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penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories · 4 years ago

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So We Refuse To Take it Tragically

A/N: I’ve just accepted my fate is to be obsessed with this man, so here’s yet another Obi-Wan fic. There will be a second part to this, and I’m thinking a mini series of in-between moments. I won’t give spoilers, but this is NOT my normal type of fic, but he’s an exception to every rule in my book, apparently. Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv for being my beta on this, I don’t know where this would be without you!

Thank you also to @beskars for her post here that birthed this. Always blessing us with fuel for the thirst.

And to the one I know IRL that found my tumblr, one I will refer to as Top Voice, this is your final warning to gtfo before feasting your eyes on unprecedented filth and sap.

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force sensitive! Fem Reader (no Y/N)

Warnings: SMUT!!! Cumeating, hair pulling, Comfort Sex, ANGST!! (It has a happy ending later, I promise, but it starts after ROTS, so it’s par for the course) If you’re gonna write not-particularly-pertinent-to-plot-porn, might as well make it unnecessarily detailed, right? As usual, too many feelings for porn, More warnings will be in the tags to prevent spoilers

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

Tatooine is no place for a baby.

There are no soft surfaces, nor comforts, nor surplus of anything. It’s desolate and deprived and oppressive, but you watch as Obi-Wan shields the child from its harsh, sand-pelting winds with his whole body, despite the fact the child fits in the space between his wrist and elbow. It’s overzealous, but you don’t say anything of it.

The past two days have ripped away nearly everything he held dear, insisting on devastating every tender place. Nothing sacred has been left untouched.

He broke the code long before he met you, and you know part of why his love for you came so easily, why he had no qualms with breaking his vows, was because he’d long since loved the man that became his family in every way that matters.

Love and Light so tightly knit together the fabric of his being one could not be separated from the other.

And you could take on the entire Force with your two fists for how it had rewarded him for it with Hate and Darkness coming from someone so close it shattered something foundational in Obi-Wan.

Yet even now, there isn’t Darkness surrounding his signature. There’s brokenness and his ever-present equilibrium has been replaced by jagged shards. But despite it all, those rugged pieces still reflect light erratically in their shine.

It’s a loss and betrayal that spans many different planes: on one level, there’s nowhere you look in the galaxy beyond just the two of you that isn’t marked by the Empire’s rise in power, marking the end of the Republic he fought for and the fall of the Jedi, his community, comrades, and only home he’d ever known. And on another level, you’ve seen the weight of war and worse in Obi-Wan’s eyes, but nothing, nothing like this.

The pain is panoramic, but it’s also profoundly personal.

Even still, his attention isn’t on himself, but on the fussy bundle in his arms.

You wonder: is it the galaxy that doesn’t allow this man time to heal? Or is it his own choice to throw himself into the need of others so he has a tangible reason to avoid his own torments?

When he places the baby into the arms of the young couple, you know the times ahead will give the answer to that.

Because there aren't the cries of the past few nights to wake either of you, there’s silence.

You long to fill it, to try to bridge this insurmountable void with something, anything you could say. But you know it’s bigger than you. So, so much bigger than you.

Monumental obstacles and tremendous loss find themselves standing in the threshold of an abandoned hut smaller than your flat was on Coruscant.

“Well… it’s not much to look at, certainly. But the moisture vaporator seems to be in repairable condition, and we’re just far enough from town to avoid any curious neighbors. What do you think?” He turns to you, and his eyes, dark circles under and all, turn sharp in their assessment of your response.

“I told you. I’m going wherever you are so long as you’ll let me.” Your voice is gentle but adamant as you remind him.

He walks up from the living room to the threshold of the kitchen where you are, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. “Be that as it may, I’m asking your input on where we’re going, or living, as your happiness means a great deal to me.”

There’s still no smile, but it’s the brightest his energy has felt since the last time you saw him before he came to your door in Coruscant days ago, whispering a rushed, heartfelt farewell, which you quickly countered with an emphatic, unshakable, “I’m coming with you.”

You look up at him, gliding your hand across his cheek into the hair at the nape of his neck. There’s Darkness at the door of his soul that he’s fighting off every moment, and he has the audacity to speak of your happiness.

You don’t dare bring up his. It’s irony, at best.

So you smile, timid, knowing the gesture in itself might be blasphemous to the tone, but genuine all the same. “We can make a life here. I know we can.”

He scans your eyes, looking to find the authenticity in your statement. “Are you certain?”

He’s not asking about the hut anymore. Or, at least, not just the hut.

“Obi-Wan, I never had any delusion that any life I had with you would be easy. I thought I’d only ever be getting you in secret, sparse moments. Although I’d never, ever wish for it to be under the circumstances that it is, having you like this is better than I ever hoped.”

There’s silence as he processes your words, then a wry twist of his features. “How I wish that your expectations needn’t be so low.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” You incline your head, trying to find the words to convey what you mean.

“Nothing any person or any planet anywhere has to offer me holds a candle to what I’ve found in you, nor will it ever. I’d never trade unshakable wholeness for the transience of materialistic happiness.”

You know this has to resound with him. Is it not within the core set of values he was taught to forsake comfort in any avenue for something far greater?

His eyes flick between yours, gauging, and you can feel him reaching out to feel at your signature to solidify the truth.

If you knew him any less, you might be insulted at his questioning of your trustworthiness. But it’s not you he doesn’t trust. It’s something good willingly giving itself to him that causes his wariness.

The Force can have your middle finger along with your fists.

Then he’s relaxing into you, letting out an exhale that seems heavy with more than just air, and burying his nose in your hair for his next inhale.

****

By the end of the day, you’ve gathered enough supplies for basic necessities and to start on the repairs of the hut. You both snarf down a ration bar before shortly thereafter clearing the blown-in sand off what must have been the bed of the home. It’s a half circle indenture in the wall, and it has a dip obviously made for a mattress or cushion of some sort, but as all that’s available are the blankets bought in town today, you set to fluffing them to some semblance of comfort.

Fatigue pulls you into it far sooner than the suns setting. Last night was your first night without Luke, spent in a room you rented in town. Today was spent traveling to and from the hut, discussing details on what needs to be done, and you? You are absolutely exhausted. You can only imagine what he must feel like.

