined with curtained-off booths. The sounds were precisely what she’d expected; the buzz of a half dozen electric buffers in operation, the hum of voices, the shuffling of feet. She could smell keratin dust and horn polish on the air. Horn oil, too.

It ought to have unsettled her further, and it did, a little. But the sight of the curtains had soothed her at once, with all their attendant implications of privacy. Somehow, she’d anticipated something far more open, where she had the sight to go with the sound of however-many elves having their horns groomed. She’d anticipated that others would be able to see her, sat beneath the ministrations of a ceracurist who she didn’t even know.

It had been a stupid expectation, in retrospect. For all that it was more common in the larger cities for elves to see a ceracurist when they needed to, they still had their dignity. Of course there’d be booths. Of course they wouldn’t be able to see each other. Of course.

Her relief at the realisation sustained her until she was led a little further down the room. Only one booth was open and empty, and within it she saw what she expected: a chair, a basin, a mirror. A table of tools. There was no one waiting there for her, but she tensed regardless.

“He’ll be here soon,” reassured the receptionist, as if mistaking the source of her anxiety. “He’s just changing. The metallurgy is careful work, you know.”

She didn’t know, in fact. She didn’t particularly care, either. “Right.” she said, terse, and eventually allowed herself to be prodded over to the waiting chair. Stiffly, she sat. And then the receptionist left her there to wait.

It didn’t take long. On-edge as she was, her ears twitched at the footsteps in the corridor long before anyone entered the room; she traced their approach, staring at the sight of her own terse expression in the mirror. Then, finally, the person drew near enough to pause at the edge of her booth. She could see the edge of their body in the mirror, wearing some sort of dark apron over a uniform.

“Hey there,” he said, friendly, and there was the sound of a curtain being drawn. “So you’re my surprise appointment, huh?”

“Suppose so,” Rayla muttered, eyes on her hands as they tightened in her lap. She still hadn’t looked. She didn’t really want to look at him. This was the person who’d be handling her horns. A stranger. She wasn’t quite ready to put a face to the voice yet. But, ready or not…he stepped into view.

Startled, she blinked up at him, and registered several things in rapid succession. The hair was a little surprising; brown, but smooth in a way you didn’t often get with Sunfire or Earthblood elves, and his skin was pale. Eyes a pleasant forest-green. Cute, Rayla’s mind supplied after a moment, as though to distract herself from the far more obvious conclusion of-

“You’re human?” She blurted, unthinking, and the smile he’d been wearing went momentarily fixed. A little more professional than it was genuine. Then he huffed, an easy laugh, and she felt herself go red around the ears.

“What gave it away?” Her ceracurist asked, dry, his grin a little lopsided.

Rayla stared, taken off-guard, and gestured expansively at his entire body. The lack of horns, the rounded ears, the – the five-finger hands, so strange in their shape that for a moment she couldn’t pull her eyes from them. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen humans before. But these circumstances were weird.

“Yeah, that’s fair.” He acknowledged. He stepped up to the table of assorted tools, inspecting them, and nodded before returning his eyes to her. Again that lopsided smile. “Don’t worry, though. I promise I’m good at my job, even if I don’t have my own horns to practice on.”

Her face burned, blood flushing hot in her veins at the sudden and abrupt reminder of what she was here for. Of what he was here for. “…Is that something people worry about?” She found herself asking, struck by how practiced those words had seemed, like he’d said them – or some variation of them – a great many times.

“Eh, sometimes.” He shrugged, then went over to pull the rest of the curtains closed. “It’s not something people expect, anyway. A human ceracurist, I mean.”

“I definitely didn’t,” she muttered, not quite under her breath, and he snickered.

“It’s okay, I’m used to it.” He offered a smile, and then – to her surprise – a short polite bow, in the human style, fist clasped over his heart. She’d not seen anyone do that since she was a child. “I’m Callum, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

Thoughts suddenly muddled by some very old memories, she blinked, then nodded cautiously. “Rayla.” She hesitated. “Same?” Under the circumstances, she shouldn’t have found it nice to meet him. But, unaccountably, she did.

“Is it okay if we get started?” He asked then, nodding to his table of implements. “Don’t want to hurry you, but this does take a while.”

Whatever ease she’d managed to find in the brief conversation abruptly fled her, and she went still and wordless. She glanced at him, at his face, for all of a second before the mortification overcame her and she had to hide behind her hands. “Moon above,” she muttered, into her palms, shoulders hunching. “Ugh.”

There was a pause. “You alright there?” His voice was only half joking.

“…Yeah.” She said eventually, and forced her hands down. “Just…”

He sounded sympathetic. “Never had your horns done outside the family, huh?” She made some sort of affirmative noise, and he nodded understandingly. “It’s okay, we get a lot of that here. If it helps, just remember that it’s a professional setting, and doesn’t come with the normal implications, okay?”

She sighed. “I’ll do my best.” Despite that resolution, though, she still couldn’t help the embarrassed grumble when he draped a gown around her front and shoulders, ostensibly to shield her clothes from horn debris, and leaned the chair she was in back towards the basin.

“Do you prefer to have a hair-shield on, or to have your hair washed afterwards?” He asked, after a moment, and she balked. She hadn’t even realised that was an option. But – of course, otherwise people would have to leave the salon with their hair wet with horn-oil and full of disgusting keratin dust and flakes…

“Hair shield,” she opted, quickly, and he hummed his agreement.

“No problem.” He pulled something from the table with a rustling noise. “Does mean I won’t be able to get at the first centimetre or so of your horns, though, so keep that in mind.”

Worth it, she thought. It was something of a mercy, even. The horns themselves were just insensate keratin on the outsides…but the skin at the beds? That was sensitive. She’d be glad to avoid that particular intimacy.

Even as she thought it, the ceracurist lowered something over one of her horns, and then the other, perceptible by the light and gentle weight grazing over them. She went utterly still, and peered up to try to see in the mirror what he was doing. It was a kind of…hood, or shroud, with two horn-holes in it. And some sort of drawstring around both holes. She watched with a bizarre and anxious tension as he pressed the hood down and then tightened the drawstrings around the base of her horns until they were flush with the hornbeds.

Then, visible in the mirror, he paused and looked her horns over. His expression didn’t change much, but she could see the minute lift of his eyebrows. Her face burned. “Been a while,” she offered, by way of explanation for the state of them, and she saw his smile in the reflection.

“You’ve done a pretty good job by yourself, really.” He said generously, dipping something into the basin with a distinct watery splash. “The oversides are pretty neatly filed.” Briefly, there was the lightest sensation of weight on her right horn, like he’d touched a fingertip to it. A shiver of apprehension stiffened her shoulders. “You’ve done this ridge a bit flat, though. And the undersides…” He paused, like he couldn’t think of anything charitable to say on that moment’s notice.

Rayla closed her eyes, embarrassed and unnerved at once. “Ugh.”

“They’re hard to get to, I know,” he soothed, and then planted a wet soapy cloth on the horn in question. “It’s okay. I can fix it up.”

She sighed, neck prickling with tension. “Sure.”

The next few minutes she sat silently warring with her impulse to twitch at every touch on her horns. Given the ceracurist spent said minutes washing those horns, this was a considerable challenge. The sensation of heat from warm water radiating through the keratin wasn’t unfamiliar, and neither was the scrub of the brush – but she’d never experienced either outside the company of family before. It was unsettling. Reminding herself that it was professional didn’t help that, either – all it did was calm the flush in her cheeks a little.

“I’m guessing you moved here recently, then.” The ceracurist – Callum – said after a while. “Away from family.”

She startled a little, and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. As best she could, anyway, with her head tipped mostly backwards. Her nose obstructed most of her view from this angle. “…Yeah. Few months back.”

He paused. “You’re a student?” He guessed, and she supposed it wasn’t a difficult leap to make. She was the right age, this part of the city was packed with students, and the first term had started nearly three months ago in March. The conclusion was obvious. She offered a vague hum of agreement to confirm it, and he was silent for a while. “That’s actually kind of impressive,” he said at last. “Most of the other new students with tricky horns gave up trying to do it themselves after like, a month. Not three. You’ve been managing pretty well.”

Rayla snorted. “Tricky horns?” She repeated, ignoring the rest for now, and he huffed at her.

“Moonshadow, Skywing, you know. Tricky horns.” He elaborated. She could practically hear the smile in his voice. “The Sunfire elves manage pretty well, theirs are simple enough.”

“And meanwhile we have the most annoying kind of all,” Rayla muttered, of her own race. “Stupid ridges and all.”

“Well, if you’ve not seen a Skywing elf when they’re casting their shells, maybe hold off on making that call.” He sounded amused. “But yeah, you guys don’t exactly have it easy. We get a lot of Moonshadow elves coming in here for horn help.”

“Students?”

“Mostly. But there’s other elves around who don’t have anyone in their personal lives they’d trust enough, too. So they come here.” He removed the brush, wiped her horns off, and went for a distinctive tool on the table. An electric buffer. Considerably faster and more effective than doing it by hand, she knew, but they were expensive enough that a lot of elves didn’t have one. Her family had, though. They all shared the tools. So she knew what to expect.

The noise of it started up, and accordingly their conversation dwindled. She felt the buzz of the buffer against her right horn a moment later, angled carefully into one of the ridges there. As always, the sensation hummed straight through the keratin to the vaguely-sensitive skin beneath; it tingled. The next while passed like that, with the ceracurist occasionally sitting her up and coaxing her to move her head this way or that to get better angles on her horns, paying particular attention to the neglected undersides. She didn’t even want to think about how many keratin flakes must be littering the gown he’d put on her.

Her inner-horn had gone thoroughly numb from the vibrations by the time he switched the buffer off and set it aside to get the cloth again. “I’ll just wipe this down and go for a second run, then do the same on your other horn, alright?” He said, soothingly, probably seeing how she twitched at every motion, uncertain what he’d do next.

She tried to relax a little. It was uncomfortable, yes, but…this was his job, and it – that was all it was. Plenty of elves had their horns done by ceracurists. It was fine. “Right.” She muttered, and tried not to flinch when she felt the weight of the cloth on her horn again. More to distract herself than anything else, she asked “How long have you been doing this?” Except, once she’d actually asked, she was curious. How did a human even end up working in a horn salon? Why was he in an elven city in the first place?

The ceracurist huffed, and said, impishly, “This? Probably coming up to ten minutes, so far.” He tapped her horn cheerfully, as if to indicate it, and went back to wiping. Her cheeks heated instantly; she couldn’t exactly help it, with that very direct reminder that he was touching her horns.

She rolled her eyes anyway. “Ha-ha,” she said, dryly, and he snickered at her.

“About two years, now.” He relented after a moment. “I’m only in a few times a week, but, eh. It’s a hobby. And I get paid for it, so.” He shrugged, then went for the buffer again. Accordingly, there was no more talking for a while, but in that interim her interest grew. He looked around her age, or maybe even younger…and he’d been doing this for years?

She’d assumed, from his accent, that he came from one of the human countries. Possibly even Katolis, though she wasn’t great at telling the different West Xadia accents apart. But if he’d been living here for years…was he a resident? Long-term? That was rare. The curiosity nagged at her enough that she half-forgot the embarrassment of having her horns handled by a stranger, and when he put the buffer down again, she said “You don’t have a Gullcrest accent.”

“That’s probably one of the politest ways anyone’s tried to ask me where I’m from,” he mused, and for a second she felt like an absolute racist boor before he waved dismissively at her. He explained “It’s fine, people get curious, I don’t mind. I didn’t grow up here or anything, I just came for the university.”

Rayla startled. “You’re a student?”

He smiled, and this time he looked decidedly proud of himself. “Mastery student, even.” He agreed cheerfully, and she stopped short, turning her head over her shoulder to squint at him. “You know, it’s hard to work on your horns if you’re facing me,” he told her, very reasonably, but she was busy inspecting his face. He had to be around the same age as her, surely. And he was on a masters degree?

“How old are you?” She demanded, suddenly completely uncertain of her ability to judge human ages.

The ceracurist looked pleased at the question, as if he relished every chance to show off the absurdly young age at which he was pursuing a mastery in…whatever it was he studied. “Eighteen.” He said, and then gently nudged her into turning around again. She made an incredulous face at him, but obliged after a moment. “How about you?”

“Nineteen,” she answered, distractedly, trying to parse the mystery of her ceracurist’s unlikely academic circumstances. Generally people were only allowed to pursue a mastery when they’d done an apprenticeship or undergraduate degree already, and those were never less than three years long. An apprenticeship, then? She couldn’t imagine a fifteen-year-old being let into the university…

Unceremoniously, the buzz of the buffer interrupted her thoughts and the conversation, so they fell quiet again. It was him who spoke first when he was done with the first pass on her other horn. “What are you studying?”

However logical it was as a follow-up question, it still caught her off-guard. “Er.” She scrambled for the name, mind suddenly blank. A moment later she supplied “Professional Security. And Tactics.”

“Huh.” He sounded bemused. “I know someone on that course, actually. He’s second year now.”

Rayla snorted. “How’s he finding it?”

“Says there’s way more math than he thinks is fair. And he thinks Professor Sadris is evil.”

That neatly matched her observations thus far, at least. “Sounds about right.” After that, the second buffing run silenced them again, and she was left in thought. What would a human be studying at Gullcrest at a mastery level? How long had he lived here? She’d seen a handful of humans at the university, but…well, they stood out. There weren’t a lot of them. Had she seen him before, perhaps? There was something weirdly familiar about him…

She was all set to come out and ask one of the dozen questions on her mind when the buffer stopped, but he just said “I’m about done with this now, so it’s onto the polishing next. That won’t take as long, but there probably will be horn-polish splatter, so…brace yourself, I guess.”

“Isn’t that what the hair shield is for?” She asked, neatly distracted, and was surprised to realise that most of her nerves had disappeared, somewhere between her curiosity and the human ceracurist’s efficient work.

“And the apron,” he agreed. “But it does still get messy. You want any colours?”

“Colour?” She echoed, disconcerted, and he seemed to understand what she was asking.

“Horn polish can come in colours, with dyes in it. It’s a really easy way to add colour to horns. If you’re just here for basic care, though, that’s fine.”

“Er.” She thought for a moment on that startling gradient of colour on the receptionist’s horns. Was that how theirs had been done, or was there some other method needed for something that striking? Either way… “No, no colours. Thanks, though?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. You’ve got a nice base horn colour, anyway.” He said, as if making comments like that was the most normal thing in the world. For a ceracurist, it might well be; but her cheeks flushed an instant and virulent red regardless. “It’s a good clear dark purple. It’ll look great when it’s polished up.”

Rayla wondered, amid her embarrassment, when she’d last seen her horns polished. Her parents did the buffing, sure, but polishing…not so much. It was a lot of work without the special oils and tools. She thought maybe they’d done it once, when she was pretty young, for one particular formal occasion. Aside from that, though… “I don’t even know what my horns look like polished,” she admitted, flustered, and he paused for a moment.

“Huh.” He said, just a little surprised. “Well, the colour goes darker, and a lot shinier. Looks really nice, I think. You’ll see.” And, with that, he uncapped the horn polish, the smell hitting her like a slap to the face. Her nose wrinkled, and she wondered how many times she’d have to wash her hair to get the residual stink of it out. The hair shield probably wouldn’t be able to keep all of it off, after all.

Her ceracurist seemed entirely oblivious to how awful the smell was at close range, but she supposed he’d had practice withstanding it. Either that, or he’d burned out his sense of smell in the first week of his alleged two years. She closed her eyes a couple of minutes in, the acrid reek of the stuff making them water and sting. It felt like she was dousing her sinuses with acid every time she inhaled.

Callum chuckled at her, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking. “The stuff we use is a lot stronger than what you’re probably used to.” He said cheerfully. “Has a pretty interesting smell, right?”

“It feels like it’s burning my nose,” she complained, lifting a hand to rub at it with annoyance. “And it’s making my eyes water.” The sensation was rather alike being too close to the epicentre of a very enthusiastic onion-chopping endeavour.

“Yeah, we have spells on to keep it out of our eyes so we can actually see what we’re doing,” Callum said, uncapping the bottle again. It decanted a fresh wave of acrid reek into the surrounding air. “It’s not harmful, though, just sort of stings. Plus, I’m only using the full-strength stuff because your horns haven’t been done in a long time. It’s a lot weaker when it’s just a normal touch-up.” Though she couldn’t see his face, she could practically hear the grin. “Come back a little sooner next time, and it won’t smell this bad.”

Come back? “Ugh,” she said, en lieu of addressing that statement properly, and fell quiet to ruminate disconcertedly on what he’d said. Come back? She hadn’t thought about it, but – of course, she’d need to come back. She was going to be at university for years, and would barely be home for any of that. If she didn’t want her horns to get disgusting again, trips like this would have to be an ongoing thing.

“Every month, is usually a good bet,” Callum said, as if she’d actually spoken the question that was suddenly on her mind. “Usually between half-moon and new moon is the best time for you guys. You get a lot more active keratin growth around full moon, so if you wait till later, the work we do will usually stay put until the next month.”

Rayla frowned at the mirror. “Do humans have some kind of mind-reading power I don’t know about?” Her tone was dry, for all that she was a little off-put at how well he could apparently read her. It…well, it was useful information, though. She hadn’t known that keratin grew faster around Full Moon, for all that it made sense. She wondered if she should be bothered by learning something about how her own horns worked from a human.

He snorted, but took a few seconds to respond. “Not me, that’s for sure.” He said, lightly, and finally put the stinking polishing-stuff down. “Can’t speak for other humans, though. I think we probably don’t have secret mind-reading societies anywhere, but you never know. Weirder things have happened.”

She thought of the huge scandal of a few years back and made a face. “True enough,” she sighed, turning her neck to inspect what he was doing. “Are you done yet?”

Having moved enough to have eyes on him, she was able to watch as his lips turned up in a wry smile. “You’re that eager to escape, huh?”

Rayla rolled her eyes at him. “Escape the polishing? Yes. It stinks.”

He snickered, but nodded, and went for a more normal cleaning cloth that she was deeply glad to see. “Yeah, that part’s done. I’ll rinse off now and then put some oil on to dry, and that’ll be it.” He wrung the cloth over the basin and then coaxed her head around again, lifting his hands to her horns.

She blinked. “What, ‘it’ as in done?”

“Yep. I like to think I’m pretty speedy at the whole buff-and-polish thing by now.”

“…Huh.” Nonplussed, Rayla went quiet.

She could hear the smile in his voice. “Wasn’t as bad as you thought?” He guessed, as on-point as ever, and she felt her cheeks heat again. It was quite a question for someone to ask when their hands happened to be on your horns.

Rayla folded her arms under the protective gown. “….Maybe,” she admitted, begrudgingly, and sat there while the warmth of the water and his hands crept through her horns. The gentle slide of the cloth was easily perceptible, a shift of weight and echoing sensation in the living core. A stranger’s hands, and she was just…sitting there. She couldn’t quite get her head around it. But he was right. It wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be.

“Make an appointment for next month, when you’re on your way out,” he suggested, setting the cloth back and uncapping some other sort of oil. This one, in sharp contrast to the polish, let off a surprisingly pleasant smell. Faintly sweet, and reminiscent of the lighter oils Ethari used on some of his woodcraft. A pang of nostalgia, just shy of homesickness, stabbed through her gut. “That way it’ll be all sorted for next time.”

“Mm.” She shrugged lightly, noncommittal, a little perturbed at the little secretive thing unfurling in her chest that wanted to come back. Not for the mortifying ordeal of having her horns handled, certainly not, but…

With the finishing oil applied, Callum released the drawstrings from around her horns and pulled the hair-cover away. “All done. Take a look,” he invited, nudging her head up, and reached out to remove the gown while she automatically looked where he’d pointed her. For a moment, she was utterly stunned, wide-eyed at the unfamiliar sight of her horns gleaming darkly in the mirror, perfect to the every ridge. She was still silent when he spoke again, saying “See? Just like I told you. Your horns polish up really nicely.”

She looked up reflexively, expression unguarded, and could do nothing to stop the quicksilver flush that his words brought to her cheeks. He was smiling at her, wide and genuine and a little lopsided.

It took what felt like far too long for her to manage to speak. “I suppose?” She offered, averting her eyes to the mirror, where she watched herself schooling her face into something a little less transparent.

He patted her shoulder, friendly, then reached out a hand – five-fingered and alien – to help her up. She stared at it for a moment, then took it. His fingers were warm, and soft from horn-oil. She could feel a trace of it left on her skin when he let go. “It was good to meet you, Rayla,” he said, with that same smile. “Maybe I’ll see you next time.”

She averted her eyes for a moment. “…Maybe.” She agreed, finally, and managed to master herself enough to flash a tentative smile back at him. “Er. Thanks, Callum.”

Rayla was a little too busy trying not to look outwardly flustered to pay much attention to the next few minutes, but as she found herself escorted back to the reception area, she felt strangely disappointed to see the door close on her ceracurist. The receptionist was eyeing her appraisingly as she eventually summoned the presence of mind to go fishing for her money.

“Looks like he treated you well enough. You’re not all tense anymore.” They observed, looking pleased for some reason. “Good on you for not making a fuss, either.”

She blinked, drawn out of her reverie. “What would I make a fuss about?” She questioned, taken-aback.

“He’s human,” the receptionist said, like it was obvious. “People can be stupid about it sometimes. But you weren’t, which is nice, because otherwise we’d have had to throw you out with bad horns, and that would be embarrassing for everyone. I assume I’m booking you in for next month?”

Rayla was still trying to process the words and didn’t register the question for a moment. Distractedly, she said “Yes? I think?”

The receptionist eyed her. “Three weeks,” they decided. “We’ll book you in for waning crescent. Callum works weekends and Wednesday afternoons only, so if you want another time, you’ll need to go with a different ceracurist.” They looked at her expectantly. For a second Rayla was flustered by the implied suggestion, but then she realised that it was probably just standard practice for people to see the same ceracurist every time. Certainly it would be less uncomfortable that way. She couldn’t even imagine having to put her horns into the hands of a new stranger every month.

She cleared her throat, blinked, then tried to consult her mental schedule. “Three weeks…” she muttered to herself, thinking. “Er. Wednesday afternoon?”

They flipped through their papers, squinting. “Four-thirty? He’s pretty booked for the rest of that window.”

“That works,” she said, hoping her voice sounded normal and not-flustered, and supplied her name to have it written into the schedule. It was another weird anachronism; most people would have written it into a computer, but here this elf was using a notebook instead. It was set aside by the potted plant once closed; the plant in question broke off from its recitation of music to mimic the sound of the doorbell note-perfect. That was the problem with melodaisies. You could teach them all the music you liked, but as soon as they heard someone whistling, they might well just start imitating that instead.

“Thanks for coming,” the receptionist said, after shooting an exasperated glance at their plant. “We’ll see you next month.”

Rayla took the hint, and went at once for the door. She escaped with the ring of a bell, a palpable sense of relief, and considerably shinier horns than she’d gone in with.

---

End chapter.

Notes:

Welcome to the first meet-cute I’ve ever written! Also the first story whose entire purpose is essentially romance. Because it’s me, there is a broader potential plot thread at work, as well as cool worldbuilding, but given I have no idea how much of this I’m actually going to write, I’m not really worrying about that too much at this point.

Hope everyone had fun with this first chapter, and that everyone is curious about what the heck is up with Callum.

Story notes-

Setting:

I’d loosely describe the setting as canon spliced with piaj twisted by most of a millennium of alternate history and technological development. Essentially, it’s sort of a modern AU, but not really.

Because this story is for fun, I’m wiping real-world-modern vibes over it wherever I want to/think I can justify it, and same goes for my own personal university experience vibes.

Worldbuilding:

A great, great deal of the worldbuilding is taken from my primary project – Peace Is A Journey – and adapted for the alternate historical context that this setting involves. I have even borrowed several elf OCs (at least three) from piaj and its sequel. History in this setting diverges from canon some time after the banishment of humans from Eastern Xadia – though I’ve not narrowed the timeline down precisely, it’s likely that the first couple hundred years of history went very similarly to how I’ve ironed it out in piaj, though this isn’t likely to be hugely important.

However, despite the similarities, this AU’s broader global history and foundational metaphysics are completely different to piaj. Worldbuilding and metaphysical specifics that aren’t incompatible with this difference, which is most of them, remain.

I’ve involuntarily put a fair amount of thought into the setting’s worldbuilding, and a lot of it is pretty cool, but considering it is a for-fun project, I’m not too concerned about specifics or ‘balancing’, so to speak. This means that I will be trying not to put huge amounts of thought into why some technologies are advanced and some aren’t. I am trying to keep the Worldbuilding Complexity setting to a dull roar, pretty much, and only develop the stuff that matters.

Glossary:

Ceracurist: a professional horn-salonist; one who cares for horns. From Greek ‘keras’, horn (same root as keratin or polycerate), and Latin ‘cura’, care (same root as manicure or pedicure or even cure). Technically this sort of root-mixing is sometimes seen as bad form, but it works just fine in context.

Mageskein: magic internet, pretty much. This is used almost exclusively in Eastern Xadia.

Gullcrest: an elven city located along the southern coast of Eastern Xadia. The majority of the story will take place here. The base concept and location of Gullcrest was taken from piaj worldbuilding and heavily adapted for the Ceracurist setting.

Extras:

A picture demonstrating an unpolished and a polished bull horn from the same pair, to demonstrate how much of a difference it makes.

#rayllum #tdp fic #tdp rayla #tdp callum #meet cute #modern AU #sort of #College AU #also sort of #Alternate history AU

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tamakiamajikistentacles · 4 years ago

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broken. {Dabi}

A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated! So sorry it’s been a while since I’ve posted- between holidays, work, and this being a generally not great time of year for me there hasn’t been much room for writing. As you can see though, recent manga events totally inspired me for one last story in 2020 for ya!

He liked going out once the sun had set. Daylight hadn’t been his friend for a long time, and whatever lurked in the shadows grew disinterested as the glow of his cigarette illuminated his staples when he passed, aware of who they were seeing but uninclined to make a report.

How could they really? By day they walked the streets freely, unassuming, but beneath the moon they found sick pleasures in ways that would make any hero grimace. As dangerous as they were it couldn’t compare to the likes of him—the deranged and recognizable with only a quick glance that sent chills down the spines of millions.

He slept during the day and rose at dusk to begin sowing chaos. After all, the freaks come out at night.

The long since burned out butt of his cigarette dropped from between his lips as he approached one of the seedier bars in the slums of town. Whatever its name is or was had been lost to time and inattention to the sign hanging askew over the door but damn, they had the strongest liquor in the city and a reputation for looking the other way when criminals passed through the door. Hazy smoke stung at his eyes and throat as he entered but he’d been used to that for nearly three decades and really, what was another lungful when they were burned to hell as it was?

The blonde bartender gave him a curt nod from across the room, already reaching for the amber bottle he knew Dabi favored. Around the room were other patrons that gave an assessing glance in his direction before turning back to their drinks. All but one turned his way.

In the darkest corner of the bar sat a woman with her back to the room. He couldn’t see her face, just the contrast of her revealing shirt against the skin of her chest, but he was interested. The mysterious chick vibe always did do him in.

“What’s a cute little thing like you doing here alone?” he asked as he approached her table.

“Cute?” she scoffed, dark-lined eye rolling in clear annoyance. “You really think that?”

In what seemed like a well-practiced move she tossed her hair over her left shoulder and pulled the already low collar of her shirt down further to expose more of her chest and shoulder. Smooth skin bled into a gradient of marled blotches of red and purple burn scars, the severity of which he’d only ever seen in the mirror.

“You wanna rethink that ‘cute’ comment?” she challenged without so much as a glance at his slightly parted lips.

“Yeah,” he breathed out with a nod. “Think I wanna change it to gorgeous.”

“Look, if you wanna know how I got ‘em just ask so I can tell you to… fuck off… already…” her voice trailed off after she looked up, haughty attitude dropping as she took in the darkened skin on his face and chest. She marveled at the handsome features still so clearly defined beneath the burns and the glint of his staples in the fluorescent lights.

Seeing interest cloud over her eyes as she trailed them over his face and down his body, he seated himself in the chair across from her and folded his hands around his glass on the table.

The rough rhythm of his hips against hers scraped her back against the gnarled wood of her bedroom door and drove the staples in his lower stomach into hers but she couldn’t find it in herself to care when it felt so good. As thin as he was he was able to lift her thighs around his waist and hold her with one hand while the other pressed against her throat.

“Fuck, please,” she panted, head spinning but wanting more.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he teased, “you already got two and I haven’t even had one yet. Not exactly fair, is it?”

“Dabi!” she groaned.

He huffed out a laugh as he buried his face in her shoulder, licking at the bead of sweat that trailed from her hairline. He was close so she really wouldn’t need to wait long considering the pleasure pooling in his lower stomach was building with each smack of skin on skin.

His hand left her throat to wrap around her other thigh so he could quickly readjust his grip. Pulling her back from the door, he bounced her against him as he carried her the short distance to her bed. He sat back against the wall and guided her hips against him, smirking at her eagerness as she started riding him desperately.

She gasped when one of his hands drifted between her legs and another type of warmth spread through her. “Fuck!”

“That’s what we’re here for,” he scoffed, his other hand coming up to grip her throat once again.

A few more rotations of her hips had him surging forward to sink his teeth into her scarred shoulder as his hand between her legs drew tight circles on her clit, both of them breathing hard as they met their ends.

She slumped forward, breathing heavily as he held her steady against him while they caught their breath and heartbeats slowed. When he finally felt the calm sweep over him he guided her down to lay beside him before reaching to her night table for the pack of cigarettes he’d spotted. Placing one between his lips, he ignited a small blue flame at his fingertip to light it.

“Is that how you got your burns?” she asked in a whisper, eyes half-lidded.

He stared straight ahead, cheeks hollowing even further as he took a drag. Without looking he took it in two fingers and passed it towards her through a cloud of smoke. She grabbed it and placed it between her own lips.

“Mine are from a hero,” she said after blowing out her own puff.

His eyebrows raised and he looked down at where she laid, interest alight in his turquoise eyes.

“I used to work in this high-rise building in the western district, did normal office type shit you know? Sent faxes and filed documents everyone thought I was too fuckin’ stupid to understand because I grew up poor and quirkless,” she started. “Some low-level villains attacked a few blocks away and when the heroes came the fight was small enough that we didn’t get evacuated. We couldn’t even see anything, all we heard were sirens and for that district its background noise anyway. But then Endeavor showed up.”

Dabi stiffened as she handed the cigarette back though she didn’t seem to notice as she continued.

“He blew the fight out of proportion to make a bigger show of capturing the villains I’m sure, but when he did it lead them towards our building. Three quarters of the floors were engulfed within ten minutes.”

“Lemme guess, your floor was lucky enough to be one of ‘em?”

She hummed. “Yeah, lucky enough to land me some wicked burns and a high as fuck medical bill.”

“What? The Hero Commission didn’t cover it?”

“Nope. None of it. Despite being told not to evacuate because we were farther from the initial attack and then being caught in the crossfire that we literally had no choice in, we were told that only loss of life would be covered by their insurance payout.”

“Zero casualties?”

“How’d you know?” she drawled, reaching for the cigarette once again. “Never fucking mind that I have limited mobility with my left arm that literally impacts my day to day life or how I can’t go anywhere without being stared at like a sideshow act or that the company I worked for dissolved their branch in the district. All because of some asshole looking for glory from a fight he didn’t need to be in.”

He chuckled as he watched her finish off the cigarette and stub out the last few embers in the ashtray on her opposite night table. This chick was something else.

“How’d you feel if I told you I got my burns from Endeavor too?” he asked.

Now it was her turn for her eyebrows to rise with intrigue. “I’d ask how, when, and why the fuck you didn’t melt his face off.”

“I was just a kid,” he shrugged.

“Endeavor—”

“—wanted to make sure his son could surpass All Might. Didn’t go according to plan, at least not with me.”

Her eyes widened.

“Pushed a bit too hard on a kid who could produce flames so much hotter than his. Surprised it took so long if I’m honest, but it doesn’t matter. I’m going to kill him.”

She sat up, slowly bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, eyes twinkling with wonder. “You’re really going to kill him?”

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, baby,” he said with a smirk. “What—you wanna watch?”

“Fuck yes,” she breathed out. “He needs to burn. Just like we did.”

A blue flame ignited and danced in his palm. She could feel the heat on her face but it didn’t scare her like most would assume. The fire wasn’t at fault for her pain, the false hero who wielded it had been.

She looked between the flames and his handsomely stapled face.

“How can I help? I want to be a part of taking down Endeavor.”

He closed his hand and the fire disappeared in a wisp of smoke. Reaching over, he fisted the hair at the nape of her neck and brought her closer.

“I’ll let you help sweetheart,” he laughed, “but the best thing you can do right now to help me is to put that pretty mouth to work. You’re still at three while I’ve only got one.”

“THE PAST NEVER DIES!”

The corners of her lips curled upwards in a smirk as the broadcast overtook the large billboard in downtown Tokyo, projecting the voice of a now white-haired Dabi. He steamed from his quirk being overused but also from the outpouring of emotion he was finally able to confront his family with.

“Oh Dabi,” she sighed fondly.

Vengeance years in the making was unfolding in front of the entire country in real time and she was privileged enough to know it had been coming. She knew the plan and she knew the backup plans and she was essential to the very last resort plan too. Her own revenge was being carried out though not by her own hand. At least not directly.

She looked down to the slightly rounded bump beneath her sweater, caressing it gently.

“If he doesn’t kill him, I’ll make sure you do for him,” she murmured with a smile.

A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated! Good heavens, its been a while since I’ve done smut so that was an experience lmao. Anyway, Dabi is such a fun character for me to write and I love exploring different emotions for him!

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thefinalyeehaw · 4 years ago

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(Obey Me Fic) Deathly Hearts {Ch. 1 - Arrival}

Killian didn’t know what to expect of the Devildom. Her knowledge of the realm was solely based on books and tales of her father’s younger days as he had been good allies with the Demon Lord. Diavolo had spoken about his home realm during his stay, now Killian regretted not asking further questions. Especially after she agreed to become a lab rat to the demon prince’s social experiment. His decree caused an uproar in her father’s court, shouting of royal advisers and loud gossiping among members of the reapscape’s nobility flooded the otherwise organized hall.

Among the chaos, her father sat on his throne, quietly observing the unleashed mayhem as she stared, shocked at Diavolo. The demon prince stood unflappable, the midst of the yelling and arguing, his eyes trained on her. The golden hues pierced her icy eyes, and his radiant smile remained unbreakable as a few irate advisors began to hurl thinly-veiled insults, stabbing at the demon prince’s character and integrity. Killian knew Diavolo didn’t care; the advisors could throw stones at him like a humorless jester telling bad jokes, he would still stand tall and proud as he awaited her answer.

Killian felt her father’s steely gaze latch onto her; he also awaited her answer. Usually, Killian felt graceful that her father always let her make her own decisions, but at that moment, she wished he had said something. Anything.

As she expected, her father remained silent as he stood up, his towering frame immediately silencing the hall. Her father turned to her, his dark eyes joining a hundred pairs piercing her; All awaiting an answer.

She didn’t know why she said yes. Diavolo’s dream was one that Killian shared; she also envisioned unity among the realms. But a dream is just a dream, a wild fantasy that will never come true. Diavolo’s idea was too outlandish; she couldn’t fathom reapers that won’t be a Ravished or an outcast in the Devildom, let alone a human.

Demons would tear a human to pieces the moment they stepped foot in the realm of the demons. Killian has witnessed many aftermaths of demons’ ravenous hunger for humans, to confirm that fact. But Diavolo wouldn’t listen even if she begged him on her knees as it wasn’t her place, much to her dismay. She was only a guest at the Devildom. Her only goal is to participate as a student for a year and report back to her father about her own opinion on the program.

Nothing more and nothing less.

“Welcome to the Devildom, Killian!”

A smile graced her face, her eyes landing on Diavolo as the mist of his transport spell vanished. Standing in the center of a raised judge panel, his already large frame looked gigantic as the demon prince peered down at the reaper. She recognized his signature red ankle-length coat, the crimson of his clothes heavily contradicting the large assembly hall’s violet and black scheme. Diavolo’s face brightens as he takes in her form, his gold eyes practically glow with excitement in the dimness.

“I’m honored to be here. I was starting to think that you forgot about me.” Her mask’s lips curled into a grin as the magic-infused in the porcelain mirrors her facial expressions. Killian didn’t usually wear a mask; her arrival to the Devildom coincided with the Melachonia festival in her home realm. Not wanting to break tradition, she decided to partake in the porcelain mask tradition during those significant months, though its appearance made her stick out like a sore thumb.

Diavolo chuckled at her tease, “Killian, you are someone who isn’t easily forgotten,” His gold eyes twinkled gleefully. “I do apologize for the delay. We had some difficulties with bringing Mattie to RAD.” Diavolo’s gaze shifted past the reaper, who turned to follow his stare.

A small distance behind her stood a human; their aura confirmed it. The person flinched when they noticed her glance, their eyes widening at the sight of her mask. They stood shorter than her, about chin-height to her. Killian noted they were cute, admiring the human’s olive skin and dyed teal hair, styled into a chin-length choppy bob, framing their round face and button nose.