Obi-Wan secures the lock on the door before sitting on the side of the bed, looking off into nothing for a long, long moment.

You push up to your side, placing a hand on his back. “Obi…”

His shoulder nudges toward your hand, but he cuts you off. “It’s going to get quite cold when the suns set, and since the stove isn’t properly ventilating yet, we’re going to have to work with body heat.”

“I’ll try to mask my reluctance,” you retort.

He turns his face to you then, and just a smidge of humor sweeps across his eyes before he sheds his cloak, followed by everything else until only his pants remain. You’ve long since stripped down to your own sleeping comfort level, so before he can fold his cloak along with the rest of his discarded clothing, you take it and cover yourself with it.

He shakes his head a little at you once he’s done, settling down next to you, throwing the covers over both of you.

“Tell me what you need.” You’re face to face with him, but his expression is unreadable.

“I… I don’t know.” He considers you as if you held the answer to the question you just asked him.

“What about want, then? What do you want, Obi-Wan?” You wish he didn’t have his shields perpetually raised these days. It’d be so much easier to just read his energy.

His hand reaches up so he can stroke your cheek with his thumb. “You’re tired, darling. Rest.”

Ah, there it is. If the answer to the question of desire is him counter offering his own response with the fact you’re tired…

“So are you. But you still want.” You press your body fully against his, dropping your voice down to a whisper. “And so do I.”

You won’t push anymore than that, letting him take or leave the invitation. For you, it’s not even a question. It’s been four months since you last saw him. Since you’d last felt his touch.

You’d spent the last few nights in each other’s arms, but between Luke's shrill cries and the deafening devastation of the events of the days prior, it’d been just that: sleep. Or, what tousled, disturbed counterfeit the circumstance offered you both.

For him, though, there’s an abysmal weariness that digs far beyond lack of sleep, and you don’t dare infringe upon him in any way.

But there’s still a longing present, and even without his Force signature to guide you into his feelings, he can’t hide his eyes.

You watch the moment he makes a decision solidify across his countenance right before he presses his lips against yours. You sigh into it, letting the draw of his skin on yours pull you into orbit.

Because that’s exactly what happens. It’s a kiss for a kiss’ sake, for flavor and fervency and the fullness of each other, but it quickly gains its own momentum when his tongue parts your lips truly.

It’s an acute absence. Not having his energy surrounding you with his shields so far up. But it also gives sharp attention to the press of skin against skin, makes it an anchor and an outlet for all that is still too tender to even acknowledge.

You find grip in his hair, purposefully running your hands the opposite of the way he combs it as he takes your face in both hands and pulls you into him all the more.

When you both need to breathe, he only moves so far away that his lips still brush against yours on every exhale. “I..” he starts, then stops.

The hand still in his hair rakes through it gently, scratching your fingertips against his scalp as you wait for him to complete his thought.

“Let me taste you,” he says at last. You know it's a question from the way he stills, waiting for permission, but it’s phrased as nothing like it.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a rhetorical quest…”

“Oh, hush.” He’s already nudging you over onto your back, situating his body over yours, claiming your lips again. You allow yourself to sink into it, cherishing his weight over you, his hand roaming your ribcage, before pulling back to speak.

“I’m sorry, are you now getting on to me for my sass? Because… oh!”

He finds a nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt, pinching softly with a small tug.

“By all means, continue. I was most intrigued.” His smirk is back, but it fixes you with a tinge of worry when it again proves to be a smile only skin deep.

You place two fingers just shy of his forehead, but he catches your wrist in an almost painful clasp. The alarm casted by his expression quickly is washed away by a carefully constructed impassiveness, and your heart sinks.

He has to see it, because he bows his head in apology. “Not tonight.”

And before you have any room to respond, he’s shifting himself down as he lifts your shirt up, placing a single taunting, wet kiss on each nipple before moving even further down, nipping at the skin right below your belly button.

He’s distracting you from what he’s not allowing you access to, and you know it, and you let him anyway. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Distraction from the barrage of the mind. If that’s what he needs, that’s what you’ll give.

As he toys with the hem of your underthings, and you lift your hips to assist their removal, you realize it’s exactly what you need too.

Except he apparently isn’t planning to remove your underwear at all. With a casual flick of his hand, your legs are parted and held like that with a no-nonsense sprout of Force energy. Then he’s simply pulling the cloth to the side and brings his mouth torturously closer, but stops just before contact.

You push up to your elbows to tell him you can’t take much of those teasing breaths he’s taking, blowing hot air against sensitive nerve endings. But when you hear his breath stutter as he just looks, unhurried in admiration, you decide against it, even as you flush at the undivided attention. Sprawling his palms out over your inner thighs, he dips down to press his mouth between his fingers, sucking not-so-gently into the soft skin, sending the flesh into tremors before he’s even really done anything to you.

He says your name as he opens you up with his fingers, parting your folds so everything is bared to his view. You start to squirm, the exposure starting to feel a little too heady, and you’re starting to appeal with the beginning of his name when he leans forward, straight away connecting his lips to your clit. You try to thrust up into it as some shameful noise leaves you, but there’s only so much movement you have with your legs still pinned.

He loves to tease, so you don’t expect him to retract the energy that constricted your legs at the first resistance. Instead, he slides his hands under your ass, pulling you on to his tongue and lets you push your hips into him unchecked.

He hums at your enthusiasm, the reverberation sending your hands into his hair again, which gifts you with even more noises from him.

It doesn’t take long at all, and you’re coming undone on his tongue, biting into your forearm to dampen your cry.

He doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulder, signaling your tender surrender. He obeys, looking up at you from between your thighs, absolutely besotted, eyes shining a shade brighter than before.

Then. Obi-Wan Kenobi keeps his eyes on yours before dipping his head and tilting his jaw, running his beard right where you’re still open and vulnerable, abrasion grating in a way you know you’ll be feeling all day tomorrow.

He licks his lips as he moves back up to kiss you again, letting you taste yourself on him.

He goes easily when you gesture for him to lie on his back so you can straddle him, carefully avoiding any contact where he’s throbbing for you. His hands fall right to your waist, stroking gently as he waits for you to initiate.

You focus your study on the section of his hair that’s fallen in his face, twirling a finger in it, happy to have anywhere to look but his eyes.