Killian smiled, forcing back a giggle as the human gasped at her mask’s movement. “Hello there, I’m Killian. Who are you?” Keeping her voice smooth and calm, not to frighten the human further. “I-I’m Mattie. Mattie Carson.” Their doe-like eyes were glued to the mask’s mouth, watching in awe as the thin line moved and took shape, mirroring every word the reaper spoke. Their cheeks flushed as a giggle escaped Killian, immediately averting their glance in embarrassment.

“I’m glad the two of you are getting along well,” Diavolo smiled, observing the duo’s interaction happily. The demon prince seemed elated by the newest students’ friendly exchange; joy practically oozed from every pore. “Killian here is a good friend of mine. Treat her kindly, and she will do the same.”

Friends? Diavolo’s comment surprised her. She never thought he would consider her a friend. During his stay, Killian always made an effort to be friendly with the demon prince as their first meeting didn’t leave the best first impression whenever she bumped into the demon in the hallways and at banquets. Their chats were amiable but not enough to warrant status as the demon prince’s good friend.

Nevertheless, Killian took the opportunity to joke, “Aw, you’re going to make me blush~” Amused at the faint flush on Diavolo’s face as he laughed, also amused by their banter. A loud cough drew Killian’s eyes to the demon standing next to Diavolo, wearing a black version of the prince’s uniform. The demon was almost as tall as Diavolo, incredibly handsome with flawless porcelain skin and silky black hair. Even from the far distance, Killian noticed the crimson gradient in the demon’s otherwise piercing grey eyes. Those scrutinizing eyes glared disapprovingly, unamused of her playful attitude.

Killian grinned, winking at the scowling demon. She watched gleefully as his glare deepened. Obviously, the demon didn’t like her, not like she gave a shit about his feelings. If the demon was judging her already without getting to know her, Killian didn’t want to waste her energy on trying to be liked by some demon with an apparent stick up his ass.

“I apologize. We got off-topic.” Diavolo’s laughter subsided; he gesticulated around the hall as if performing a magic trick. “I should explain where we are. This is the Royal Academy of Diavolo, though we just call it RAD. You’re standing inside of the assembly hall, the very heart of RAD. This is where we officers of the student council hold our meetings and conduct our business.” Killian glanced around the impressive room, and she noticed a few empty seats among the ones occupied by a few disinterested demons.

“I’m the president of said council.” Diavolo stated proudly as if demons were fearless enough to run against him for the seat. She counted the number of seats, growing more curious. There were eight seats, including Diavolo; three seats were vacated. Why isn’t the whole council here? Won’t it have been more proper to have the full council present for the new students’ arrivals?

“Why are we here?” Mattie asked firmly, some of the shock and fear melting from their body. Killian felt slightly happy at the human’s growing confidence; the human will need that moxie if they want to survive the Devildom for the next year. Although it won’t prevent them from being eaten, it was at least progress.

“I will explain everything to you.” The black-haired demon spoke, ascending down the center stairs of the panel towards the two. Killian willed herself not to step forward in front of Mattie protectively; her posture grew rigid and alert. Her thumb fiddled with the ring on her right index finger, containing her scythe. The smile on Diavolo’s face eased her a bit; she still won’t hesitate to attack if the demon tried anything funny.

“Mattie. Killian. This is Lucifer. He is a demon and the Avatar of Pride.” Killian studied the black-haired demon with mild interest, so this is Lucifer? Diavolo spoke a lot of his dear friend during his stay in the Reapscape. From his descriptions of the demon, Killian honestly thought Lucifer was an old grumpy cat whom Diavolo grew fond of. Finally, now that she put a name with the face, she thought of him more like an arrogant peacock, domineering over ostentation of peafowls.

“So, you’re Lucifer? Lord Diavolo spoke many praises of you to my Excellency.” Her father’s title felt odd on her tongue. She doesn’t remember the last time when she had to call him by that status as “father,” and the occasional papa was his usual title to her. But her father had requested her royal status to remain anonymous during her participation in the program; Killian needed to remember that she wasn’t the Grim Reaper’s daughter in the eyes of these demons. She was just a representative of the Reapscape handpicked by the demon prince.

“He’s also the vice president of the student council and my right-hand man...and not just in title, I assure you.” Diavolo added. Killian disguised a sudden laugh as a mild cough fit, nearly giggling as Mattie shot her an odd look. Diavolo slightly pouted, resembling a worried puppy more than a demon prince. Lucifer’s glare intensified; oh, he knew exactly what she was thinking. Killian didn’t care if his stare melted the flesh off of her bone. The accidental double meaning was too funny not to laugh at.

Killian let out a quick apology in between fake coughs, claiming she was okay. Reassured that the reaper wasn’t about to keel over and die, Diavolo continued to praise Lucifer. “Beyond that, he’s also my most trusted friend,” Lucifer grunted at his words, annoyance twitched at his features as his stare shifted to the prince.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Diavolo.” He cleared his throat; his red-grey eyes pierced the two exchange students. Mattie winced at the intensity while Killian merely stared back, unbothered by the demon’s biting gaze. Being a royal heir, she grew custom to the glares and gawking of nobles as she wasn’t introduced into palace life with open arms as a young reaper.

With practiced grace, Lucifer placed a gloved hand to his chest, slightly bowed his head towards the duo as he spoke, “Speaking on behalf of the entire student body at this great and storied school of ours, I offer you a most heartfelt welcome.” Killian blinked; that was one of the driest greetings she has experienced. She endured stabbings more heartfelt.

“On behalf of the students?” A faint frown appeared on the human’s face. Killian didn’t need telepathy to know Mattie found Lucifer’s welcome less than warm. Lucifer’s eyes briefly narrowed before he diverged into a monologue, “Diavolo believes that we demons should start strengthening our relationship with both the human world and the Celestial Realm. As a first step towards this goal, we’ve decided to institute an exchange program.” Killian turned him out. She already heard the program’s nature when Diavolo did his sales pitch to her father, resulting in brief mayhem occurring in the royal court.

“You both need someone to look after you, and I think that someone should be my brother Mammon?” The name seemed familiar to Killian; where has she heard that name before?

“Your brother?” Mattie asked curiously.

“Yes. He’s the Avatar of Greed, and… how should I put it…?” He sighed defeatedly, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if a headache was forming. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

Reaching into a coat pocket, Lucifer retrieved two cell phones. “Here, take this device. It’s called D.D.D. It’s a lot like the cell phones of your worlds,” He plopped the phones into each of their hands; his aim missed Killian’s hand, the phone nearly slipped. Her quick reflexes easily caught the falling phone; she gave him a sharp look. If Lucifer purposefully missed, his face didn’t show its guilt as he further discusses the new cell phones.

With an annoyed huff, Killian decided to examine the new device. Her phone case was a dark red; she lifted the phone slightly. She let out a breathy laugh as she saw the case matched the color of Diavolo’s uniform. Killian playfully winked at Diavolo, noticing the man also looking at the case in her hand. Diavolo’s smile widened; she suppressed a crackle when he winked back.

Forcing herself to turn away as not to draw any attention, she turned it on to see the phone was already charged and unlocked. Killian quickly browsed the standard installed apps. Although it will take some time for Killian to get used to a new cell phone, everything seemed in place. She wondered if her other phone would work if she needed to call home. She knew there would be metaphorical hell to pay if she didn’t text Jules often. The reaper shuddered at the thought of being on the end of her dear friend’s notoriously short temper. That wasn’t something she wanted to deal with any time soon.

“Now, go ahead and try calling Mammon with it.” Lucifer instructed.

~~~~~~~

Thank you for reading! Reblog if you want me to post more.

Also, I wanted to explain a few things about Mattie (The human; the usual MC of the game), Killian (my reaper mc of sorts) and the story.

1. Mattie identifies as genderqueer; The pronouns of Mattie are They/Them, just like in the game. (Killian's pronouns are She/Her as she identities as cisgender).

2. This story will follow the overall plot line relatively close, it will kinda diverges from the original story in a few major events. there is also some side plot and funny (sometimes spicy~) filler chapters.

3. Mattie will not be the one romancing the boys, Killian is the romantic interest. Mattie will develop deep platonic relationships with the boys, I'm still deciding upon Mattie's sexual preference (possibly gray-ace?)

4. Since this is somewhat an AU; there will be chapters outside of the realm of the devildom, focusing on Killian's backstory and the Reapscape.

5. Last but not least, there will be some dark topics explored (mostly involving Killian's past) that I hadn't tagged yet. I will put trigger warning in the beginning notes of those chapters. If wanted, I can put line break around the sensitive materials.

#obey me #reapscape au #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmo #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me diavolo

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twelveswood · 5 years ago

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Title: 27 Dresses Pairing: N’orelle/Estinien Word Count: 2821

She hated this party. It was a beautiful event, all of Ishgard’s elite were there, as well as plenty of lesser houses, her friends, the scions, even those in the Brume were invited. Everyone was celebrating. And they were right to, she supposed. Ishgard had overcome so much - they all finally knew the truth of their history, the Dragonsong War was over. There was peace. In Ishgard at least. There was no denying tensions elsewhere in the world, and Aymeric was quick to pledge himself to that cause. But for now, celebration. She didn’t really feel like she was a part of it though. She sat alone at a table far from the heavily occupied dance floor. She didn’t know how to dance anyway. Not like that. Her long hair was swept back into braids at either side, twisted into a bun with effortless little ringlets dangling down her neck. Her dress sat off her shoulders, tight to her waist loosening at her hips and flowed freely behind her, not that you could tell from the way she was sitting. It was black, or appeared that way until she moved, a shimmering gradient of blue and green shifting with the light becoming apparent. She hated it. She hated the way she felt in it. Not just restricted, movement-wise. But.. something else. Something deeper. It took her to a time not so long ago… ////////

“Why did they send me to help you with this?” N’orelle sighed and shrugged, “They were all busy, I guess. And they said you knew your way around Ishgard. Don’t ask me, I don’t know.” Estinien’s lips pursed into a frown as he looked around the shop. Wall to wall there were dresses of varying style, color, and price as far as the eye could see. His only relief was that N’orelle did not seem enthused about this either. “Do I really have to do this?” she groaned, echoing his thoughts. “I could not care less.” She sighed again, “Yes, but they will all be upset if I don’t go. And Dreyll is so sweet, I can’t disappoint her…” Estinien’s frown only deepened - yes, he knew how that went all too well. Her blindingly bright personality and true belief in the good in everyone made her particularly hard to let down. “I just wish I could wear my own clothes, these all look so difficult to move in! What if we’re attacked! Where will I keep my bow?” He snorted a little, but understood her sentiment. He was the same way after all - being out of his armor and without his lance was… well, he might as well be naked. Which was the state he was in now, in a rarely seen show of casual Ishgardian attire. But the danger had passed, hadn’t it? With Nidhogg slain… Well, there was some part of him that could not believe it was really over. It couldn’t be that simple. He felt it in his gut, but his bad feeling would not sway the minds of everyone else, so desperate to call this a win. “There will be guards, you’ll have no need for it.” “Well I don’t know them so I don’t trust them. I haven’t been unarmed since I was a kit.” “Make up your mind. If you’re not going then we can leave.” “Ugh… I’m going, I’m going.” “A shame.” N’orelle offered him a sideways glance and sighed thrice now. She was sort of cute when she pouted like this. Estinien could not believe his own mind would conjure up such a thought, but there it was. Mentally reeling he reigned himself back in and gestured around them. “Well then pick something.” “It’s not that easy,” she whined, “I’ve never… worn anything like this before.” “Then anything should suffice.” He said, grabbing the closest dress, thrusting it towards her. It was a hideous shade of pink with frills. “Oh no absolutely not.” “Then pick something. I have better things to be doing.” N’orelle rolled her eyes, moving through displays, recoiling at the feel of some fabric. “Yes I’m so sure,” she mocked, pulling one out, frowning a lot, and putting it back. Silence fell between them for a moment as she tried to give this decision earnest thought. Couldn’t be too stiff. Not too showy. Form-fitting was fine so long as her legs had some wiggle room. Did she look better in dark colors or light colors? Most of her wardrobe consisted of shades of brown. That was woefully missing from the array here. Her fourth sigh escaped her as she began to gather up wildly varied dresses in all shades and styles. This would be the easiest way she supposed, try on a little bit of everything. “Here, take these,” she began handing things to him which he took hold of on instinct but his lips curled into a look of soft disgust at being made into her personal clothing rack. His only relief was that this particular shop was sparsely occupied at the time. Once he was beginning to really feel the weight of them all he huffed, “Isn’t that enough for now? I didn’t expect to spend all day here.” “It’ll be quick!” she assured though her expression was grim. As if on cue one of the shop proprietors snuck up on the pair, “Would the lady like a room?” Nearly jumping and dropping her veritable closets worth of dresses she blinked, eyes wide, nodding her head. “Y-yes please.” She turned to follow her and Estinien begrudgingly joined behind when N’orelle waved him along. “Right in there, madam,” she directed her towards a small curtained room, giving Estinien a once over but saying nothing. Estinien merely glowered in response. “O-okay, well, here goes…” she mumbled, moving behind the heavy curtain with an armful of dresses. The other woman took her leave and Estinien stood stiffly, unsure of what to do with himself beyond just… standing there, holding her excessive dresses. There was rustling behind the curtain, sounds of fabric shifting, silence for a long while, then a quiet voice. “.. I don’t think I can do this.” He groaned, leaning his head back. “You can’t be serious.” “No I just mean… I can’t… I can’t get this thing on.” His lips thinned and now it was his turn to sigh. This is why it should have been anyone else. Anyone but him. “Will you come in here?” He froze on the spot at her request. No, of course he wouldn’t, that certainly wouldn’t be appropriate. But the helplessness in her voice gave him such pause for a moment before he snapped back to reality. “What? No! What am I supposed to do?” “Just… there’s these ties on the back part, I don’t know if I was supposed to tie them first… or now… or… I don’t know,” she sounded distressed and it made him shut his eyes tightly and grit his teeth. “If you can’t even manage to put it on, then I suppose that’s not the one you ought to be choosing.” “Please just come in here?” He sucked in a deep breath, setting his extravagant pile aside on a bench. She sounded so pitiful, how was he supposed to refuse? He glanced over his shoulder back into the shop proper, seemed no one was paying any mind. Steeling his resolve he pushed through the curtain. The room was much too small for the two of them combined with all of the stock she’d brought in with her, and the frame of this particular dress jutted out at the hips. Lips pursed he moved in behind her, gaze catching hers in her reflection from the mirror that hung across from her. She had tied all her hair up into a sloppy bun, swimming in yalms of fabric. She looked a little flush and vaguely embarrassed - a look he’d not seen on her before. Again there was a quiet nagging, it was… endearing. Quashing that thought his gaze dodged away from hers and he crossed his arms over his chest. “So, what, you want me to tie this or something?” “Yes… I mean, that is what needs to happen, right? It’s not supposed to be all loose like this, right?” She was holding the front to her chest to keep it from slipping off. With a grunt his hands found the ribbon that laced up the back, pulling it taut to a point she almost jumped, “Well I still need to breathe,” she gasped out, and she couldn’t help but notice the slightly amused look on his face as he remained focused on the task. His fingers incidentally brushed against her spine as he tightened and loosened the ribbon in various places until it was evenly secured all the way up. His hands were kind of cold, she noted, and she blamed that for the brief shiver down her back. “There,” he drew his hands back once he was satisfied - not that he’d done this before, but he understood the logistics. “Mmm…” she hummed thoughtfully, looking at herself in the mirror. Estinien’s gaze moved back to her reflection as well. She looked like an entirely different woman almost. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “Too poofy, I think.” “All that work and it’s ‘too poofy’?” He pinched the bridge of his nose in minor annoyance. “What? I couldn’t tell until it was on right!” she huffed, pouting. “Just.. undo it, okay?” Estinien glanced away once more as his hands set to now loosing the ribbon until it was about the same as when he had entered. “Pray make the rest of them less complicated,” his tone however was not particularly demanding. “Right, okay, you can go now.” She waved her hand towards the curtain and Estinien could not get out of there fast enough to be truthful. She had some… strange effect on him. He was not a fan of it. Time passed and more and more dresses were added to the “not going to happen” pile. So far it had all been a bust with a couple that weren’t as terrible as the rest. Some she strutted out in dramatically, warranting a laugh here and there. He’d only had to go in a couple more times to secure her bodice and each time he felt more and more anxious about it. Each time he noticed more and more of her tanned skin, more exposed than he was used to. Despite her background as a hunter, her skin looked relatively unweathered. He had to imagine it was smooth. But imagine was all he was going to do. Some silence, some rustling about, and then she spoke. “What are you wearing anyway? I mean. Obviously you aren’t required to wear one of these contraptions… but did you have to go out and get something or do you have some secret stash of Ishgardian clothing in some manor somewhere?” “I’m not going,” was all he said. A long pause. “... what do you mean you’re not going?” “It means I’m not going. Why should I?” “Why- why should-,” she stammered and then after a moment her head popped out from behind the curtain. “You are the Azure Dragoon, you were a crucial part in the end of the war, you have to go.” “All the more reason to avoid it. Let the Warrior of Light take the credit. I have no desire for the fame.” She clicked her tongue and furrowed her brow in frustration. Why was he always like this? She popped back behind the curtain and though she said nothing he could feel her fuming. Suddenly she threw wide the curtain and marched out, expression agitated to say the very least. The dress was sleek, black in color, but there was some sort of shine to it. The dressing area was not very well lit, but some beams of sunlight from far away windows made it all the way there, reflecting hues of blue and green. Her hair was absolutely disheveled by this point, and her irritation only added to the look, but… she was beautiful. Unlike anything he’d ever seen before. “That one,” he said abruptly, which caught her off guard. “What?” “That… dress,” he seemed almost faraway as he spoke, though his gaze seemed fully attentive. “You should get that one.” Her expression shifted through several stages - confusion, consideration, once more a blip of annoyance, then finally shyness. Did he like this one? Or… was he just trying to be done with this? The dazed look on his face however said perhaps it was the former. “Fine,” she almost squeaked, her voice not sure how to inflect. She blew some of her bangs out of her face, standing there a moment or two longer, lingering under his gaze. “... right, well, I guess I should uhm. Take it off. And… get dressed, then.” “Right,” he agreed though he seemed to be elsewhere. “Right…” she repeated and finally turned on her heels and disappeared back behind the curtain. Why was her face burning? She surveyed herself in the mirror for a moment, looking this way and that. It wasn’t so bad, she supposed… it wasn’t her style, surely, but none of them were… and this one… He liked this one. Why she cared about that… well. No. She knew why... she just wasn’t ready to come to terms with it yet. After a few minutes she emerged, dressed in her regular clothes, the dress folded neatly over her arm. Whatever anger she had been feeling had clearly melted away and her expression was almost meek. In the time it took her to change Estinien had forced himself back to his senses, but seeing her timid just about did him in again. He liked that she was assertive, that she was stubborn, that she was willful. But that led them to arguments, which he also enjoyed if he was being perfectly honest - which he would not be to anyone out loud. However seeing her shift towards bashfulness… it pulled at his chest and made him almost wish to soothe her. But he did no such thing. Instead he simply stood up from the pile of discarded dresses and cleared his throat. “See… that wasn’t so bad,” she offered with a weak smile. Keeping his gaze anywhere but her he nodded just slightly. “I suppose not. But I’d rather not do it again.” “Me either.” “Good.” She made her way up to the counter and paid, and once they left the store they walked in silence for a ways. Eventually, she glanced over at him and held her gaze there until he noticed, at which point his expression clearly asked ‘what?’. “... so you’re really not going?” His vision slipped back forward and he was quiet for a short while. N’orelle never stopped watching him. “... perhaps something will change my mind before the event is upon us.” Oh. Oh she hoped she could be that something. A smile crossed her face and she said nothing else. //////// … but they never made it. Days before the celebration was planned all hell broke loose with the remaining heretics, bent on razing Ishgard. At the time she was fine with that - with missing it, at least, not with everything that happened to prevent it. But now, wearing this dress, having no idea where he was or what he was doing, hell was he even alive? She sure didn’t know. Because he’d left out a damn window without a word. After everything they’d gone through to save him... and he couldn’t even say anything to anyone? To her? “C’mon Nori,” came a familiar voice, drawing her attention up from a particularly riveting speck on the floor. “You’re supposed to be having fun,” the redheaded Viera beamed at her making it almost impossible to keep from smiling back. Dreyll reached her hand out to the other woman, smile remaining intact. “Come dance with me!” “I’ll step on your toes.” “That’s okay!” N’orelle sighed but managed a smile and stood up, letting the Warrior of Light drag her out onto the dance floor. The rest of the evening went smoothly, she laughed and smiled and did all the things she was supposed to do. But it didn’t stop that feeling from lingering. That something was missing.

#estinien wyrmblood #estinien x wol #though i guess technically norelle is not... i mean she is a wol #just not THE wol #norelle #n'orelle #kristi writes

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thehoodsweetheart · 6 years ago

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Twin Flames.

A/N: This is something that popped up in my mind. I was feeling a little uninspired lately but knew I wanted to get some type of content out. Tell me what you guys think. Should this be something I continue? I hope it’s not total crap.

Summary: Sometimes you can’t shake a person, no matter how much you try to let go. However, you hand can be forced. This is the case with Isis and Erik. (I don’t want to give up too many details).

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: ??? There are none. I write for Black audiences, Black women in particular. My main characters are Black and that’s that on that. Isis is and will remain a Black woman.

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Isis sat perched up in the middle of her oxblood colored crushed velvet couch legs folded beneath her as she diligently clicked away on her MacBook Pro. Isis was dressed in a black mesh panel Ivy Park crop top with the matching leggings. Her wash and go was on day 2, which was honestly her favorite due to how much volume the fizziness gave her hair. Isis’s fluffy coils created a large halo like fro around her head almost like a crown. It hadn’t even been an hour since she landed in Los Angeles from her 21-hour flight from Johannesburg and she was getting straight to work. The soft murmur of Martin re-runs played on the wall of her condo from a projector and providing most of the light in the room. The projector was Isis’s idea after debating with her best friend, who also happened to be her roommate, over an obnoxiously sized flat screen TV.

She glanced up from her work on your laptop to give a soft laugh at Martin & Gina sneaking into Tommy’s apartment attempting to find out if he was apart of the CIA. It reminded Isis of how nosy her own best friend could be when she felt like Isis was hiding something from her. It was no offense to their friendship. Isis was an only child and somewhat of an introvert. She grew up with the struggle of overly sharing or not sharing herself at all with ‘close friends’. She learned fast it was best to be picky with who and what she shared of herself. Isis was private in nature and her current job only added to it. Isis was awarded the once in a lifetime opportunity of being part of the visual director team and personal photographer to Beyoncé. Yes, the one and only Queen Bey.

It was 11:11 PM, which Isis considered peak working hours. She knew that she’d be awake editing pictures until well after 3 AM. Isis wanted sort through all her captured footage from her last trip and edit the best images. Seemed like a simple task but any artist will tell you it’s the most challenging part. What if a photo she absolutely hates is one that her client loved? Or Vice versa? The longer Isis looked at the image the more flaws she could find, but wasn’t that the beauty in art, photography in particular?

Isis played around with the gradient and shadows of the picture trying to highlight its depth using Adobe Lightroom. She was so fixated on editing that she didn’t even hear the front door open, but the sounds of giggling and the door slamming sure caught her attention. Her best friend Brea was home and she were not alone. Brea was accompanied by a large male figure that towered over her petite frame. Isis gave them a quick glance before returning her attention back to the work before her. Despite not getting a clear view of Brea’s male ‘friend’, Isis felt an odd sensation of familiarity. Isis knew Brea hadn’t even noticed she was there yet because she was too focused on her male companion who was actively kissing and groping her.

“Aye, who is that?” His gruff voice questioned. Brea shot him a confused look before turning on her heels to face the couch. She let a loud gasp followed by a squeal.

“OH MY GODDD ISIS!!! YOU’RE HOMEEE!” She ran over to Isis giving her a bear hug, completely disregarding the laptop on her lap. Isis let out a small chuckle, fumbling with her MacBook Pro so it wouldn’t crash onto the floor, yet still trying to reciprocate Brea’s embrace.

“I know…finally right?” Isis’s light voice followed. She spent two weeks in South Africa, and she had only been home for four days prior to that after a trip to New York. During those four days, Brea was away on a business trip for the NPO she worked for, so it was safe to say they hadn’t had a chance to see each other in a solid four weeks.

“Soooo, how long do I have the pleasure of having my bestie back?” She nudged my elbow.

“We never know. Until duty calls again I guess.” Isis shrugged.

“Well you have to tell me about South Africa! Any fine niggas?” Brea attempted to whisper the last question. Isis couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh, which Brea soon joined in on. Leave it to Brea to be so bold in front of her male company.

Erik cleared his throat catching Isis and Brea’s attention silencing their laughter completely. Isis’s eyes locked with Erik’s. She finally zoned in on his face. This was Erik that Isis has heard Brea talk so much about in the past months, but nothing of substance. Brea just pretty much boasted on his good looks and sex drive but no concrete details of the ‘mystery man’. Not even a screenshot of a picture of the man had been offered from Brea. The three seconds that they held eye contact felt like nearly an eternity. Her heart began to pound in her chest so much so she could hear it in her ears. It was as if they could see through each other’s exterior and see straight to the core. Brea’s guest was indeed handsome…strikingly handsome yet familiar.

Erik’s face was one Isis would never forget. His face was etched in marble in her mind. Her mind worked like a camera, her favorite vice. Capturing faces in a moment, associating them with particular narratives. Every face held a different story; all worth discovering yet Isis wasn’t much of a storyteller. She was the observer obsessed with the details of stories in a calculating way. This one in particular was mysterious and how it intersected with Isis’s was less than complicated but not in the least bit simple.

*********

They met what seemed like a lifetime ago during one Isis’s summer visits to the Bay, on Isis’s father’s birthday. It was the summer before high school. She met Bria that same summer during Summer Bridge, a requirement for the private high school they attended. He was her favorite boy cousin’s best friend. Despite her introverted ways, Isis and Erik linked as if they knew each other their whole lives. It began as a platonic friendship. It soon became obvious that they had crushes on one another but they didn’t say anything about it in respect to her cousin. Then her cousin died and Erik moved away the same year causing them to lose contact. But before he moved he told her, “Don’t trip, I’ll find you one day. I feel like I’ll always find you. No matter what lifetime it is.”That was the summer before her senior year of high school. And find her is exactly what he did, multiple sporadic times.

It was actually puzzling to say they never kept consistent contact with one another. Like the summer after her first year of college when she landed an internship in New York at the Staley-Wise Gallery, and Erik casually sauntered through the crowd of the gallery on a busy afternoon. He was notably different. More mature in his looks and moved more guarded than the teenager Isis once new, nonetheless his magnetic pull drew her in almost immediately. It was that force that never allowed her to shy away when she was near him, even if she tried. Isis was uneasy with idea of being attached to Erik, because life had a way of showing her that her best bet was on herself. Despite this, he made her feel safe. He was there when the gallery closed. They chilled with each other like there was no time lost between the two. Any time she was free during his two week stay, Erik made sure he spent it with her sparking that old crush letting it fully ignite. When he asked her, “You saved yourself for me?” It wasn’t much of a question. He knew she did.

Years passed and after graduating from undergrad, Isis moved back to Los Angeles. Isis like every woman has experienced a fair share of cat calling and unwanted extra male attention. When she experienced it one particular night, the ‘I have a boyfriend’ and ‘your man don’t let you have friends’ debate was brought to an abrupt end with a ‘Nah’ from a male voice behind her. Isis wanted to roll her eyes because she knew she didn’t have a man but she didn’t necessarily want to entertain the new unknown voice because he played superhero. She was in luck to find it was Erik. Isis was stricken with awe. She was sure their last encounter would be the final one. Isis came to terms with that.