He’d normally at least be in your mind by now, and even though you understand it, well, the drought of it is as appropriate for the planet as anything.

You remember too late to raise your own shields against any accidentally too-loud thoughts, as Obi-Wan cups his hand on your chin, forcing your gaze to his, saying your name quietly in calling.

“You have to know, it isn’t anything to do with…”

You interrupt him. “No. No. I won’t have you addressing my insecurities of all things in light of…”

“Please listen, love. I need you to know, it hasn’t anything to do with the love I have for you. That hasn’t changed and never will. I think I need… “ He pauses, solemn in thought. “Time,” he finishes finally.

You knew this already in the pit of your stomach, but hearing him say it, hearing him affirm that it isn’t you insufficiency… you hate that you needed it as much as you did.

And if he needs time? That’s what you’ll give. But he also has a want, evidenced by the brush of him against you when you scoot yourself down his torso.

You take the hem of his pants with you when you continue down, ridding him of them and his shorts. But when you wrap your hand around him and begin to lower your mouth, he grips your chin again, shaking his head.

“I can’t… please, just.” It’s always an anomaly when he’s at a loss for words, usually ever-so articulate.

A gasp chokes out of you when you feel the phantom of his mind. Not in full, no. With barriers, and it’s projected out, not at all the same sensation to being within it.

It’s desperation. For how long it’s been, for how drained he feels, how he’s not sure how long this will last, and how much he yearns to be inside you.

There’s not even a second of debate in your mind as you take your position on his lap again, lifting your hips, intention apparent. He takes his cock in hand, holding steady so you can start to seat yourself onto the thick push of him.

The hitch in his breath is your only warning before he seizes the undersides of your thighs, halting you from taking him any further.

His eyes are tightly shut, and you know from watching him before that his facial expression is an attempt at borderline meditation, except it’s several long seconds before he achieves anything resembling calm.

It’s as good a time as any to push his hands off you and squirm around to take him a little deeper. You plan on rubbing your victory in, but your smirk is wiped away with a whine at the elation. Instead of stopping you again, he almost imperceptibly thrusts up, and it’s your turn to falter, slamming your hands into his chest, nails digging in, working against your weight trying to pull you down onto him.

It goes on like that, until you’re both bordering on hysteria before you’ve even fully taken him. You can’t figure out if it’s a worse torment to keep delaying or continuing.

Obi-Wan seems to have come to his own conclusion to that, as he finally opens his eyes, locking them with yours as he places his palms flat on the tops of your thighs and pushes down until your skin is flush with his.

You pull a hand up, biting on your fist, trying to stifle the exclamation in your throat.

He pulls it away, voice ragged as he speaks. “I want to hear you, little one. We needn’t hide anymore.”

It’s a dimensional statement. For one, no one is around for miles, a stark contrast to your quarters on Coruscant where you at least attempted to be considerate of your too-near neighbors when it came to noise. For another, it’s the irony of being in hiding from the Empire, but being allowed to be open in your relationship with each other finally.

And the deepest irony is that you both have your barriers up so firmly right now all you can concentrate on is bared skin.

Oh, but what a beautiful spanse of bared skin he is. Freckled and almost luminously pale, bending and curving with the strength of the form underneath.

He sits up slowly, generating a breathless plea from both of you at the new angle. A search of your eyes asks you a question, and you’re nodding, kissing him with the full brunt of your craving.

You slide up and then down again just as he drives up, and you’ve found your rhythm, just like that.

His hands push you onto him every time you pull up, and his tongue laves your breasts, sucking and biting along your collarbone, as you rake your nails down his chest, over the backs of his shoulders, his scalp, anything you can touch.

It’s enough to send him into a chorus of groans, shoving himself hard up into you.

He doesn’t even speak it aloud, just projects the apologetic warning that he’s on the edge.

When his thumb finds your clit, everything in you goes tense despite the relief. You clench around him, hard, and he instantly moves his hands to your shoulder blades pulling you flush against him as he lets out an unrestrained sound against your breasts.

You push his thumb away from where it’s stilled against you, replacing it with your own. His fingers twitch in their bruising grip, and you can feel him throbbing inside you.

You stay like that for a moment, just letting him ride out his bliss, whispering sweet affirmations into his hair.

When he looks up at you again, his eyes are glassed over. You wonder if it’s ecstasy that is the cause, or something from the bedrock boiling to the surface.

He doesn’t give you a chance to elaborate, flipping you over on to your back. The moment he withdraws, you can feel the mess dripping down your inner thighs.

It takes everything in you to not come at the sight alone as Obi-Wan dips further down your body, parting you and lapping his tongue right where you’re weeping evidence of desire.

You know you have to be making a mess of his face and beard, but he certainly doesn’t seem to mind, indulging on his own spill infused with yours.

When he adds two fingers in you and curls them strategically, searing heat shoots through your lower stomach as you arch against his mouth, his name a high whisper with absolutely no suppression, echoing across the empty stone walls of the home.

He leaves a final tender kiss against you before lying down next to you, pulling you into his arms, and you pull him into yours right back when your limbs remember how to function.

His head drops against yours, and his eyes flutter shut, taking a deep inhale, like he’s trying to fill his lungs with more than just oxygen.

Nothing is fine, and the world is crumbling. But right now, as the suns finally leave the house in dark, as you clasp each other in tight embrace, as sleep pulls you under, you can pretend it’s fine. If only for a moment.

*******

There’s a flash of feeling that startles you awake and into the disorientation that comes from waking in a new place. The sensation worsens when you feel the reverberations of the equivalent of a slammed door in the Force.

You sit up quickly and look over to Obi-Wan, who sits on the side of the bed, head in his hands, fingers brutal in their grip.

You move toward him, and he turns around at the sound. “Go back to sleep, darling. it’s nothing.”

When you fix him with a gaze that essentially translates “bantha fodder,” he just lies back down, pulling your back into his chest, and you doubt the fact you can’t see his face like this is a mistake.

The rhythm of his breathing betrays the fact he is nowhere near sleep, but you find yourself fading off soon again anyway.

****

When you wake in the morning, you’re alone in the bed, which is no surprise. He’s not one to lounge, and if the height of the suns peaking through the window has anything to say, he’s already been up for a while.