Erik and Isis practically bound. What else could explain their unexpected reconnections? Their most encounters recent were in Johannesburg. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since she’d seen or heard from him. She knew of him being in the navy and his plans for Wakanda. Part of her thought he was dead. When attending a museum on a much needed off day, pictures of South Africa’s neighboring country Wakanda acted as a friendly reminder of her old friend.

“What do you know about Wakanda? Almighty Isis.” The familiar predatory voice purred in her ear. Isis whipped around to see a vastly different appearance yet Erik in the flesh.

********

Isis raised an eyebrow as a sly smirk crept onto her face. The same smirk that Erik held, mirror-like with arrogance. She turned her attention to her best friend. Isis waited for what would be a proper introduction. After all, Brea was oblivious to Erik and Isis’s acquaintance. She had no clue that Isis and Erik’s once-in-a-blue moon meetings sparked a flame consuming the flesh and spread like wild fire only to be put out not long after it starts. Neither Erik nor Isis was accustomed to the immense connection they possessed, like a shared soul internalizing each other’s pain without explanation, knowing things about each other that never needed to be verbalized. Something about it always savoring the essence of its natural flow and it was still so foreign. Yet, Brea did not know that her Erik was Isis’s N’Jadaka.

“Sorry, I’m being rude! Ice, this is Erikkkk” Brea sang his name. Isis chewed her inner cheek to keep from cringing. She wasn’t sure if it was the way Brea said his name or the thought of Erik fucking her best friend.

“Wassup” Erik said with a nod. Isis coach herself mentally not to roll her eyes. Should she tell Brea? Would it even matter? Could she even be mad at Erik? They never had anything exclusive, ever.

“Hello.” Isis kept her response curt.

“Yo��You look hella familiar like I know you from somewhere.” Erik tilted his head dreads falling more into his face as his tongue ran over his gold fangs. If he wanted to be petty, Isis could match all energy.

“Doubt it…Probably Instagram.” Isis said with a shrug gaining an uneasy look from Brea. Brea was accustomed to Isis being more polite in general, after all she deemed Isis as the ‘nice’ friend.

If this situation couldn’t get anymore awkward, Isis phone began to ring illuminating with the name Aaron and a picture of her and a handsome chocolate man making goofy faces with the Snap Chat dog filter. Isis sucked in a deep breath breaking her gaze from her phone immediately locking eyes with Erik. She couldn’t believe the situation that was unfolding before her. Her secret on and off ‘fling’ was in her home with every intention on fucking her best friend, despite having a two-week long mind-blowing sexscapade with Isis in South Africa just days prior. Her best friend had no clue and her current situationship was hitting her up for the late night action.

“Don’t ignore my brother-in-law. You know the drill.” Brea laughed. It was too late. Isis missed the call. Isis could only let out a nervous chuckle while avoiding looking at Erik altogether.

“Whatever Bree. I’ll get out of you guys’ way.” Isis said fanning them off while quickly texting Aaron she was on her way.

She sat her laptop down to get ready to leave. Isis quickly gathered her tote, which was packed with her essentials since she had landed that night. It was no need for Aaron to leave the door unlocked she had a key. He was far more invested than she was but she did care for him.

“This picture is dope. These scars look so familiar.” Brea squinted as she studied Isis’s MacBook Pro.

“Ehhh, you know ritual practices…just something I saw in South Africa.” Isis said looking directly at Erik with a smirk. She took her laptop from Brea as she headed towards the door. “You two have fun!” Isis shot them a wink.

#erik killmonger x reader #erik killmonger x oc #erik killmonger imagine #erik killmonger x black!reader #erik killmonger #black panther rec #black panther imagine #black panther #erik killmonger rec #erik killmonger one shot

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scribeofmorpheus · 6 years ago

Text

Mark of the Wolf Part 7 (Derek Hale x Reader)

Catch up here!

A/N: So I take major liberties with the lore of transferring memories between werewolves in this chapter, but it’s still bordering the line of the established lore in the series so... But now I can happily say that the mystery of who the Order are and what they want is slowly unravelling. Now about that slow burn... (Also when you read the dream state part where the reader's eyes change colour, that’s just the eye colour of her inner wolf).

Note: I had previously described Derek’s eye’s as being Hazel but I was corrected and was informed that they are in fact Green, so I edited the eye colour descriptions.

Words: 3660 (this chapter was long!)

Warnings: Violence, Past Trauma??? That’s it I guess.

(gif isn’t mine)

"I'm like you. I'm a werewolf."

The words rang through the room as all four sets of eyes were on you.

Scott's face was scrunched up in thought, he had found your reveal to be quite the shocker. You guessed he was probably unsettled by the fact he had never sensed the werewolf in you. Not that many could. Even your own family had a hard time sensing your other half. They had said it was because the wolf had remained buried, never once surfacing to take to its own unique scent and feel.

Stiles and Liam seemed the least shocked. If anything Stiles seemed to find some credibility in your being a werewolf. After all, just as Liam put it, the Order hunts other supernatural creatures, not humans.

Derek, however, had an unreadable expression on his face. It bothered you somewhat. You didn't want him to look at you with that same level of distrust and caution as he used to. You had hoped things would be different after the attack on the clinic.

You waited in deafening silence as the boys mulled over your words. Until finally Derek spoke.

"How did you know the sage would work?" Derek asked, to your delight he regarded you no difference on account of your secret being made known. You felt more at ease for some reason.

"I'm not sure. I just knew," You told him, surprised by his choice in question.

"How come we couldn't sense you?" Liam asked, bringing the focus back to your newly revealed secret.

"You and I both know the wolf form and the human form can have two very distinct scents. Also, I'm what you call an 'afflicted,'" You said in a hushed voice, the word afflicted rolled off your tongue with a slight sting to it. You always hated that word.

"What is that?" Scott asked, finally breaking from his stupor.

Derek's brow was drawn together as he wore his signature scowl whenever he was deep in thought.

"I thought they were a myth. My mother told me stories as a kid… the Afflicted are pure born shape-shifters who can't shift," Derek looked at you with what you assumed was pity in his eyes.

"Yahtzee," you said sardonically, "give this man a prize."

"That's a thing?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah, my mother would tell me these stories about werewolves being cursed to stay in their human form forever. To be honest, I always thought it was just a scary story to keep me from turning outside a full moon," Derek had a fond look on his face, the memory brought about a bitter-sweet touch to his chiselled features.

"It's actually a recessive gene. My family are one of the last few remaining carriers. It only runs in pure-blooded werewolf families. My brothers and sisters can shift, my mother is the carrier and I'm the one with the genetic predisposition, that is, assuming lycanthropy works the same way as gene expression," You said brazenly, a solemn smile gracing your lips.

Stiles' eyes went wide as he flailed about trying to open one of the leather bound books he had in his possession. His actions caused quite the ruckus and you had to stop yourself from laughing at his goofy behaviour.

"Okay so on my way here, I started thinking about the name they gave the hunted: Ex Alia, right. And it's an odd phrase because combined Ex Alia actually means 'from the other' and that can also mean 'apart from', right."

"Stiles, we've been over this," Derek said running his fingers over his thick eyebrows.

Stiles mimed Derek's words back at him in a comical way, "If you would just let me finish!"

Derek held up his hands and folded them over his chest, eyeing Stiles intensely for the loud tone he had shouted at him with.

"Thank you," Stiles said condescendingly, "Now, what if it's in reference to werewolves who are apart from their kin. Like for example..."

"Werewolves or other shapeshifters who can't shift," Scott finished Stiles' thought.

Even though Stiles argument made sense to you, you couldn't help but fight against his logic, "Even if that were true, they still went after Alex, and he could shift," you rebutted.

"Yes, but you said it's genetic. So what if Alex was a carrier?" Stiles rebuffed.

You went silent. Stiles had a point.

You knew Alex since childhood, he was a third generation werewolf. Your family had a close relationship with other legacy families, that's how you met. It was completely plausible for Alex to be a carrier for the same recessive gene you expressed.

You were startled from your lamentation when you heard a booming knock come from the bunker door. Everyone in the room exchanged questioning glances as they silently asked each other if they knew who it could be.

Stiles drew the short straw and offered himself up to go and see who it was. You were still standing there, numb from everything that had transpired.

You heard Stiles pull open the heavy metal door of the bunker, mutter a quick "Nope," like he was rejecting Girl Scout cookies and shut it behind him before he came to re-join the half circle again.

"Who was it?" Liam asked.

"No one important," Stiles said coolly as he waved the question away and wore an upturned frown. It was certainly a dubious look. Derek wasn’t convinced as he raised a brow at him.

A second later, Derek and Scott's heads snapped to the doors direction just as the door flew off its hinges. Their claws and fangs protruding outwards, their wolfish features taking shape.

Liam was already fully shifted, his nostrils flaring as he let out snarls for breaths. The energy coming off him was powerful and angry, making you instinctively take a few steps back.

All three of them lined up in front of you and Stiles, their eyes creating a gradient from red to yellow to blue. Their animalistic growls echoing through the room.

A set of footsteps descended the steps in a relaxed, languid manner. They belonged to a handsome faced man, slightly older than everyone else in the room, with the same dramatic streak as Derek. He smiled wickedly as he opened his arms in a warm mocking embrace, his head held up high like some entitled prince. His own blue eyes glowing with the same intensity as Derek.

Derek, Liam and Scott retracted their fangs and claws and dropped their defensive stances as soon as they registered who it was that had just punched the door in.

Apparently, the man making the needlessly dramatic entrance wasn't a threat.

"Anyone ever tell you it's rude to shut the door in people’s faces?" The man asked Stiles in a low threatening voice. His clawed fingers dusting off none existent dust from his leather jacket.

"Yeah, well I was also told not to invite homicidal maniacs into any enclosed spaces with me, so..." Stiles shot back.

"Peter, what are you doing here?" Derek asked with a hint of familiarity.

"Why dear nephew, I heard your call."

"Okay who called the homicidal maniac?" Stiles said as he looked over at Derek, Scott and Liam with exasperation.

"He meant the howl," Liam told Stiles.

"Oh, this is just great," you sighed, plopping yourself down on the stool where Liam had previously sat. "More werewolves."

Stiles just patted you back and gave a weak, "There, there," in place of consolation.

"So what have I missed?" Peter said with a large smirk on his clean-shaven face.

The next hour was spent catching Peter upon what was currently plaguing Beacon Hills and your life.

Peter stopped Scott from talking with a single look when he heard you had repressed the memories from the night Alex died. He had an idea, you could read it on his face.

He came and stood a few inches away from you, looking down at you like you were some mathematical theorem to be solved. He held up one finger after much silence and ushered Derek closer to you.

"Derek, come here a second," he said. Derek obliged but made sure to drag his feet a little so Peter didn't think Derek was open to being summoned.

"I hear you have amnesia," Peter directed the statement to you, you just stared up at him and didn't reply. "You're a werewolf, right? So that means even though you can't shift, the same rules apply to you?"

"In a way. I can heal faster than humans, my sense of smell is better and in some cases, I can hear better, but without the ability to shift those powers are significantly weaker to that of actual shapeshifters. But… yes, the same rules apply. Wolf's-bane is still toxic to me, I still feel the pull of the moon, and my abilities are magnified when I'm in a pack. Why do you ask?" You were curious as to where Peter was going with this.

"Just making sure this won't kill you," Peter just gave an innocent smile before he extended his claws and dug them into yours and Derek's neck, linking you to one another, using himself as a conduit. Before you were lost in the spiral of memory and shared consciousness, you heard Stiles say "Oh my God!" in shock and Scott shout Peter's name in an alpha male voice.

It was too late though, you and Derek were already linked and pulling you out now would just cause more harm than good.

***

It felt like you were free falling through an endless white space. Incoherent chattering and sounds playing all at once like someone had overlapped several songs onto a single track.

You were lost in the cacophony of your mind in disarray, until you felt Derek's hands link with yours, pulling you from your confusion.

"Where are we?" You asked him.

Derek looked around at the white empty space, it was like staring at a blank canvas that had no end. His brows knit together for a moment before he realised what was going on.

"We're in your mind, Peter linked us in a shared dream state. Werewolves can sometimes share memories by a bite or a scratch. I think in this case he figured you couldn't grow out your claws or fangs, so he used himself as a proverbial telephone cord."

You were familiar with how the sharing of memories worked. Your father had done something similar with your older brother Markus when he had passed on the mantle of Alpha to him.

Just as you were reliving the memory, the blank canvas of your mind bled through with colour and voices and suddenly a clear image of that day began to replay as though you had just stepped back in time.

Your brother was lying in the centre of a field by the meadow you had spent much of your childhood watching your sibling’s roughhousing.

Markus was writhing in pain as his eyes shimmered between his former vibrant gold to the frightful red they were now. Your mother, sister and younger brother were standing alongside you as you all watched your father transfer his powers onto Markus.

"What is this?" Derek asked

"The Markolf tradition," you said with a hint of pride at your legacy and sorrow for the pain your brother was enduring.

Your brother let out a howling scream, you winced. so did Derek.

You continued, "We differ from most werewolf families because we have the ability to pass on the mantle of alpha when we are no longer fit enough to carry it. That’s partially where we got our name from. Markolf is old High German, it combines the words ‘border’ and ‘wolf’ because we aren’t like most werewolf families. The transferral is painful and can only be done during a full moon. If none of the pack contests, and if the progeny is strong enough, then passing on of the mantle is usually successful."

"I've never heard of this..." Derek was perplexed and in awe of what he saw unfolding.

"My great-grandfather was what you call a True Alpha, he discovered it was possible to pass on the gift by focusing his power through a bite. However, in doing so, you also relinquish most of your strength, making you considerably weaker."

Derek shook himself of his astonishment and tugged at your hand to make you face him, "I think I know why Peter did what he did. If you can't remember what happened to you, then maybe I can. Earlier, you were having a nightmare, I think it was about the night Alex dies."

You squinted your eyes at him, not having any memory of having had a nightmare earlier, "I don't remember having a nightmare."

"It must be your subconscious protecting you from the trauma. All I need you to do is just think about that night. Close your eyes and picture it, what's the first thing that comes to mind?"

You closed your eyes and let your mind wander.

***

Derek kept his eyes on you while yours stayed shut. He held onto your hand to be your anchor, your guide. He watched silently as the canvas began to bleed through with new colours and images and sounds again.

It started with a laugh.

A sweet, sing-song laugh that tugged at Derek's heartstrings. He turned in the direction of the laugh and saw a younger version of you. A version from the past. He couldn't help but think how beautiful you looked with a bright eye-creasing smile and a glow to your skin from the beams of light falling against your body from the moon.

Derek's breath hitched in his throat as he saw the younger version of you wrapped in another man’s arms. A strong man’s arms. Alex, no doubt.

Alex tucked a strand of your longer hair behind an ear. There were accents of playful red streaks hidden amongst the darker parts of your hair. He enjoyed your vibrancy and so did Derek.

You had seemed a different person in the memory. More carefree and easier with a smile, it had managed to coax an unexpected smile from Derek too.

Alex whispered sweet nothings in your ear as the camp sight materialised behind you, and soon so did the trees and the speckled night sky.

Derek couldn't help it when his jaw tightened and his eyes filled with what held the familiar tang of jealousy. He didn't understand where this feeling was coming from, but he was sure it had to do with the fact the younger, longer-haired version of you was looking longingly into the eyes of another man.

Was Derek jealous of a dead man?

Derek grew annoyed at his boyish behaviour, he was here to help you uncover your memories, not be yearning after a version of the woman whose hand he held.

Once the memory had been constructed it was time for Derek to relive it for you while you kept your eyes shut.

The memory shifted from its pleasant sweetness into a slightly more darkened tone. Derek saw the younger version of you having an argument with Alex. Your face frowned and your eyes held a stubborn conviction, Alex appeared more worn out, as though he was slowly realising he was losing the fight:

"I just don't understand why you would take the job in Vancouver without talking with me about it…" Alex said with gloom.

"Alex, I don't want to fight about this again. It's not every day that someone gets offered such a desirable job straight out of university!" The younger version of you shouted, tired of arguing about the same thing for the past month with Alex. "You know I couldn't pass it up."

"But you did so without talking it over with me first. It's like you're using the job as an excuse to end things with me. I know we haven't been ourselves in a while now, I know we fight a lot but--"

"Alex, please stop. We can talk about this when we get back home."

Derek noticed that your smile began to falter as you heard the words the younger version of you shouted at Alex. He squeezed your hand slightly to let you know he was still with you. That you weren't alone.

The memory grew darker still.

The night was less illuminated and the moon was obscured by rain clouds. In the memory, you were holding a hand over your mouth to keep your ragged pants as inaudible as possible, hunkered behind a sage bush as Alex slowly bled out a stone’s throw away from you.

Alyster -the man in the green robe from before- was scanning the forest, he was searching for you. His eagle eyes still every bit as disconcerting as before. The compass around his neck slowly losing its green glow.

The blonde archer from before came to his side, "Alyster," she called out, "the girl, can you sense her?"

Alyster shook his head, his red hair weightless against the howling wind, "Her aura has been shielded from the Oculus," his bony fingers clasped the compass around his neck, "its ability is being obscured." Alyster pointed at a burning cluster of sage close by.

The archer grabbed a hand full of sage growing on one of the many bushes closest to her and crumpled it in her hands with distaste, "And the boy?" the archer asked, glancing down at a slowly dying Alex.

"He carries the magic in him as well, but the girl’s was stronger. She is the one we need if we hope to keep the Mother Tree fuelled. I fear, she may be the last." Alyster glanced down at his arm. A tattoo made up of a strange marking etched onto his forearm, previously hidden under his green robe.

When Alex finally drew his last breath, a green mist came into view around his body, the mist was drawn towards the tattoo, embedding itself into it. The tattoo glowed the same shade as the Oculus for a brief minute before it returned back to normal. Alyster let out a pained growl.

"The rest of the pack have scurried off, do we make with the chase?"

"No. They do not possess the magic. Leave them be, tell the others to return. Daybreak is upon us."

Derek noticed tears streaming down your face.

Your hand had clutched his in a death grip as the memory began to unravel and spiral into chaos. It played over and over again: the lone arrow whistling through the tree line, embedding itself into Alex's chest after your argument; Alex shouting for you to hide as another arrow flew out; you scurrying behind the bushes and holding your breath as you listened to Alyster and the female archer converse; Alex losing the light in his eyes; the eagle eyes that scanned the forest belonging to Alyster and the green tendrils that felt out for you emerging from the Oculus.

It just kept repeating.

"Y/N, snap out of it," Derek shook your shoulders. You didn't budge, your eyes shut tight, refusing to open.

"Y/N, wake up, listen to my voice," Derek tried to reassure you, "I'm here, I'm right here, don't lose yourself in the memory. Stay with me!"

He was shaking you violently but you were lost in the chaos. Derek watched as the memory replayed itself, getting corrupted and altered the longer it stayed in its loop.

Derek couldn't think of anything else to do, he needed to draw your senses to him, to pull you out of your hell.

In desperation, he gripped your face between his hands and drew you in for a kiss. Your lips were stiff and unmoving at first, but soon enough he felt you loosen in his arms as you began to instinctively kiss him back.

In the background, the horrific memory dissipated into blackness and the dark canvas mutated into a beautiful rendition of a romanticised full moon and starry sky.

Derek felt himself let go of all senses and logic as he deepened the kiss and wrapped his arms around your waist. He felt your fingers grace his jawline as his tongue practically serenaded you into a peaceful quiet.

You were drowning in each other.

When Derek pulled back, he was utterly thrown by what he saw. Your eyes, they weren't their normal colour, they glowed a magnificent silver, like the moon itself. And your body was surrounded by a shimmering green aura.

If the moon were personified as a woman, Derek imagined she would not be able to hold a candle up to your spellbinding beauty.

You had taken the very air from his lungs.

His eyes turned their werewolf blue, but it wasn't from being on the defensive or from anger. They were blue for another reason.

"Why did you--" you couldn't finish your question, a deep flush colouring your neck and cheeks.

"It was the only thing I could think of to snap you out of your… daze," Derek explained, his chest heaving up and down.

Without any warning, just as you were mere moments from placing your hand back on his face, to feel if he was real even in the dream state, the dream melted away. Derek and you were pulled apart in opposite directions as reality bombarded your senses again.

***

"Welcome back," Peter said in between ragged pants as his head was coated in sweat and he was hunched over, holding onto his knees to keep him upright.

Your neck bled from the claw marks, staining your clothes red. Your eyes struggling to open.

You gasped out loud as you almost toppled over from the stool. Derek caught you before you touched the ground, his arms struggling to hold you up, Liam rushed to help him.

As you lost consciousness, the last thing you saw was his soothing green eyes looking down at you with worry and Liam’s own panic riddled expression contrasting deeply with the calm that was settling over you.

Part 8 is Here!

MASTERPOST | Mobile

As Always: Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Let me know what you think so far! Don’t be afraid to ask to be added to the tag list and just a heads-up, this will be my last update for this series for a little while. I have some moving to do!