His cloak is still tangled in the blankets, though, and you wrap yourself in it, padding outside after doing something about your morning breath.

The hut is situated on a cliff, overlooking a barren valley. The suns glare with their unrelenting eyes of heat even so early in the day, and you stare back as best you can without squinting, daring them to do their worst. They know nothing of the misery that’s already visited this home. They have no hope of competing.

You find Obi-Wan cross-legged near the edge of the cliff. Cross-legged and levitating.

Of course, you know he can do things like this. It’s just such a different thing to see him doing it . You’ve never had a proper morning with him like this, seeing his routine. He was always up before the sun, you with him, gathering moments and soaking them in before he had to leave again.

He looks almost peaceful now, not at rest, but peaceful.

How?

How does he still have so much trust in the Force?

A more lighthearted thought emerges through the grim train, as you notice he’s opted to not put his tunic back on yet.

It doesn’t matter out here, you suppose, there isn’t any other living being for miles around. For that matter, you wonder why he even left the pants.

His voice damn near startles you, not even opening his eyes to address you.

“Although that may be the case, there are some locations more bearable to get sunburn than others.”

You blush at being caught, and gently ensure your thoughts aren’t accidentally projected again, but he doesn’t give you much time to dwell on it.

“Join me?”

As he opens his eyes and descends the couple inches down back onto the ground, you feel your heart do the same. He’s taught you little things, here and there, and you’ve enjoyed it, learning to tap into that constant humming you never had the tools to channel before.

But now?

What interest do you have with The Force that failed the man who served it without fail? You could burn it down for the atrocities it’s committed even in negligence against the man you love.

But there’s been enough burning.

Obi-Wan won’t speak of what transpired on Mustafar, but you’ve caught glimpses. Last night wasn’t the first night you’ve had him back, and it wasn’t the first you’d woken to a severe troubling in his aura.

You’re still not sure if Luke is a fussy baby or simply a very responsive one, as it seemed Obi-Wan was already awake before Luke started crying.

It was only mere seconds before his shields came slamming down, firmly in place, every time.

You can’t tell if he’s trying to shelter you from his feelings or blockade them away from himself.

Maybe both.

But those seconds? They’re long enough. For just a flash of a charred, severed body. Of hateful, pleading, golden eyes.

There’s been enough burning.

“I can’t ever be a Jedi, Obi.”

“That’s not what I’m asking of you.”

He knows your criticisms as well as your compliments over the Jedi. You’ve both discussed it at great length many times, always over a firm understanding and respect, but you’ve never really had long enough to have a conclusion. But you’re not going to push now, not with the fall of it all still so close behind him.

“I should think our relationship itself is testimony that I don’t inherently agree or adhere to all Jedi teachings.”

You drop your eyes, trying to ignore the sweat starting to trickle down your skin from the relentless heat. “I thought maybe you were with me in spite of your better judgement.”

His brow furrows. “At first, that’s what I may have thought too, but it made itself clear that although what transpired between us was forbidden by the Code…” he trails off for a moment, almost hesitant. “...the way Light was and is exemplified any time I have you in my arms presented a solidified case that not always is the Jedi way synonymous with the will of the Force.”

He says it wholeheartedly, but you can tell it pains him. It’s easy to never speak ill of the dead, either of individuals or groups. To glorify and wipe away any transgressions to ensure their memory sparkles as you grieve it.

The harder thing is to grieve everything, both the good you lost and the bad you experienced from the same source.

And there’s another level there. Something that has him patting the spot beside him and giving a heartbreakingly forced smile.

Even through it all, wariness of aspects of his own religion included, he seeks unity with the Force without reservation or resentment.

You don’t fight him anymore.

The war is over, but the battle has just begun, and so help you Maker, you’re going to fight for him to have the chance to heal.

So you sit, mimicking his position.

When he smiles again, it’s much smaller but not at all fake.

“First, clear your mind.”

*****

The days are afflicted with an underlying gloom, full of work that busies the hands but leaves the mind to wander, which wasn’t at all a luxurious thing.

But the nights are filled with unclaimed time, time in an abundance you never had with each other before.

Sometimes it’s shot with silence from the weight of the day, reveling in the presence of another as you work together on the supper dishes.

Or sometimes there’s almost an excitement, despite the labor ahead, of the plans for the place that’s now your home.

“Wouldn’t we have to have some sort of larger equipment to hoist that over the cliff edge?” You wonder aloud to Obi-Wan, speaking of the replacement unit for finally getting some very basic temperature control for the hut. “The way around back is too rough and would scratch it up, and I, for one, wouldn’t want to try pushing it up manu…”

You stop at his smirk he’s trying to hide with tilting his tea cup higher over his lips.

“...Or there’s a Jedi solution to this problem that requires neither, and you’re just letting me ramble on anyway.” You punctuate the end of your statement by tossing a pillow his direction, which just stops. Midair.

There’s so much legend surrounding Jedi, you haven’t really been sure what’s factual and what’s fairytale.

You certainly knew of some of his abilities, but he didn’t tend to elaborate on details of his missions before, and you never argued, knowing it was a liability for you to have that kind of information if anyone ever found out what you meant to Obi-Wan.

He chuckles, not even trying to look a little guilty.

Once you remember to shut your mouth, you get back to planning. “And that same principle just applies to objects of any size?”

He nods. “Same principle, just more concentration required.”

You tuck your feet under you on your chair as you think on that for a second. You’ll have to ask him to teach you that one next. Mediation alone could get rather dull.

“So, for instance, if a great amount of concentration is being spent Force-lifting an object up the cliff, it would leave a Jedi vulnerable to, say… projectiles thrown?” You throw another pillow at him, which just as easily halts next to the other, gravity defiant.

He could have lowered the first one by now. You raise a brow at the knowledge he’s putting on a show for you.

“You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid.”

More often than not, the time of the evenings are spent loving and lounging in sheets, savoring the difference of unhurried lovemaking, with no heart-wrenching farewell on the horizon.

But every time you gently ask to reach his mind, he pushes the request and your hand away.

*******

Obi-Wan’s visits to see Luke are met with a level of hostility. The man, Owen, seems wary of him, doing everything he can to cut the visit short as you and the woman, Beru, if you remember correctly, look silently to each other for some relief in the tension.

They already likely know his actual name, but you’re careful to only address Obi as “Ben” here, along with everywhere else that isn’t your hut. It’s precautionary, but if it’s for the sake of protecting Luke and Obi-Wan himself, you’ll do it without any further questions.

But Luke seems to be doing well, and that is ultimately what matters most. It’s hard to believe how quickly he’s grown in the mere weeks that you’ve been here.

The boy might be by far Obi-Wan’s greatest purpose being on this planet, but it’s not his only.

Master Yoda had given him Jedi texts, yes, but also another task for his time here.

You’re thankful to talk about either, as it seems to be one of the few things he’ll open up to you about as it pertains to himself.

But when he goes to meditate alone, calling for his mentor, his father in every right of the term, he comes back more empty than he left.

When you look at him with a too-knowing look, too infiltrating for his comfort, he easily slides into a quip.

“My old master, it seems, won’t appear unless on his own terms. I’m not sure what else I expected, honestly.”

******

You also learn that the man does not cook. Not that you consider yourself an expert, but at the very minimum, you know how to use spices, which on Tatooine come as hot as their weather.

“Is it a Jedi thing to have tasteless food, or is that just you?” You tease as he dices some sort of root at your direction while you sift through the cabinet.

His eyes are full of mischief when he’s quiet for a moment before speaking up. “I would argue there’s concrete evidence that I’m quite happy to indulge in the pleasures of taste.”

You can’t help your blush as his very pointed look.

Dinner is long forgotten after that, but the night is delectable all the same.

*****

Something has shifted in your own Force signature. Something you can’t put your finger on.

It doesn’t seem harmful or threatening in essence, but it makes you wary in a way that makes your skin itch with more than the dryness.

You try not to think much of it. After all, there’s plenty to do between tending to the vaporator, hunting, fending off the Sand People, and your learning to wield the Force.

After rumors of Tusken raiders being nearby, you ask Obi-Wan to teach you combat. This would be starting long before he normally would teach someone, he explained, but he does it anyway. It’s not exactly using the Force at first, having to start with how to even move your body in the event of attack, slowly enhancing those skills with the Force as you become more confident in them.

You look forward to it more than any other task. It gives you a strength you haven’t had before, and it’s a whole different level of connection to the Force when you trust it physically, not just in your mind.

It’s also another level of trust with Obi-Wan, knowing he’d never hurt you even as he enters the role of a potential threat, guiding you through how to handle it.

So you don’t know why today your stomach won’t agree to the way you want your body to move. You push through it anyway, despite Obi-Wan’s concerned questioning.

You lose your lunch into the rocks, and you really wish he wouldn’t pick you up to take you back into the hut, because the shift of what’s up and what’s down doesn’t help at all.

And you wish he wouldn’t dote over you the rest of the day, as if you didn’t feel useless enough already, as if the illness didn’t leave as quickly as it came.

You make a mental note to ensure you don’t let yourself become dehydrated again to that point.

*****

The trips into town are kept to a minimum, trying to keep curiosity away from the new couple. Also, there wasn’t much to do except barter and spend credits, something you both tried not to do a great deal of.

Obi-Wan was sent off with enough Republic credits to get you started here, but it was hit or miss if the vendors took them that day, and he also didn’t want to spend too much at once.

Nothing was more suspicious than surplus here.

The woman you brought the limited produce available from seemed… different this trip.

Obi-Wan was a couple of stalls down from you, negotiating with a man who had obviously jacked up the price on the items needed. Poor man didn’t know what he was in for.

You turned your attention back on to the woman in front of you, and tried to decipher what was different this time and why it felt so familiar.

As you pointed to a basket of hubba gourds, inquiring of the price, she gave you one that you knew for a fact was higher than last time.

You counter offered the same price as last time you were here, and she firmly stated her price again. Ready to stand your ground, you go to state your price again, she puts her hand to her belly, bringing her skirt in around, revealing a small bump.

“Can’t afford your low-ball offers with this one on the way, understand?”

The sky suddenly falls around you in thunderous clamor as the physical realm around you moves on, unaffected and unreachable. Almost mechanically, you place the credits she asked for on the table, not even capable of addressing the obvious manipulation.

Understanding drenches you in its brutal weight as you realize the source why she felt so different this time.

Your hands shake in their clasp on the basket as you pull yourself into a side alley, heaving your breakfast up.

Because you recognize the same difference in her is the exact same one that has changed your Force signature.

It’s because there’s a flickering light of another being’s Force signature within you.

Tagged as requested: @maybege

#obi-wan #obi wan kenobi #Obi-Wan Kenobi #obi-wan X reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan x you #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi wan x you #obi wan kenobi x you #Obi-Wan fanfic #tw: violence #tw: pregnancy #tw: trauma #obi-wan x reader #obi wan x oc

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shadowsfascination · 4 years ago

Text

Shadamy Swordland | ch. 5 | Lead the Way!

It was still early and therefore dark on a cold February morning when a caped Shadow and a cloaked Amy silently prowled around the academy grounds. Crossing the main square once again to get to the outskirts of the district, a blanket of fresh snow softly crackled under their shoes. The snow covered the herringbone-laid brick on the streets and the lack of daylight gave the snow a blueish glow. It sure has something enchanting-, Amy though to herself.

Treading lightly in attempt to make as little noise as possible, Amy exhaled in her already cold hands. The warm vapor of her breath felt nice on them for a brief moment, but they quickly grew even colder than before. She always wore gloves, but the her usual ones were thin and she forgot to put on her winter gloves this morning. Even when she’d placed them on the table next to the door, that was.

Shadow wasn’t much affected by the cold. He’d wrapped his scarf around her neck and provided her one of his sweaters as well before they’d hit the road. It wasn’t hard to captivate his scent like this and it reminded Amy of the time she had had a secret crush on her trainer. Before every training session she used to ‘accidentally’ put her coat over his on the coat rack. It provided her coat with his masculine scent and she would secretly dwell in it afterwards. Back in the days it’d felt bittersweet to her because he wasn’t interested in her and she believed of them to have neither future or potential together.