Tags: @melissavercos @theflash-trash @mynamesalreadytaken @island-end @chipster-21 @helloscorpious @marvelismyfantasy @anonymousfanfics @homra-the-red-clan @derangedangel @phonegalhelp’

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#derek hale #Derek Hale x reader #reader insert #teen wolf #teen wolf imagines #scott mccall #stiles stilinski #liam dunbar #beacon hills #tyler hoechlin #tyler posey #dylan o'brien #dylan sprayberry #peter hale #ian bohen #scribescribbles #derek hale imagine

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georgesmithddayear2infographics · 6 years ago

Text

World Chocolate Day Infographic Process

25.10.18

This will probably be quite a long post, but I’ll do my best.

So, we had been given the mini-project of essentially creating an infographic on a particular area of chocolate in celebration of world chocolate day—the history of chocolate, for example. The post below this one contains my research on the history of chocolate in fact, though it has much more information, like the uses and effects of chocolate. Have a read through that if you want an insight into how chocolate came about. Anyway, long story short, I chose to do trivia for my infographic, since there was a lot of trivia I’d gathered, and I thought it would be fun to make certain graphics, like an Aztec or the money.

Sketchbook Work

So below are two pages of my sketchbook which I designated to drawing out ideas which I thought would look good from the information which I collated. I’ll start with the Aztec in the top left—I thought it compulsory to make an Aztec warrior-looking guy, since chocolate was enjoyed by them back then. I looked at a couple different random references of Aztecs, and came up with the simple design that you see. I also drew a mug of hot chocolate next to him, since it was enjoyed as a “hot, frothy stimulative with restorative properties”. Next to that is another mug with a kind of spotlight shining on it—it’s supposed to look like some kind of heavenly ray, hence the clouds also. This was because it was the “food for the gods”.

Below the top row of drawings, are a couple of Olmecs, the earliest known major civilization in Mexico following a progressive development in Soconusco. They are said to have produced chocolate in present-day Mexico as early as 1900 B.C., so I thought it necessary to celebrate them and make graphics of them. They were fun to draw—they have very defined facial features. I put a simplified version of the Mexican flag behind them too, and some cocoa beans in front of them, to make it look like they just discovered them. Also 1900 B.C. for measure. Below them is one I thought would be fun to digitise in Illustrator—the cocoa beans to currency. Yeah, they were used as currency back then. It’s just two stacks of coins and some dollar bills flying around. Next I drew a simple couple getting married, since you would use hot chocolate in ceremonies and such. There’s a little heart and a mug of chocolate above them too. Then at the bottom of the first page lay five flags of Europe, which says when chocolate reached each country, until it reached Britain.

Onto the next page, I started by drawing a mug of chocolate (final mug of hot chocolate counter: 4) which looks pretty random since I forgot to annotate why it’s there, but it wasn’t really important anyway, since it was there to show how chocolate was used in Mexico, which was just as hot chocolate. Next to this is a Formula One car, which runs on chocolate, among other things, but I’m not very good at drawing cars, so it didn’t turn out very well. Then on the left again is one of my favorite drawings on these two pages—it’s a bottle of medicine with some cocoa beans and text that reads: TAKE TWO A DAY on the front. It was discovered that the Yucatan used medicine containing cocoa beans. Then finally on the right, there is a dismembered head—I mean happy face enjoying a bar of chocolate. Above are miniature dismembe—happy faces which are supposed to portray dopamine, which essentially makes you feel good. Oh, and to his left is a health cross underneath a no entry sign, which shows that chocolate isn’t good for your health. That’s everything for my sketchbook work, but I also wrote some notes on other aspects of my infographic, like what kind of palette I would use. I didn’t use one since I had way too many assets to stick to one palette of around 6 colours, so I thought I would just use colours corresponding to the respective asset. I will probably use my usual slightly desaturated colours overall. As for fonts and such, I will most likely use sans-serif fonts since it will fit better with a bouncy, colourful infographic.

Anyway, to start with the process, I created that mug of hot chocolate that I was oh so excited to make (actually not sarcasm). It was fun to make, as was mostly everything else on my final infographic. It’s comprised of a couple main shapes, like rounded rectangles and a circle that I cut into with a smaller circle for the handle. I added a shine across the visible hot chocolate at the top and gave it a nice glow. I gave the mug a slight white to blue gradient and a drop shadow underneath the rim of the mug at the top, to give some more depth. That was it for the mug. Next it was time to create what I thought would probably be the most fun to make—the Aztec dude. It was indeed fun to make, and basically, I started by making a shape using the line tool for the head. I made his head quite toned and refined, he’s an Aztec warrior dude after all, I think he’s worthy of one. I gave it a slight gradient (I really like using subtle gradients) from red-brown to a more slightly desaturated brown. The facial features were fun to make—I mainly used the pen tool as well as some basic shapes that I warped to my liking. The crown(?) turned out good too and was fun to make, it’s just some rounded rectangles and some circles that look like bolts or something. Next I made the feathers which stick out from the crown(?). I made them red and green to keep it simple.

I’m kind of proud of this particular asset, so here is a bigger image of it: https://imgur.com/a/l5XgL0v

Next up I thought I would make the stone Olmec statue, which again was fun to make. It’s comprised of a bunch of (warped) shapes like rounded rectangles, again, and then lots of pen tool-created things, like the mouth and the laugh lines around his mouth. The shadow under the nose I thought was a nice touch, and also the shade under the helmet thingy. Alongside this, I made a golden ring using the ellipse tool and placed it around the mug of hot chocolate. I did this because I’d tried doing that heavenly light thing that I mentioned in my sketchbook work, but I couldn’t really get it to look good, so I did this much more subtle nod to the fact that hot chocolate was the “food for the gods”.

This next screenshot is a big update—So after I’d made the Olmec dude, I duplicated it and placed it next to him, like with what I did in my sketchbook, except they were both different. Anyway, I stayed faithful with the Mexican flag behind them—albeit, a bit of a simplified version of it. Then I went on to make the cocoa beans that would be placed in front of them to make it look like they stumbled upon them—discovering them if you will. The beans were fairly simple to make, I just made some ellipses and warped them a bit, and gave them a brown gradient. Next, I wanted to make the money, which I thought would be pretty fun to make, and it was, and the result was very good in my opinion. I had initially planned on doing just two stacks of coins, but after I created one, which I did so by making some rounded rectangles and then adding some lines on the sides to look like ridges. Then I duplicated it and accidentally placed it over the top of the original, and so I thought that it might look good if I did multiple stacks which made them look 3D. For the notes, I just made a rectangle and put some ellipses in and some random letters and numbers. Then I went to envelop distort under object and then I clicked on wave to make it look like it was waving.

Next, I moved onto the flags of Europe, these flags were to show what year chocolate reached that particular country. 1528 for Spain, 1606 for France, 1615 for Italy, 1646 for Germany, and finally 1650 for Britain. I made the Spanish flag much more simplified than it actually is since it would take a long time to get it to match with the actual Spanish flag, so I decided to just make a kind of shield shape and put a white square in the top right of it since those were the main details. The rest of the flags were just comprised of rectangles, though the Union Jack was kind of tedious to make since I had to make different sizes of rectangles and put them in the correct places. Either way, this was probably the most tedious part about making the graphics, but at least I’m satisfied with how they turned out.

Now I had to make the two people getting married with the mug of chocolate and the heart above them, to show that it was used in ceremonies like weddings. The two people were fairly easy to make, using ellipses for heads and rounded rectangles for torsos. For the bride’s head, I put a put a transparent sheet over her head since that’s what they tend to wear. The man is in a simple suit and tie. I gave him some hair using the pen tool. After this, I decided to make the bottle of chocolate medicine, which I made using the rectangle tool for the bottle and then the pen tool for the top and the rounded rectangle tool once again for the cap. I duplicated the shape and put it inside the original and coloured it a dark brown and made a shine on the left side by cutting into the shape using the pen tool. I also added the label which I drew in my sketchbook that says “TAKE TWO A DAY” and some cocoa beans at the top.

Lastly, for the assets, it was time to make the happy face who’s eating a bar of chocolate. It was fairly easy to create since I’ve made a similar thing in another class recently, that and it’s just a simple face. I chose a nice yellow with an orange stroke and used the ellipse tool for the head as well as another shape to cut into an ellipse to make it into a semicircle (for the mouth and eyes). The hand was also easy to make, it’s just a rounded rectangle with some pen strokes to look like fingers. Again, the chocolate bar was simple—it is just a rectangle with some squares inside using the pen tool and the same gradient that I used for the cocoa beans and the medicine bottle. Finally, (for now) I made the health cross and the no entry sign to show that it’s not good for health. Both easy to make—just using basic tools and methods.

So, after finishing the assets (for now) I moved onto the layout, which I had a couple of ideas of what I would do. So what I did was make some squares and gave them some depth by making them look like they were sticking out. The whole background would be a faded chocolate bar, faded so it wouldn’t take away from the assets that I’d made. I think I pulled it fairly well in my opinion. For the title, I thought I would keep it simple by just calling it “World Chocolate Day” in some very appealing browns might I add. I chose an easy-to-read font that is quite blocky. Moving on, I made these card things which would have my assets on along with some trivia relating to the image. I think they look quite appealing—the brown with spots and the cream-coloured border, they look like some kind of chocolate snack. I decided to put the Aztec underneath the border, so I cut into him. Then I put the hot chocolate mug with the golden ring under the text, and lowered the opacity. For the text, I made it white and in a font that is clearly legible. Underneath this is the one containing the flags, which I resized as I thought they were the most flexible assets on here, and it wouldn’t matter if I’d made them even smaller than they are now. I made the dates underneath also clear to read, going from white to yellow on the end where Britain is, to show that’s where it ends, though this might be a bit misleading.

Next up I duplicated the border from the first card and put it beneath the Olmec and the Mexican flag and the cocoa beans. Instead of putting the box around all of the things (namely the cocoa beans) I only put it around the Olmec and the flag as there’d be too much empty space if I did put it around the beans. Next to this is the box containing the cocoa beans to currency, which I think looks quite good—I made the money and cocoa beans stick out of the box (which is the original box with inverted colours). II changed the arrow which I made earlier because it looked really obnoxious and ugly in contrast with the nice browns which I’d picked out. Also I made it go down and right, instead of it just going straight right. Finally for this update, I just moved some of the remaining assets around until I found a place which I thought they would fit.

So I did move the assets around some more, and added some boxes behind them when I was happy with their positions. The wedding ceremony asset I am particularly pleased with, since it looks really nice with the box that I chose to put around it, and I like how I separated the text from the top. I also did this with the box in the bottom right which I recently added. Anyways, that box contains the medicine aspect of the graphic—I thought it was too plain with just the medicine bottle on its own, which I realised when I had placed the text—so I thought I would make other things relating to medicine, and so I made a syringe, as well as some small pills. To the left of this box is the health and effects of chocolate trivia, with the happy face and dopamine emanating from it, as well as the health cross which I put across from the happy face. I thought the best thing to do here would be to put the text between the two assets. With that, my graphic was pretty much complete, with some minor tweaks.

Final World Chocolate Day Infographic

Imgur link (clearer)

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shardclan · 7 years ago

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The door of the Sundial hung open, admitting a longed-awaited spring breeze. From outside, the scents of Noon Point wafted in. A sharp tang of ground coffee beans, a floral whiff of fresh-brewed tea, the sticky sweet scent of preserved apples, and the mellow aroma of warm milk from the Happy Harpy Creamery all weaved in and out of the pervasive scent of rye bread and sweet cakes that lay over Noon Point’s crossroads like the comforting warmth of a mother’s wing.

In spite of her reputation, Gethsemene was an old dragon who appreciated the simple pleasure of nostalgia. Her head rested comfortably in one hand, eyes closed to savor the scents on the wind and the memories they brought to her. Of walking with Telos out where the wind from the Summerlands bringing the fresh saltiness of the sea to them. Telos' hair when it was still short and had only the faint hint of the alchemical gradient of her toxin marks. The heat of her face against Gethsemene's bosom, the roughness of her chemical-worn, pugilism-sculpted hands.

How double-edged it was to have shared a kiss with her.

Gethsemene had felt almost young again in that moment--drunk on the confirmation that there was something between the two widows that was mutually felt. She still didn't fully understand why Telos had pushed her away afterward. It didn't have anything to do with who was queen and who was sailor, who was young or old, it wasn't about the things that made them so seemingly incompatible. It was obvious to Gethsemene that Telos wanted to know the comfort and familiarity of a lover's touch and presence at her side again. But something stood in the way of her accepting it.

The only clue she ever got had come from the lady judge as a cryptic whisper.

Accepting you means destroying something important to her.

Gethsemene had puzzled over this at sea over the long eons. She would have written them off as dramatic exaggeration if they had come from anyone else, but Azricai had no use for hyperbole and her infrequently troubled brow had been roughed by worry lines. Gethsemene had come to the conclusion that those words must have been very literal, so she had stayed away. But she had come back the moment word began spreading of unrest spreading across the territories. The moment the crests of the waves had turned to fangs. And in some way, she had been relieved when Telos had put up such a cold front only to have it melt almost immediately.

Though neither of them could have it, there was love there. That satisfied Gethsemene enough. Eventually it would be just another one of many faded memories that had their own rosiness to them--no different than remembering her first love or how that had ended.

The smell wafting from her idly tilted glass of elderberry wine summoned even older memories. Her late wife had loved perfuming herself with elderberries. Tried to drink it too but she had been a lightweight until her dying day, Eleven bless her. A single glass and she would be giddy as a hatchling, with a dizzying smile that had stolen Gethsemene's heart every time.

"You're smiling, Gethsemene."

The old imperial didn't bother to open her eyes. "I'm thinking of my wife."

Merlot sang out a few soft, experimental notes from the stage. Shiraz mimicked her, gently crooning in a way very unlike himself. This evening he seemed more willing than usual to follow Merlot’s lead. They were embracing the mood on the wind—a sense of the familiar and secure was a gift in these troubled times, after all.

Arcanus sat beside her with the ginger lightfootedness of someone who didn’t want to intrude. "I'm sure she was amazing."

Gethsemene's glass came to an abrupt stop, the liquid inside still swilling away without her. "Did you do that on purpose, or has her majesty's way of talking about loved ones rubbed off on you?"

Arcanus seemed as surprised as she was, and quickly dipped his head apologetically. "I think it's the latter--I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Gethsemene said with a forgiving, wistful smile. "Ode was as damn fine as they come."

A cooler wind crept in along the floor, gently lapping over their ankles as it passed by. At the stage, Merlot took lead of a song as cautiously hopeful as new flowers emerging from ruin.

Recommended listening: Peaceful Sleep

Gethsemene took a long, relishing sip from her glass, and watched as Arcanus received a heavy pint seemingly without even making eye contact with Cloudwhyte or Alchemilla. "Your grown folk scales came in since I last saw you. When'd you loosen your armor and start frequenting bars?"

"Do you remember the red imperial that used to drink here?" They looked together over to the dark far corner of the bar where Carnelian used to sit for hours. "We became friends, so I became familiar with drinking."

"Him?" Gethsemene said incredulously. "He wasn't drinking, he was drowning!"

"He was trying to," he admitted somberly. The pale summerland ale bubbled as he gazed at it, too much for him to know the expression he was making as he thought on just how different things were. "He's better now. The whole clan is better now."

“So I see,” Gethsemene said kindly. She took a deep, relishing sip of her wine and shifted to get closer to her apparent drinking partner, but before she could move to the open seat Arcanus had courteously left between them, a hand beat her to it--one attached to a handsome young guardian with a mane of hair very carefully tamed into loose, woolly braids and the most dazzling Arcane eyes she had ever seen.

"Can I sit here?" the boy asked.

"Are you old enough to be here?" Gethsemene asked with a teasing smile.

Apokathisto glanced at her, gave her the courtesy of a polite head nod, and promptly ignored her entirely to slide into the chair. Though he was easily at the age where he could have been allowed a little alcohol, he gazed on the barrels and bottles with something like awe. He looked somewhat uncertainly at Arcanus. "What should I have?”

"Milk," Arcanus answered bluntly.

This drew a look of confusion from both the young guardian and the old imperial, though Apokathisto seemed hurt by it as well. "By Aphaster law I am old enough to drink in the company of a responsible adult."

"I didn’t agree to be the responsible adult in that scenario.”

"What are you suddenly so tight about?" Gethsemene demanded. She nudged Apokathisto. "How many eons?"

"Almost six, ma'am."

"Stuff the ma'am." She craned toward Arcanus. "He's five eons old; your charge was running a dynasty by two and a kingdom by four. What's the hold up? Let the boy have his taste of the vine."

"My charge had not once used glamour magics until we came to this land," Arcanus rumbled with a testy scowl. "Her physical maturity at five and his physical maturity now are leagues apart."

The old imperial hummed, drawing the young guardian's worried gaze. She shrugged casually at him. "Sorry, fledger, he's not wrong. Glamours do slow down the aging process." She shot Arcanus a look of distaste. "But a boy his age drinking milk at a bar is humiliating. He should at least be drinking out of a sire's pint. Where's your parents, fledger?"

Apokathisto hesitated, a faint creep of blush coming to his cheeks. "...My egg was found in the clan's crossing from the Isles."

Gethsemene blinked, her eye wide with surprise. She glanced at Arcanus, who gave her a confirmatory nod, and finally turned to face the boy properly. "I'll be damned," she murmured, awestruck. "They finally hatched you, eh?"

The boy tensed, his eyes filling with both hope and furious mistrust. "What do you mean?"

"Oh that lady judge would hardly be parted from you when I was here last. She was a different dragon when she held your egg, said it helped her keep the night terrors away. You know--" She tapped her leg and made a disturbingly accurate pantomime of them being roughly bitten. "Telos used to tell me Azricai didn’t want to hatch you until she was sure you'd have a peaceful upbringing." She gave a suggestive waggle of her brows. "I offered to be your ma, you know."

Apokathisto looked dejectedly at the polished shine of the dark bar. "A roving emperor, a territory-wide class war, a missing deity, a drastic alteration of the climate, and the breaking of an armistice..." He laughed softly, and both thought they heard his voice break a little as he did. "She's got terrible timing."

Gethsemene caught the look of slightly pained compassion that crossed Arcanus face. She had known him to be a stiff, as all truly dutiful guardians were prone to be, but quite a lot about him had changed since she last dealt with him. He had become a man of many loves it seemed.

“He’ll be grayer than me if he waits for the old gale wolf to have a drink, and it seems the fledger’s got a lot on his mind. He came to you; way I see it that means he should share his first cup with you.”

It was uncanny, Gethsemene thought, how much they resembled each other as they both tried to take in the proposal without absolutely dying of embarrassment. She had no idea what the boy’s name even was, but she knew there was love there. Strutting to the door with her usual long-legged amble, she risked a peek back from beyond the threshold.

Arcanus toyed with his mug, saying words she couldn’t hear and giving the boy his most sincere attention as he spoke back. In the end, he slid the pint sideways, patting the boy’s back with uncharacteristic awkwardness as he ushered them both to the privacy of a booth. The boy, bless him, wore a clumsy, barely suppressed grin and held the cup close to his chest as though it was some wonderful gift he would get to take home.

Gethsemene laughed faintly as she stepped out into the evening—young people really were never a dull moment.

#Flight Rising #c: gethsemene #c: arcanus #In which Gethsemene is all aboard the father-son ship for my favorite boys #c: apokathisto #Tell the Bees

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renaroo · 7 years ago

Text

The Things That Wait (3/4)

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth. Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH, Language, Canon-typical violence, Psychological manipulation and trauma Rating: T Synopsis: [Reverse Big Bang Entry] Tucker opens an unexpected email that ends up sending himself and all of the Reds and Blues toward a collision course with the unexpected and the completely deadly. In doing so, they face a beast familiar to many of them – the Meta – whose single minded efforts to complete himself with what remains of the Project Freelancer AIs could spell the death for more than a few of them..

A/N: Long time no see!! Sorry for the long wait, but in my defense, since I last updated I’ve now become a professor’s teaching assistant and graduate research assistant. So there’s a bit of a dip in my amount of freetime and, as you guys can imagine the chapters aren’t getting any shorter lol But we’re almost done! Just a few twists before we get to the end : )

And a very special thanks to @freelancerfeels, Yin, Prim_The_Amazing, xXxDeadEyesNekuxXx, Aryashi, SuperSaiyajin4Vegeta, NotSoHappyHufflepuff, and Dewsparkle! And, of course, my absolute WONDEROUS thanks to my partner in crime, @theeffar <3

Who Lives And Dies

Tucker’s vision did not come back in a blink or even a gradient wave. It came back in layers of color and lightening of shadows. It came back in turbulent storms that passed with throbs from his head. And that was the frightening part. The sickening way he didn’t know how the time was passed between the blurs of vision as he broke through the waters of consciousness again.

The last time he was back fully to consciousness, Tucker turned abruptly to his hands and knees and barely got his helmet off before vomiting until he was almost certain his stomach had turned inside out.

But the throbbing was gone, the electric shocks through his nerves lessened to a dull pulse.

And Church was finally silent.

“Church,” Tucker got out weakly, rocking himself to the side so that he could land safely away from his own mess. His eyes were sore and probably bloodshot, still wet from the strain. “Church, I can’t keep doing this. You’re fucking killing me.”

It wasn’t as if Tucker expected a response. It was more like the long nights adventuring with the alien shamans and Donut than it was like having his best friend sitting back and whispering through his very being. It was like talking to the Church who was the friend he missed and not the possessing presence that escaped the chain mail from hell into the back recesses of Tucker’s psyche.

Things were simpler before he was at his best friend’s mood swings’ mercy.

“You’re not the one I got killed.”

The response was unexpected, like getting a response out of the mirror.

Mostly, though, it was unexpected because it was coming through Tucker’s own teeth, using his tongue, the words tasted with his own mouth.

Shocked to the core by the invasiveness of the moment, Tucker sat up straight as a rod and felt his own lungs freeze up with slight horror. Did he make himself sit up? How much control did he have left? Was he just so exhausted and worn down that he had thought up the moment hysterically instead of it actually coming to pass? Tucker did’t know. He wasn’t even sure how much he cared, because everything about it was horrifying enough on its own accord. He didn’t need answers to make the way his sides squeezed and his hairs stood up to back up the already traumatic sense of losing absolute control of himself.

He might have been even further frozen by the moment if a small cooing noise hadn’t picked up from behind Tucker and drew his attention away from his own existential horror.

Recognizing the sound, Tucker looked everywhere in its direction for his son and, eventually, found Junior standing in the hallway that had brought them to Caboose’s lab to begin with. It was a fairly large distance, especially considering how close they usually kept to each other, but the more Tucker looked the more he understood why that was.

In Junior’s tiny hands was none other than the weird pulsating device which had caused everything wrong for the last however-long Tucker had been writhing on the floor.

And that distance felt like only just enough for Tucker to breathe easy without Church continuing to writhe and freak out inside of him.

“Hey, bud,” Tucker tried to say soothingly. His voice was croaky and strained from the bitter taste of vomit still, but he pushed through it for his son. “Daddy’s not feeling so hot—“

Almost like a whimper, Junior muttered “Bow chicka honk honk.”

It was enough to bring Tucker a somber smile. “Heh, yeah. But. I’m better now. Okay? I’m just. Wow I’m so fucking glad you’re okay.”

He was about to compliment his son for being so smart as to figure out how to rescue them from the turmoil of Caboose’s device but, the more Tucker looked, Junior seemed less concerned with the attack or even with the device he was holding.

Junior’s attention was actually fixated behind Tucker, and it was enough to make Tucker freeze up again just before turning to see for himself.

Tucker’s heart pounded with each centimeter he turned, but once he was completely around and just looking around Caboose’s workshop the less terrifying the moment felt. After all, he had just gone through a living hell and it at least got Church to shut up for a stretch. But beyond that, there didn’t even seem to be anything within the room. And Tucker was looking pretty hard for what had freaked his son out. But there was nothing.

And then it hit Tucker like a bag of bricks.

There was nothing.

No Caboose. No android body on the slab. Nothing.

There was nothing there but them. It was then that Tucker vaguely remembered Caboose declaring something about distracting or keeping away something.

And the words Church spoke through Tucker’s own mouth began to sourly taste on his tongue again.

You’re not the one I got killed.

“Fucking — Caboose!” Tucker shouted as he scrambled to his feet.

Horrified, Tucker looked around. The sudden rush to his feet had made him dizzy, but it wasn’t going to stop Tucker. Not at that moment anyway.

There was something seriously wrong with what was going on. And Tucker wasn’t going to feel any comfort until he saw evidence that everything was chill himself.

Without much more fanfare, and certainly without anything helpful from Church, Tucker extended his plasma sword and gave chase through the halls, only letting himself be bothered just enough by the device as he passed Junior to be reminded that Church was still somewhere deep within his own head.

As he ran down the halls, Tucker swiftly brought his helmet back to his head.

He was on the look out for Caboose.

And, however unfortunately, Tucker was quickly successful.

Then, for a second time, he felt a voice that was not entirely his own escape his throat. But it was more natural, something that was on the tip of Tucker’s tongue anyway.

“Caboose?”

His helmet was broken — crushed like a can on the floor. It laid closer to Tucker, like a grim warning at his feet, begging him to not look further in, to follow the red trail of carnage. But, of course, it was far too late for that.

Tucker’s vision was absorbed by the sight of gore that waited for them. There was such a stark contrast between the crimson blood still gushing and the bright, royal blue of Caboose’s armor. Just like the angle of Caboose’s head, how it tilted unnaturally, bruised and bulging beneath the skin, was absolutely no mistaking what Tucker was seeing. What it meant.

Or how that empty, lonely feeling of being alone again felt heavy on his chest as he stared at everything in the world halting and no longer making sense.

All he knew was that, as gunfire and shouting rang out from outside the base, that same emptiness and despair that still threatened to swallow him whole was staved off as it was filled by utter rage and anger.

The plasma sword pulsed at the touch of Tucker’s white knuckled grip.

Hiding Junior was the simple part. Even with the strange, pulsating device that Caboose had kept before, the combined raging in Tucker’s head of his own and of Church’s pierced through the static like uncomfortableness and pressed forward.

Junior protested in small, groggy yips but he didn’t follow them out once they left.

Tucker wasn’t in the mood for disobedience, and beyond that he wasn’t really himself anymore.

Faintly in the back of his mind, he could recognize the external urge twisting within his head, that pissed off, blow-hard temper that he had tested for years in Blood Gulch was suddenly racing through his own bloodstream. And while he had never necessarily known Church to do anything with that outrage… well, Tucker very much for the first time in his life felt like he had a lot more fight than love in him to give.

Outside of the base, sword drawn, Tucker scanned the valley. With an almost inhuman reflex, though, his senses honed in on the source of the activity closer to Red Base on the complete other side.

The plasma sword pulsed with his rage.

Simmons and Grif were behind the Warthog, as expected. It looked like the tire was blown out, and the closer Tucker got, the more he could see what was sprawled out on the other side of the vehicle — sparking and smoking. It wasn’t equipment, but familiar brown armor hollowed out at its center.

Lopez, Tucker thought momentarily before gritting his teeth and skidding behind the nearest rock for cover from whatever the source of the bullets was.

Fuck! This guy’s anti-robite, Church snarled between Tucker’s ears.

“You fucking talk in my head again I’m going to rip you out of this armor myself,” Tucker warned, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to orient himself. “Jesus, Church, that hurts like fucking hell—“

“Oh, good, I was worried you were talking to me.”

Both Tucker and, in a sense, Church, squeaked out in surprise. But the momentary shock wore off and Tucker spun around on his heels with his sword out right at the throat of the speaker. Which, in hindsight of course, was a huge damn overreaction considering he was staring right in Donut’s visor.

“Donut, what the fuck?” Tucker hissed. “What’s going on? What happened to Lopez? Who’s attacking? And did they come from Blue Base?”

Donut hummed a bit and cocked his head to the side. “Uh. What order do you want those in?”

“Any!” Church screeched through she speaker of Tucker’s helmet It was almost enough to make the turquoise coated marine sigh with relief that Church was benevolent enough to spare Tucker’s vocal cords.

“Right, so, Lopez was on his way for the cremation apparently and this guy that Grif and Simmons knew followed him, and then he shot Lopez! And then when Grif tried to hit him with the Warthog he shot out the tire. So then I tried to say something and guns started going off, and—“

“Fuck okay, I get it!” Tucker cut him off as a bullet ricocheted off the other side of their rock. “The guy’s an anti-robite—“

“Hey hey hey! You can’t fucking make those jokes! I can make those jokes!” Church snapped at him angrily.

“Why? Because you’re a robot?” Donut asked innocently.

“What? No. Because I’m Jewish! Fuck you—“

“Everyone shut up, I’ve got a plan,” Tucker demanded, ignoring the throb of his head. “We need answers, I’ve got a feeling that this asshole, whoever the fuck he is, can give them.”

“Oh, speaking of answers, I didn’t give you all of them,” Donut tried to interject only to get a shushing from both Tucker and Church. “It’s weird when you guys are synched together like that.”

“No, we’re not,” they both answered at once.

Not leaving space for the irony to set in, Tucker slowly tilted out from around the rock, looking for the source of the gunfire. The arcs of the bullets were simple enough to trace, but it was all going too fast for Tucker alone. “Church,” he began to whisper, but it was without need.

“Got it,” Church answered and, suddenly, the HUD of Tucker’s helmet responded.

Deliriously, Tucker watched as the shots were traced in blue outlines, all meeting back at a point toward the wall leading into the valley. The Hud squared the area then, after blinking, enhanced and enlarged the space. It revealed an alcove where a gray armored body was perched, a battle rifle — which had a model read out on the HUD — aimed and firing.

“Holy shit, how’d you do that?” Tucker muttered.

“Wait until I show you the intercom function,” Church responded cheekily. He then had a heavy pause and low rumblings of curses entered Tucker’s head. “I know who that is — fucking goddamn bastard asshole cockroach son of a bitch—“

“Whoa,” Tucker uttered in confusion.

“We’re not in real trouble, this guy’s an asshole but he helped us out before. This is just a misunderstanding. We just… y’know, have to keep everyone from killing each other,” Church said confidently.

“Sounds simple enough,” Donut replied cheerfully.

“No it doesn’t, because Lopez is already dead,” Tucker pointed out. “And Caboose—“

“We’ll figure out the stuff with Caboose after we straighten this out, Tucker, keep up!” Church snapped.

Donut hesitated, clutching his gun a little tighter. “What happened with Caboose?”

A tight, hot knot twisted itself deep inside Tucker’s guts, but finally he could feel that it was completely his own and not some influence or electric tingle through his body. That sickness and unease, that… emotion he couldn’t deal with yet. That was all him. No doubt about it.

“Later,” Church insisted in a hiss. “First we’ve gotta stop the gun shit or someone actually will get hurt. And it’ll probably be someone actually important and not a stupid robot.”

“Now who’s the anti-robite?” Tucker huffed.

“Hey, what the fuck did I just say about those jokes?” Church snapped.

“Okay, jesus christ—“

“I just said I’m Jewish!”

“Church, what the fuck is your plan already!?” Tucker all but screamed.

The shooting momentarily stopped from the other side, and it was enough to make Tucker think, however momentarily, that things were about to cool down and they could get some answers, but to his horror instead the valley was filled with a different sound. One of honking and blarghing. And almost immediately, Tucker felt a pain wipe through him stronger than any shock Church had sent toward his spine.

“Junior! What the fuck!?” Tucker cried out, turning to see his son bounding over from the Blue Base with Caboose’s weird contraption in hand.

He just knew that the shooter saw Junior and had been stunned into inaction as well, though probably not for long.

Tucker’s first instinct was to throw himself toward his son, make sure there was no clear line of sight between the shooter and his halfling son. But he didn’t move on it. He stood flat footed, shocked with his own inaction, as a quiet, low, sense of self preservation grew louder than his fatherly intent.

And then, suddenly, Tucker felt sick with disgust at what he could only assume was Church’s deepest and ugliest intrusion into Tucker’s senses yet. Because no one — not even Church — had the right to override that sensibility he felt deep inside toward his son. How dare Church make it otherwise.

But for all that time had stopped, it suddenly, quickly, caught up once more all too quickly. Not with the sound of a bullet but with a motion of pink at Tucker’s side as Donut stepped out into the clearing nonchalantly.

“What the fuck are you doing!?” Church’s voice cracked.

“There’s a kid on the battlefield, no one would shoot with a kid on the battlefield. It’s totally against the rules,” Donut reasoned. “It’s like I tell Tucker all the time, there’s all kinds of fun things like filling other man’s holes with your bullets that you can’t do with children around, that’s just wrong. Besides, you said that we don’t have to worry about this guy—“

Tucker heard the words but he wished he hadn’t. It made the image too hard to even comprehend once it all came crashing down with that very sound of a shot that he had dreaded would end the time freeze before.

Donut’s body jerked uncomfortably at the sound of armor cracking and hollowing out under the pressure of artillery shells. A straight shot, aimed with sniper’s intent, right between the breast plates which had been far oversized for Donut’s frame anyway — loose enough to let the already questionable gap over their chests seem even more inviting.

In a blink, a red dust filled the air where Donut had been standing, and suddenly Donut was on the ground, flat on his back with his uncocked pistol laying out of his reach.

The blood was sprinkled over Donut’s armor plating, but the real horror of it was the way it bubbled out from the under armor links between the plates, how it filled the gaps like floodwaters, bubbling and hissing at the sudden and immense exposure to air.

Screaming was happening around Tucker — from the Reds, from his son — but Tucker couldn’t scream.

Tucker didn’t have control of his mouth to do so. And it wasn’t because of Church that time.

Sword drawn, his feet racing beneath him, Tucker was covering ground until, in what seemed like a moment’s notice, he was at the wall which this so-called Agent Washington had been barreled down in. He was standing, rifle still aimed in the direction of the others, like he somehow hadn’t seen or heard Tucker approaching from his flank. It was the epitome of coming across someone redhanded.

By the time Agent Washington was looking his way, Tucker was slicing through half of his rifle in one swoop. Then he sent his elbow into Washington’s helmet with another.

Off his footing, Washington stumbled back, but he used what was left of his gun to block another blow from Tucker’s sword. He seemed determined to use the action to disarm Tucker, letting the blade sink through the metal before twisting.

Tucker had a grip like none other on his sword, a thought that almost immediately made him think of Donut. And then it was followed by a pang of that hot writhing emotion he was avoiding again.

Stupid, Tucker thought just before Washington hit him with a barrage of fists and elbows, well placed to knock the wind out of Tucker and break his stance.

When Washington pulled out a bowie knife, however, Church had apparently had enough of being a passenger.

“Fuck this! HEY YOU ASSHOLE!” Church screamed from Tucker’s armor before lighting up in a bright flash of white right between them. “DID YOU FUCKING FORGET SOMETHING!?”

Genuinely shocked, Washington dropped his shoulders and stepped back in surprise. “Alpha— but… how—“

Seizing the opportunity, Tucker pivoted through Church’s image and hit Washington front on, connecting with the nose of his helmet and sending his head flying back into the cement wall.

And like that, Washington was out at Tucker’s feet, and Tucker’s heart was racing.

Not the least of which because of the sobbing he could hear meters away in the valley.

Church flickered a bit before disappearing, or whatever it was that he did to retreat back behind Tucker’s body and armor.

It didn’t matter f he could be seen or not, though, because Tucker was raging internally. He hated Church, how could he tell Donut that this fucker was safe? How could he not have known?

And that was just the hate that wasn’t from Tucker himself.

Pushing aside the complexities of sharing a headspace with Church, Tucker turned back, breathing hard and panted, and looked to where he could see Simmons and Grif gathered around. At where Donut had fallen.

“Fuck, oh my god, jesus, Donut…” Tucker wheezed.

Gulping down as much air as he could, Tucker raced out toward the others, trying to not selfishly think about how terrible it was for his son to have to witness another dead friend twice in the same day, and instead kept his mind on his friend. God, his friend — Donut was his friend, had become something like his best friend in their time in the desert and beyond. Everyone liked Donut. Everyone—

Grif was enraged. Tucker knew it as he approached because Grif wasn’t talking. He was standing beside Simmons as Simmons fretted over Donut’s chest wound. Simmons was talking, blabbering incoherently really, but Grif was coldly attentive to what was going on. He looked up at Tucker almost immediately.

“Did you kill him?”

“No,” Tucker said. “He’s unconscious. Is… Is Donut…”

“He got shot in the goddamn heart,” Grif snarled. “What do you think, Tucker? Show me where this backstabbing motherfucker is so I can kill him—“

“I… I think this is all a mistake,” Tucker said, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.

“What’s a mistake?” Grif asked without a moment’s hesitation.

“Shooting Donut…” Tucker said. “It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t have reason to— I mean, he was entering the valley through the wall, right? Whoever killed the others was already here. This is all a mistake. When Washington was with us, he was a cold motherfucker, sure, but he trusted us for some reason, right?”

“Us…?” Grif repeated, his voice growing only harsher with each uttered syllable. “You weren’t there, Tucker. And neither was Donut. And now one of you is dead, and… fuck what am I saying, who am I even talking to? Why would you not kill Washington?”

Tucker felt strangely out of touch with his senses as he turned his head ever so slightly from Donut’s body and toward Grif’s angry, screaming face. He could hear a ringing in his ears, like there were still gunshots going off, but in his head rather than around him.

“Because I owe him,” Tucker didn’t say, though it came out of his mouth all the same.

Grif was furious. “Who the fuck are you?”

Blankly, hollowly, Tucker shook his head. “I… I don’t know.”

The device in Junior’s hands pulsed with an energy Tucker could feel more than he could see. And a headache intensified inside Tucker’s skull, seemingly tearing him in half from two different directions.

“Washington killed Donut in a firefight and we’ll get him for that,” Tucker didn’t say. “Believe me, I want it as bad as you. But we need answers and he’s about the only guy I can think of right now in this three ring circus who can give them. Because he did this, but we don’t know who did Sarge or who did Caboose.”

“Caboose is dead!?” Simmons all but shrieked. “What the fuck is happening!? Why the fuck is it happening!?”

Tucker reached up and gripped the side of his helmet, eyes squeezed shut. “Why the fuck did I open that chainmail?” he groaned through the throbbing.

“Is that supposed to be a fucking joke!? What the hell’s wrong with you?” Grif demanded.

“A lot right now,” Tucker answered, feeling sickly again. “A whole hell of a lot.”

Agent Washington was unconscious still as Grif and Simmons hovered nearby.

For precautions, the Freelancer’s weapons had been removed, as well as his helmet, gauntlets, and boots. Church seemed particularly insistent on those points since — according to him — Freelancers would have weapons hidden in every spot they could manage. And any questioning of that point earned a defiant who has the most experience with Freelancers from the ghost of a friend.

Tucker’s head felt like it was filled with cotton balls or else he would have had a feistier response to such a claim.

Grif was standing further away from the Freelancer, Tucker sitting next to where Washington was tied up in the brig. But he was still closer than Simmons, who seemed morose and almost ill with worry from his spot near the exit.

There was still a thick smell of iron in the air, be it from injuries of everyone in the room or lingering from the horrific sights they had been exposed to involving their once-friends. Tucker couldn’t tell anymore.

And Church seemed strangely fixated on Washington rather than the far more important things surrounding them.

Things only finally stepped back into motion when, beside them, Washington stirred again.

Immediately, everyone tensed — Grif cocking his rifle while Tucker got to his feet and activated the plasma sword from its hilt.

For a moment, after turning his body as much as he could in his restraints, Washington seemed to be processing things. His wrists twisted in their binds and his feet pressed against their ropes to separate at the ankles but all was to no avail. By the time his eyes opened, he was angered.

Which was fine by Church, who preferred when everyone met him at his level of anger.

Tucker was more reluctant to celebrate.

Washington’s eyes fell on Tucker first, flickering with unfamiliarity and confusion, before he glanced instead to the remaining Reds. His scowl regained its full judgment and he twisted and contorted himself as much as he could. “Let me go. Now,” he demanded.

“Fuck you, dude,” Grif snarled back.

“You fucking killed Donut,” Simmons’ voice cracked with emotion and anger like Tucker was unused to seeing from him.

“You betrayed me first!” Washington bellowed. Somehow, even restrained and on his side, Washington conveyed an unhingeness and rage that Tucker had never really felt from someone before. At least, not from anyone who meant it squarely for Tucker—

“Fuck you, dude! If anyone betrayed anyone, you betrayed me when you left me and Tex for dead! Fuck. You!” Tucker did not scream in a rage, did not nearly take a step forward with his sword aloft. But his body did all the same. And regaining his composure was all Tucker could do to grab onto his limbs and step his body back. “What the fuck, Church.”

Washington for a moment seemed genuinely alarmed, his eyes widening slightly as he looked Tucker’s way. Then he just looked confused. “Alpha?”

“I’m not a computer!”

Tucker reached up and held a hand to the helm of his helmet. He could feel the gazes of everyone around him, especially Grif and Simmons.

“Tucker, what the actual hell?” Grif demanded.

“I don’t know!” Tucker snapped through gritted teeth.

“There’s someone else in there!?” Washington yelled. “After all this, you still let Alpha implant on someone else? Haven’t you figured it out? DIdn’t you listen to anything I told you all before you stabbed me in the back!? The AI will fuck with people’s brains! Not to mention the Meta—“

“Stabbed you in the back? Fuck off! You killed us! After all we did for you!” Simmons screamed.

“I told you to give Epsilon to the UNSC after we destroyed the storage facility! I told Caboose that doing that would make sure all the people responsible for playing us like puppets would see the justice they deserved! And instead of doing that, instead of ending all of this fuckery, you abandoned me and then left me to be imprisoned to rot. So yes you stabbed me in the back, and I don’t give a fuck about anything we all did together before until I get Epsilon back from Caboose before the Meta fucking gets it!” Washington growled. “And what’s more, Alpha is still alive, and you left him to possess and overwrite the brain of some other unsuspecting idiot!”

“Liar!” Church roared.