While walking in silence through the cold morning Amy wondered why they were walking in the first place. Now that she’d learnt about his special ‘chaos’ skills, he didn’t need to hide them any longer- from her that was. Shadow explained to her that using his special skills, like warping, cost a high amount of energy. With the gemstone Shadow liked to refer to as a ‘Chaos emerald’, believed to be far away from South Island, there already was little energy to begin with. The thought of wasting the precious energy for every little thing was to be unheard of to him and so they trothed onwards through the snow.

The pink hedgehog researched every bit of information available about the tale yesterday. With the help of her dear friend Miles she collected a remarkable amount of notes on the subject when she left the library. Amy felt inspired and was eager to start this adventure, especially when the actual hero of the story was involved right here, right now. Still, she felt a little uneasy because she felt like some of her notes were missing. A couple of lines got stuck in her head and she couldn’t remember whether they were something she read or written down. Her mind drifted off and she went through yesterday’s events one more time:

__________________________________________________________

“Plagues, Miles, loosen up!”

'Miles', which was Tails’ his actual name, handed his friend a paper towel to wipe her hands before diving into the historic tales together. According to Amy he took his duty of keeping the books in his library in the best condition possible way too serious. The fox had, uncharacteristic as it was, assertively told her: ‘my library, my rules’.

Amy did as she was asked and grasped a notebook from her bag. In a zealous way she penned down everything that seemed important for their search, making sure the lay-out of her notes looked like a summary for a test. She dug through the pile of books Tails had picked out for her. She chuckled when she saw the many small, coloured pieces of paper sticking out of their pages. She was lucky to have a friend like him, even when there actually was no test to prepare for.

Amy lost herself in the exciting facts she came to know. Tails busied himself with other things like speaking to visitors and organizing the books on the countless shelves. Aqueous sunlight shone through the tall, stained-glass windows, drawing long shadows every time someone passed by. The colours of the glass-paintings broke the light into more subtle beams. After an hour or so, Amy’s eyes grew tired from the pleasant warmth of the sun through the windows, slowing down her pace. She yawned and decided it was time for a break. Tails went out to the kitchen to make them some tea.

Amy wavered through the things she wrote down and contemplated about where to start searching for the gemstone. She fell back in her seat and fixed her gaze on the ceiling and was surprised to find wood-carved illustrations on some of the beams.

The guardians of the jewel are echidnas… she quietly muttered.

Amy walked up to a bookcase and started looking for the letter ‘E’ until she found an informative book about Echidnas. She grabbed the book rushed through its’ pages. A map of their planet, portrayed on the next page showed the various locations of well-known echidna populations throughout the planet. She read out loud:

“‘Echidnas can live anywhere from mountainous peaks to deserts… They are able to cope with extreme weather…’”

Suddenly the door was swung open and a blue tornado-like wind whirled through the library, swirling up loose pieces of paper to spread them all over the place. A thumping of footfalls on the wooden floor accompanied this outburst of chaos before coming to a stop and bumping into the table because ‘it’ reduced its’ speed too late. Amy’s quills were blown into her face and she hurried back to the table. Her notes fluttered around and a well-known blue hedgehog laid clumsily spread across the table; Sonic the Hedgehog.

Sonic was a student like her, training to become a knight within the high order of knights like Shadow. He was Blaze’s student, who was a close friend of hers. It was a shame the cat had so little time to hang out, Amy thought when thinking about her friend. Sonic and Amy got along fine, but didn’t talk that often.

“Whoops… Hi Amy!”

“My notes! Sonic… look at the mess you’ve made!”

She impatiently tapped her foot at him, her hands planted on her sides.

“What are you waiting for? Go help me gather them!”

He jumped up and hastily grasped some notes. Amy collected some as well and snatched the untidy pile of the now crinkled pages out of Sonic’s hands.

___________________________________________________________

Amy swallowed. Either Sonic or Tails could have found her missing pages.

Well, can’t do much about it now, so I gotta let it go.

She shrugged the thought off and stepped forward into much more white than she expected and gasped when ice cold snow dripped into her boots.

“Right on time.”

Rouge waved at the two she could barely believe got together. Shadow’s breastplate reflected the fierce light from the now upcoming sun. Rouge squinted her eyes and covered them with her hands. She was clothed in a thick robe, matching gloves and boots and a purple, turtleneck-like scarf was wrapped around her neck.

“Tone it down, will ya? I’m already not too fond of being out in the sunlight.”

“Tough luck. Now, shall we?”

He pointed to the east from where they were standing, to an entrance of a cave. The females nodded and the three of them footed their way to the foot of the mountain. Leaving the countless fir trees and the snow behind when entering the cave, Rouge couldn’t be more pleased. The climate in the cave was damp and warm, noticeably less cold than the outside air, much to her satisfaction. Amy used an easy sacred art spell to light the torch they brought and she stepped forward to lead the way.

“I’m not complaining or anything, but why are we in this place?”

“The tale says that the stone is guarded by the designated echidna family. Echidnas like to dig.”

Rouge was already halfway through the breath she’d drawn to protest when she sensed something that cut off her opposition. Even though Amy’s starting point was built on a hasty conclusion, she might be right, Rouge thought to herself. Casting a spell under her breath, Rouge attempted to draw out chaos affected spores in the air. They showed her the amount of present chaos energy in her surroundings. Even when there were none to be found yet, Shadow caught on to the increasing activity of her sacred arts.

“Trust me. I’ve done plenty of research and I’ve got a real good feeling about this.”

“It’s a little too early to trust you already, hun.”

“For starters: don’t call me that.”

In the blink of an eye Amy drew her rapier and with a swift, yet threatening move she swung it towards Rouge, forcing her to a stop. The bat blinked before lowering her eyelids. Amy found it hard to name that expression. All she knew was she didn’t care for it. She felt mocked in a way. A grin spread across Shadow’s muzzle, a hint of that mocking expression Rouge had playing his eyes.

“You don’t wanna mess with her, Rouge. Especially when she’s angry.”

“Second: I don’t think you have much of a choice but to trust us.” Amy said.

“Geez! Fine, I’ll drop the nickname if you insist.”

“I do. By the way, I’ve been wondering: how’d you two meet?”

Amy hid her rapier in its’ sheathe again. Shadow and Rouge shared a glance, the flickering light of the torch casting a warm glow on their skin.

“Go ahead, tell her. I couldn’t care less.”

“Rouge used to be a member of the high order of knights. We worked together for a period of time. She was fired though because of a rather unfortunate incident.”

“Hmph! Coward! ‘Unfortunate incident’?! You don’t even dare to call me a thief, do ya?”

“Trust me, when it comes to being blunt, you’re outmatched, but unlike you I don’t enjoy putting someone on the spot and talk trash.”

“Anyway…!”- Rouge snorted, ignored Shadow and increased the volume in her voice. “I endeavoured to steal some beautiful regal gems, got caught and have been an outcast ever since.”

“Why did you do that?” Amy asked her.

“I was pregnant and in need of money.”

“You had your loan, right? That should’ve been more than enough.” Shadow said in a crude way.

Without anyone being aware of it they had stopped walking. Rouge turned towards Shadow with crossed arms.

“You’re such an oblivious fool, Shadow! No knight in the high order can have kids while serving. They would’ve fired me either way. I was about to become a mother without a job and a roof above my head. Desperate times call for desperate measures! And on top of that: those jewels were absolutely gorgeous! It’s a shame I didn’t get my hands on them.”

Shadow’s ears fell back, gaze fixed on the ground by now. Even when she didn’t see his eyes, she read his shock from his posture.

“You … didn’t know?”

“Correct. The board clearly left out the pregnancy part when they explained your departure. How despicable.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all. Let’s forget about it already.”

“That’s no way to treat a lady!” Amy hissed.

“I never even noticed you were pregnant at the time.”

“Again: not surprised. The Shadow I knew was never the least bit interested in women or anything even slightly related to romance, sex or intimacy. That sure changed.” Rouge shifted her eyes to Amy, who smiled an awkward smile.

“I told you before: don’t interfere.”

“I’m not. Just saying it as it is.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’re in a relationship, for crying out loud! Believe you me, I’ve never had an interest in you like that. Though I couldn’t help but wonder who on the planet could ever manage to break down those sky high walls you’ve put up over the years. I haven’t seen you in ages, Shadow. To see this cute pink hedgehog beside you… I’m just surprised you know…”

Amy was unsure whether this was a compliment or if Rouge was belittling her, which was sure to be a mistake. She locked eyes with her lover, who simply shrugged and told her Rouge wasn’t wrong about her being cute.

“I have to admit I’m impressed, Amy. You even got him to defile his oath and break the rules he’s so hang up on to follow.”

“Let’s drop the subject and just keep walking, okay?” Shadow sneered.

While continuing their search, Amy asked about Rouge’s kids. Rouge unravelled they were twins; a boy and a girl who were at the age of 4 now. The bat seemed fine with her questions and so Amy asked everything she liked to know and didn’t hold back. The pregnancy had surprised the now mother of two at the time. Somehow the guy who knocked her up wasn’t around anymore and it was just her and her two little troublemakers, as she called them.

Gradually the atmosphere between the trio got a friendly note to it. Rouge even teased Shadow, setting him on edge by saying he didn’t need to worry about the kids being his. With aggravated frown and deadpanned expression he stated it was an unnecessary thing to say. He could feel her eyes bore into the back of his head and pictured the kind of grimace that surely curled her lips.

They hit a bifurcation from where the tunnel divided into two separate corridors. Rouge drew out the chaos spores in the air to determine which way to go. They looked like a turquoise equivalent of fireflies. They swirled around in the air for a moment and then concentrated on the left corridor. It was the first time Amy witnessed a visible form of chaos energy and she was mesmerised by it.

A self-complacent smile curved the full lips of the bat-woman when she passed by Amy, her curved hips swaying as she did so. She lead the way while following the swarm-like chaos spores. With every step they made into the corridor its’ amount increased like a silent promise they were on the right track. The trio, now filled with curiosity and excitement, picked up the pace and Rouge peeked around the corner. She abruptly came to a stop and gave a muffled cry.

“A dead end?!”

Rouge cursed out loud, addressing the spores like they were a person who’d betrayed her. The three looked up to the bolt of energy whizzing above their heads. Shadow tapped at his cheek with his index finger, clearly brooding over the possibilities.

“Maybe not.”

Shadow stretched out his arms and absorbed the chaos energy from the spores to grasp the hands of the others next. At their touch a blue-greenish luminary flash gushed through them, increasing both their transparency and transcendence. He briefly informed them about his plan to jump through the ceiling, letting their chaos-affected bodily forms break the molecular structure of the rocks apart. The two women strongly disagreed with his plan. Feeling rather confident about this, he decided not to care about their opinions. He simply grabbed one of their arms and jumped up.

“This should work!”

_________________________________________

Summary: Shadow, Amy and Rouge begin their search for the gemstone after Amy thoroughly prepares their adventure with the help of her dear friend Tails. While on the road, Rouge opens up about surprising events from her past. ______________________________ Pffft, this felt more like a puzzle than a story to me. Never have I dragged so many alineas up and down the page to fit everything into place. I also struggled with translations of figure of speach here. One of the downsides of writing in English for me... Even so, when I translated a small part of ch 1 into my native language, it felt both off and odd to me. Also: sorry about the lenght! - Like always: share your thoughts if you will and send me a not for annoying typo's or grammar mishaps. I'd really appreciate it! <3 - I uploaded this and some other stories/oneshots on AO3 recently. Username's the same as always

@shadamyheadcanons : promised to keep you updated

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acequeenking · 4 years ago

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Hadestober 5

5) Song As Long as Time - Hades loves his wife, always and forever. And therein lies the rub. (T; mentions of Persephone’s drug/alcohol abuse)

A man chooses his wife carefully, and that goes double for the immortal type. Least Hades had always thought so.

Hades was the last of his siblings to settle – well, the last of the ones liable to settle. He’d had plenty of time to see all the ways it could go bad. Had gone bad. Thought he could avoid the pitfalls. Married a pretty young thing, smart as a whip and just as mean, and he liked them pretty and young and mean. Kept his head down, kept her needs sated, and kept her fingers drenched in diamonds.

And still, he has fallen. Ain’t no doubt about it. One look at his wife today—every day—tells him this much.