“I’m not unsuspecting!” Tucker added, though he could barely process what it meant. “And only people who know me are allowed to call me an idiot.” Gaining more and more confidence in his own words again, Tucker stepped toward Wash. “And, by the by, Caboose is dead, and until we get some answers you can forget us answering any of your questions.”

For a moment, Washington seemed to freeze in place. His face drew back in shock and he looked at Tucker in slight horror. “Caboose… Caboose is dead?” he asked, almost solemn and regretful considering his earlier anger and bombast.

“He was… basically torn apart,” Tucker answered lowly. “And Sarge was beat up and strangled. There’s some… some kind of monster involved in all of this. But you still killed Donut — our friend — so until you can give us a clue as to what’s going on, forget us giving you any answers.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Washington tried to twist himself into an upright position. “Where’’s Epsilon?”

“Dude, did you not just hear what we fucking said?” Grif asked in disgust.

“You don’t understand,” Washington shook his head. “Free me, take me to Epsilon. Everything you just told me… the Meta is already here. He’s killing your friends—“

“The ones that you aren’t,” Simmons hissed.

“—and he’ll kill all of us to get to the remaining fragments,” Washington continued, glancing toward Tucker warily. “Including yours.”

“I’m no one’s fragment,” Church answered darkly.

“Wasn’t Epsilon with your kid?” Simmons suddenly spoke up.

Then, despite Church’s outrage and darkness, Tucker’s body was suddenly immensely feeling, and a tingling chill rode down through his spine and limbs.

“Junior,” he thought out loud — the first time he was allowed to really think of his own priorities since Church began to take over the the steering wheel.

Church… why weren’t you worried about Junior?

The thought was not voiced, but Tucker knew it didn’t have to be. Not with how strangely connected they were. Not with how shocks of pain proceeded movements and voices that were not his own.

He had been ignoring the itch of a thought about what was happening to him. No one wants to believe that they are being used as a meat sack for someone thy thought of as a friend.

But in that moment, as his fatherly instincts overrode any further dictation from Church himself, Tucker knew he couldn’t ignore the obvious any longer.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong with him. And Church was the source of it.

Not my thing to worry about, Church replied flatly. There was no denial, not even any feigned confusion about the fact that he was dictating so much of what they were doing all of the sudden.

And that was telling in its own way.

Have… Have you ever done this to someone before? Tucker dared to think.

He could almost feel the coldness from the man — the ghost, the computer, the whatever — that he had thought of as his best friend for so long.

I don’t remember. Not on purpose, Church admitted. It’s too familiar to be new. But I’m not… Tucker, I don’t want to…

What happened to people when you did this before? When you made their body do things and think things they didn’t want? Tucker pressed, knowing that any anger and upset he felt was naked and open for Church to infiltrate inside his brain like everything else.

I don’t know. I think… I think I’m just… me again. Eventually, he confessed.

“That’s not happening,” Tucker swore through his own tongue again. He was determined and pissed which almost made up for the betrayal and disgust.

Church wasn’t fighting back again, so Tucker just continued forward, sword unsheathed, looking desperately for his missing son. Something that Church probably could have helped with, but he wasn’t offering and Tucker sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.

And that was when they finally came across Junior.

The alien child was clutching the Epsilon unit close to his chest, terrified, as he should have been. There was something hardly visible, but still obscuring the area behind Junior.

“Fuck! Active camo!” Tucker cried out to the others behind him in warning. “Junior, duck!”

His son did as ordered which opened Tucker up to a leap through the air, sword barred as he swung down for the spot where he had noticed the obscuring shimmer. Sparks flew on contact with something metallic and angry. But, to Tucker’s surprise, it wasn’t the end of the moment.

As the active camouflage began to fail, the free arm of the perp flew up, grabbed Tucker by his shoulder, and proceeded to suplex him in a move that immediately made the aqua marine begin to see stars.

“What the fuck, no one said the Meta could do that!” Tucker whined, still trying to get his bearings as he pushed to sit up.

“As far as I know, he still can’t,” a familiar voice said lowly.

Church, for once, was utterly speechless.

Tucker turned over to his knees almost immediately, expecting a flash of black armor to go with that familiar sound. “Tex!?”

He didn’t receive what he thought, however, because it wasn’t that at all. Instead, there stood a massive armored body with a domed yellow helmet, and intimidating white glaring armor. Something about it, the bulk or the weapon or just the low rumble that escaped with every breath. But it was terrifying and it wasn’t Tex.

Not her body at least.

“Buenos días, cockbites,” her voice came from the armor. “Guess who’s back?”

#writing #rvb fic #RvB: The Things That Wait #Lavernius Tucker #Alpha Church #Tucker Junior #Agent Washington #Franklin Delano Donut #Dexter Grif #Dick Simmons

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baggubuggu · 7 years ago

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Departure. [[Zora OC Drabble]]

OK. So. I’ve been thinking for a while about possibly writing about the events of why/how Ipo’s dad left him when he was a child.

Here’s what Ipo’s grandma looks like

It’s barely past sunrise when Ipo stirs awake and opens his eyes. The young zora yawns and rubs his eyes and looks around. He was...alone? He remembers that his grandma had slept with him in their pool, but she wasn’t there now. A soft gasp drew from his breath as he spotted grandma Melora’s treasured instrument laying on the ground directly beside the small pool of water.

His small mouth dropped open as he scrambled out of the pool and heaved his body up onto the metal ground. Ipo glanced around frantically, wringing his frail wrists against his chest, looking for any signs of Melora...or his father. She never left her ukulele harp out of sight. Ipo leaned over and gingerly scooped the instrument flush against side--it was just as long as he was, so he had his arms wrapped awkwardly around it.

Sparing a few glances to the other pools, he spotted several Zora still asleep: Rivan and his father, Trello. Torfeau and her younger brothers, Fronk and Tottika all sleeping in a circle together. Ledo...Gruve...Kodah… But after a few seconds, Ipo realized that his grandma or dad weren’t there.

A frown appeared as Ipo turned and waddled his way towards the staircase, moving carefully to make sure he didn’t drop the ukulele harp. Another yawn rippled through his body and he maneuvered one hand to rub against his eyes. He wanted to go back sleep, but wanted his grandma to come back with him. Maybe she would carry him back…

“You! Ipo!”

He slipped off the last stepped and fell down onto his rear. Ipo winced, recognizing that voice all too well as Demon Sergeant Seggin. He dared to look up and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment to see the intimidating Zora towering over him. He was dressed in the Royal Guard armor, as usual, and held a silverscale spear at point to his right.

“What are you doing up so early, boy?”

Ipo bowed his head as he scrambled to stand up. “Um. I-I was looking for my grandma, Mister Seggin! I woke up and she’s...um.” He shrinked under the fierce gaze. “I, uh, I can go back to sleep.” Anxiously, he turned to face the grand stairway again.

“Wait.” The butt of the older Zora’s spear clanked against the ground. “Your father and grandmother were just speaking on the Great Bridge. You might have time to see them.”

He paused and glanced back to Seggin, noticing the strange expression on his face. “Time?”

Ipo got a glimpse of Seggin’s son, Bazz, waiting behind him. His posture was still and perfect, he was fitted with custom-made armor for a Zora child, and he held a practice spear at his side. He and Ipo shared a brief stare before Bazz’s closed his eyes and a guilty frown appeared.

Seggin released a deep sigh and shook his head, his headfin flicking back and forth. “Just go see your father, boy.”

“Yessir!” Ipo turned tail and continued walking with wide eyes. Captain Seggin was always so strict and scary.

He arrived at the main gate seconds later, rushed past the guards stationed there, and froze when he saw Melora standing halfway down the Great Zora Bridge. He made an exasperated gasp of air and scampered onto the bridge. Ipo made a few nervous glances down the water far below them, but he continued on.

“Grandma! Grandma Melora!” he called out as he got closer and closer. He straightened his grip on the ukulele harp, to show he’d be careful with it, as he approached and smiled in relief at seeing her. As he drew closer and closer, he could see something was wrong with her.

She had a hand clamped against her mouth. Tears were falling down her tired, yellow eyes. Ipo always loved her colors--unlike his own burgundy scales, his grandmother was a pale yellow with a shimmering rose gradient speckled on her shoulders and tales. Just like Ipo and just like his father, she too had a distinct pair of crimson lines running down her wrinkled cheeks.

Ipo approached her hesitantly and reached for the belt of fabric wrapped loosely around her hips. “Grandma?”

Melora jerked her head down and stared at Ipo with such a sad expression. Her eyes were glazed over and she dabbed away at the tears leaking, sniffing. She kneeled down and wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed him in a protective hug. “Ipo. Honey. What are you doing awake?”

“I...I woke up and you were gone,” Ipo offered, afraid she was going to be mad at him for leaving their pool alone. He looked on, confused, as he felt several tear drops fall onto his shoulder. “You left this and you never leave it anywhere!” he explained as she pulled back from him and offered the ukulele harp. “Um. Mister Seggin told me you were talking to dad here. And why are you crying?”

His grandma took the ukulele harp in one arm, and ran a hand down the blunt bump of his head crest. She closed her eyes and she affectionately stroked his head. “Ipo. Your father isn’t here. He decided he needs to leave.”

Ipo blinked a few times and cocked his head to the right. “Oh...Like another scouting mission? He’s gonna be gone a few days?”

“No, my little minnow. Your father…” Her mouth pulled into a thin line. “He isn’t coming back. He is going to live somewhere else.”

Ipo’s mouth gaped open and his hands instinctively balled into tiny fists. His eyes darted back and forth in confusion as his grandma’s words tried to sink in. He followed her gaze down towards the end of the Great Bridge and perked up when he saw the distant form of his dad. Without a second thought, he dashed towards it. He ignored his grandma’s frantic shouts and pressed forward, his feet echoing soft pitter-patter on the metallic platform of the bridge.

“Dad?” Ipo called out. The cloaked figure, Ipo recognized the fabric as the same texture and color his father often wore. “Dad!” he was certain he could be heard, but the stride did not slow.

“Daaaaad!” Ipo cried harder, heaving heavy breaths as he followed. His dad had already stepped off the bridge. “DAD!” he screamed louder than he ever had. His voice echoed out with faint squeaks as he ran as fast as his small legs would carry him. “Dad, wait!”

It took minutes of running and running and running before Ipo got within speaking distance.

“Dad!” Ipo gasped out between gulps of air. “Didn’t you hear me?” he asked, noticing how his father didn’t slow down for him. “Grandma’s crying! And...and she said you weren’t coming back? Is this for a mission? Where are you going?” As Ipo rambled on and on with his curious questions, his dad stopped suddenly.

“Go back, Ipo,” his dad quietly ordered.

“Huh?”

“Go. Back,” his dad hissed. “It’s for the better this way.”

Ipo blinked dumbly and lips quivered. “You really are leaving…? But why, dad?”

His father didn’t say a word and resumed walking.

Ipo sniffed and swallowed back his tears. “Grandma’s crying!” he repeated and immediately followed behind him. “Why do you want to leave when it’s just gonna make her sad? Why do you want to leave me too? I’m your kid! You can’t leave!”

“Ipo, enough.”

“No!” Ipo cried and dashed ahead. He grabbed his father’s cloak and roughly tugged against it. He tried to dig his feet into the ground and made himself deadweight; an attempt to hinder his dad.

His father only responded by roughly yanking his cloak back from Ipo’s grip, sending the young Zora to roll away into the dirt, and he continued walking. Ipo sat up, rubbing the dirt away from his cheek, and watched as a distraught and anxious cloud bubbled in his gut.

“Dad...Please don’t go!” Ipo pleaded as tears welled up in his eyes. His eyes darted to the right when he saw strange movement and he yelped. “Dad! Look out--”

Just as he spoke, a black flash sped through the right. A black lizalfos leaped out from its cover and took a swipe at his dad with its tri-boomerang. Ipo heard a pained grunt from his dad and he watched, scared to death, as his dad unsheathed his spear. With impeccable reflexes, his dad ran the silverscale spear into the lizalfos’ gut multiple times. The monster howled in a dying scream before it disappeared in a distinct poof of ash.

“D-dad?” Ipo dared to step closer but froze when his dad finally turned around. From the cover of the cloak, Ipo could see three wet, crimson scratches now covered a majority of his right profile: from the top of his crest, running over his eyes, and stretching all the way down to his cheek. “Are you ok, Dad?”

His dad only stared at him. He didn’t wipe away the blood surely dripping down into his eye or even bother to clean the fresh wound. Eventually, his father lifted his spear in the air and then kicked the bloodied boomerang in Ipo’s direction. “Arm yourself, son.”

“W-what?” Ipo swallowed nervously and backed away from the dead lizalfos’ weapon.

“If you want me to stay,” he explained and took a fighting stance, “then prove it to me.”

Ipo shook his head furiously and kicked the boomerang away. “No! Dad, please! I don’t wanna fight! You always make me train...I don’t wanna! Why do I have to train with a weapon?” His eyes were soaked with tears.

“Your grandmother will take care of you,” Volir said cooly and turned back, his cloak tight to his body.

“At least you have a mom!” Ipo said between tears. “I never knew my mom...If I did, I wouldn’t make her sad! You’re my only parent and you’re leaving me alone…”

Ipo watched helpless, heavy tears splattering against the ground, as his dad resumed walking.

“I hate you,” Ipo cried. His legs felt too heavy to chase after his father. His hands were shaking. His tears kept on flowing and flowing. He watched as his dad continued on the trail that led to Ruto Mountain and squeezed his eyes shut. He fell to his knees and pressed his hands to his face and sobbed loudly against them.

When Ipo finally opened his eyes and looked around, he was truly alone--aside from the tri-boomerang a few feet away. There was no trace of his dad to be seen.

“Ipo?” His grandmother was standing beside him. Ipo almost jumped in surprise, mainly from the surprise. He hadn’t heard her approaching.

Instead, Ipo stood up and wrapped his hands against her sides. “Grandma! I tried to make him come back!” More sobs broke out and he hid his face against her apron.

“I know, dear,” she cooed as she ran her hand down his tail. “I don’t think we can convince your father to come back right now.”

Ipo took several, hitched gasps of air. “I-is it my...fault?”

“No, no, no,” Melora whispered as she scooped Ipo into a hug and cradled him against her chest. “Your father...He’s been very sad for a long time, Ipo. It’s not right for him to put you through this though.” She pressed a kiss to Ipo’s temple and then nuzzled her forehead to his. “Why don’t we go back to sleep for right now? You look so tired.”

“Ok…” Ipo’s voice was sore, his legs ached. He shifted his weight and wrapped his arms around Melora’s neck. He gazed out to Ruto Mountain as his heart sank. Eventually, he tore his stare away and pressed his face down into the curve of his grandma’s neck. His eyelids felt heavy.

#Bugggu writing #Zora oc #This wasn't edited sorry #Probably not gonna put this on Ao3 #But #Yeah #Enjoy this #Volir is a jerk who is sad #but still a jerk

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georgesmithddayear2infographics · 6 years ago

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Arts & Culture Infographic

03.10.18

Last week we were given the task of creating an infographic about one of four subjects. They were: Arts and Culture, Food, Unusual (I think) and Historical. Were each assigned a number corresponding to one of the said topics, and I got Arts and Culture. I can’t say that I was ecstatic about this topic, but as I went on, I gradually became more accepting of it, until, by the end, I was rather pleased with the final result.

Sketchbook Work

Higher quality version that you can zoom in on.

I started doing some research on art and culture of UK only to find hardly anything to make an entire infographic on, so I sought the assistance of my tutor, who reassured me that it was quite the broad subject, and it wasn’t strictly limited to culture and arts, but anything to do with these topics. I began researching artists of Britain, to which I came across two of which I’d heard of before and two that I was very interested in upon researching them. These were Banksy and Bridget Riley, whom I’d heard of before, and then Thomas Phillips and JMW Turner, who I had not.

Anyway, I’ll start with the right page. I started drawing little illustrations to do with each artist’s respective area of expertise. For Thomas Phillips, I drew a portrait of a man in a frame, which I thought was a solid idea. As for Banksy, I drew a brick wall with his name in a messy font. I also drew a man in some shady-looking clothes and glasses and a moustache, this was in reference to the incognito icon which you can see on Google Chrome. I decided on this since Banksy is to this day a man surrounded in mystery and anonymity, which I find really interesting. I also drew a spray can. Bridget Riley’s illustrations are across the middle of the page, and they consist of an eye with a swirly pattern inside, as well as a box with a face on each side... or is it a silhouette of a grail in the middle? Who knows. It uses the art of negative space. Finally, for JMW Turner’s (who I will be henceforth referring to as JMW) section, there’s a little sketch of a landscape of mountains and some trees, very serene, as well as a palette and a bucket of paint.

For the first page, it just goes into a little detail on what I was thinking. For starters, the font would most likely be sans-serif, since I’m a fan of those smooth and blocky fonts (most of the time) as opposed to serif fonts. I thought the colours I’d be using would be more on the desaturated side of the colour spectrum, and I was more or less right in the end. I do think that one shade of a neon colour like red can go really well with black though, an excellent example would be the artwork for Persona 5, which does this really well. Anyway, I briefly mentioned that I would like to incorporate the Union Jack somewhere in the infographic, whether that be the actual design of the flag, or just the colour scheme, regardless, I’d planned on using red, blue and white from the start anyways. Finally, I mentioned that I wanted to have a balanced layout, which gave each artist equal spotlight. I thought it may look like a list infographic, and would have elements of a hierarchical infographic, like the information pertaining to each artist. That was it for the sketchbook work.

It was time to start on the graphic. I headed on over to Adobe Illustrator to start making things which I thought would look nice. I started by making a black header at the top, which I wrote the subject in red, blue and white, and gave it a nice glow effect using each respective colour. I made that palette I was talking about earlier, but added it to the header instead. It’s just some ellipses and a blob made using the pen tool which I coloured red, blue, green and yellow, to make purple? I just wanted to include purple, since it’s my favorite. I made some brushes using the pen tool as the stick, and then a warped circle as the head. Then I added a red strip across the bottom of the header to make it pop.

Next I made the black header look as though it is shining, by adding a grey section to the left. I made these grey boxes in the composition where the artists and their info would go, and also some red and blue lines on the header, no particular reason, just thought it would look quite stylish. I gave them all a glow. As I mentioned, I wanted to have a hierarchical system that showcased all the artists, so I made sure they were all of equal size and distance away from each other.

Next, I made some small crosses and spread them out across the header, another stylistic choice on my part. I made those boxes black and continued the shine from the header onto the top left box. I also made the background blue, just to continue with the Union Jack colours. I did this by creating a box behind the black boxes and colouring it blue. The composition was starting to look quite modern in appearance, which is kind of a juxtaposition, since I’m including artists of a long time ago, such as Thomas and JMW.

Next I moved onto the graphics of each section. I started with Thomas Phillips, and carried out that portrait idea I had. This was relatively easy and probably the most fun part of this task for me. I just used basic shape tools as well as the pen tool, and added a frame around the portrait, with a gradient to try and make it look shiny. I also made a background of mountains behind the portrait (could this be foreshadowing of JMW’s section?) Next I moved onto Banksy, who was probably my least favorite part to make, the former part at least. I made that wall I was talking about, but it just doesn’t look good, the gutters which divide the bricks just don’t look good with the wall colours, but I tried a lot of other colours too, to no avail. Even the ‘Banksy’ text doesn’t do it any favors in my opinion. However, the incognito/anonymous icon that I made does look good and goes well with the composition in my opinion. I just used the shapes and pen tool once again to make it, and chose greys for the colour scheme. Oh also, I changed the title of ‘Arts and Culture’ to ‘Artists of Britain’ at the suggestion of my tutor.

Next I created JMW’s graphics, which consisted of that mountain scene I mentioned, which was easy, I just made some triangles and made them slightly rounded and added some clouds made using the ellipse tool and also duplicated the palette I made for the header, and changed the colours on it to match with the mountains. Finally, for the last section, Bridget Riley’s, I went over to Photoshop because I already had an Idea that I wanted to try and pull off, which was to make a square with some wavy lines inside, to look like an illusion kind of thing, and then I went back to Illustrator to make the eye with the swirl for the iris. Then I made the thing with the grail or human faces illusion, which I did simply using the pen tool and the square tool for the box.

Lastly, I needed to add the text. I had already done some slight research, which was just their birthdays as well as their area of specialty. I had a lot of space for information on Thomas Phillips, so I did some extra research and added it, same with JMW. On the other hand, Bridget and Banksy didn’t have a lot of space to spare, so I simply kept it at their birthdays and art specialties. I think I like that more than Thomas and JMW’s sections, since it just looks more clean and shorter. I made sure to keep with the Union Jack colours once again with the text - I made all the text kind of random in amounts, for example, each section has some red text whereas only one (JMW’s) has blue text. It was just a stylistic choice again, and also I like the red a lot so I wanted to put it in more places. That was it for the infographic.

Final Piece

Higher quality version that you can zoom into.

Here’s the final version that I made, I’m actually quite pleased with the result and I think the colour scheme looks really good, the black goes really well with the blue, red and white, as well as the outer glows that I added to, well, just about everything. The graphics are good in my opinion, except for the Banksy wall, I just don’t like it at all really, but that’s alright I guess, maybe someone does.

Overall, I enjoyed this mini-project, even though at first I thought it would be difficult to get done in a week, and at the start I was a little hopeless since I was completely stumped with what to do with my subject.

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