Here is his wife, settling into her seat on the veranda, looking slightly sauced. Her first priority, of course, is setting down the two liquor bottles she’s carried from who knows where. He’s tried to get rid of the juice, but she’s outwitted him in where she hides it. And it used to be just one, but was a time when he wasn’t getting enough out of the bottle to fill his cup before she’d drunk it all, so now there’s the two and the little flask she’s taken to keeping at her breast aside. (Times is, a man feels like that flask is meant specifically to block his affections, for it caresses her heart more than he himself does.)

He tries to remember, settling down to games with his wife: has this ever worked out well? Marriage in his kind? He thinks: there’s sister Hera, of course, more devoted than almost any of the rest of them and therefore always chasing her husband, while her husband goes chasing everything that lives and breathes. Further back: mama Rhea handed them the means to seize the production of Mount Olympus, not that Hades got much of that beyond the satisfaction of seeing his father cast down to Tartarus; before that even, well, there’s his grandma, cutting a bit off of grandpa when he wanted a bit of comfort one time too many.

Always swore he wouldn’t be one of them, one of the ones whose marriage turned to salt. Had meant it when he married. He had put aside the thought of the thought of having anyone else share his bed or his life beyond this one girl; this one, precious girl. Put a lot of work into this marriage, Mr. Hades has. And she, too, has tried: she’s stayed true to him, shares at least six months out of every twelve which is less than he wants but more than he is, strictly speaking, obligated to. Sleeps in his bed, most nights, long as she ain’t passed out somewhere else. Still comes to play dominoes at any time in which he asks.

So why does he feel so alone?

His wife flutters her fan; hot down here. Doubtless she’ll complain about the heat or the lights in a moment or two, even though she’d always loved those slick, bright summer days best, back in their courtship. Seems to hate it now, but then she’d loved him too, then, and no longer seems to hold him so sacred to her heart.

“Bright down here,” His wife grouses, right on time. The usual complaint, where once she would have said hello or I missed you or Ain’t you a sight for these sore eyes or some such. He gives her a thin, tired smile, doesn’t offer a word. What can he do? They have had this argument so many times and she has never changed her opinion even once, no matter how many times a man has pointed out the reasons for the heat: his forges, his fires, his business. She profits just as much from it. Where does her ever-consumptive need for alcohol get sated, if not in his coffers?

She doesn’t say anything in response to his silence, but she starts her drink. He takes note of it: glug, glug, glug. Downs it all in one drop. His wife has always been a thirsty thing; time was, she was thirsty to know him, too. Was a time when the world was young, and she made him feel young, too.

He holds out his cup, wordlessly begging for a bit of her fruit of their vine. He hates that their relationship has come to this: this is the nicest she ever is to him, anymore, smiling lightly as she tipples a little bit of her poison his her cup. Pours herself a second, arranges the game. Smiles again, and again maybe he hopes just a bit, just a bit.

“Thank you,” he says, hoping he’ll be lucky and it might make her smile a little bit more.

“Hades,” she says. Then, unexpected: her face cracks into that desperately wanted smile, and his heart beats faster. He dares to hope.

“Yes?” He says. He likes it when she says his name. Never was a god who turned down a bit of worship in having their name called so very sweetly like, and Hades himself ain’t no exception.

She looks at him, puts down a domino. He pairs it with another, pair of sevens; lucky. Does feel lucky. What he wouldn’t give for her to reach out her hand. He stretches out his fingers.

She picks up the drink instead. Sucks a little bit of it down, not a lot. She trying to get up the courage to make a move toward him? Who knows.

Was a time he knew her well. But that time is not now. Which makes it all the more painful that he still loves her more than anything else; loves her with all his ancient heart beating. She doesn’t even look at him, just licks the rim of her glass. “Hm.” She giggles. “Hmm."

"Careful,” he says, knowing it might well provoke a negative reaction but what is a man to do? Can’t just let her go to the drink, can he? Wouldn’t be a good husband if he doesn’t try, surely? She snorts, plays another play: 7-7-7, straight up to heaven. She’ll be going back up above soon enough, spring ain’t that fair away. His mouth hardens at the thought.

“Hades,” she says, again, this time more playful. She touches his hand; then, she giggles and touches it again, and again. His smile vanishes. His wife is on something. And nothing good.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

She takes a long sip of her drink. Plays a 4. Plenty of cultures, that’s his sign; here, he doesn’t think about it. Focused totally on her, on the wife who he loves more than anything.

She just giggles, apropos of nothing. At nothing. Persephone is staring at the fucking wall like it’s a riot, and she’s so studiously not looking at him, he’d almost think it was on purpose.

“Hades,” she says, again. “Hades."

"What are you on?” He asks, as realization dawns: this is not drunkenness. This is - this is something else. And whatever she is on, whatever poison pill or plant or vapor she’s found, she must have taken it right before she got to him. She must have had to have it to get herself to go to the old man, her old ball and chain, and when did he get demoted to such? He has tried so hard. He stands, crosses the table, tugs her up. He wants to strangle her. He wants to hold her close and sob deeply into her until she is fully drenched in his sorrows.

He is deeply, deeply afraid of both feelings.

She doesn’t protest much when he grabs her, which worries him more. She tucks her hands onto his chest, pauses at his heavy old heart. He wonders: Does she know? Know how it beats for love for her? How it always has. How it always will. Does it even matter to her, anymore?

He does not know.

“Persephone,” he murmurs. “What’s gotten into you?"

"Just some good-time stuff,” she says soft. “Wanna relax.” Her pupils are large, so large; how had he not noticed? Stupid. He hates her ingesting the stupid human poisons. It scares him as she rubs her cheek against his own, and he does not know if its because he hates the thought of something else having her attention, or the thought that such things may harm her, or the thought that she cannot stand him even so much as to greet him even remotely sober.

But because he loves her so much, he does not resist when she rubs her chin against his throat, seeking contact. It is the closest they have been since the train ride, where her knees brushed his own.

“Hades,” she murmurs; she is still giggling, though he himself is not at all amused. But she is not entirely here, no? Not at all.

He pulls his large arms around her, wraps them tight, and tries to remember a garden long ago. She puts her arms around his neck, holds him as tight as he holds her.

But instead of feeling reassured, all he feels the pain of that flask, poking him right in the heart.

#Hadestown #Hadestober #Hades #Persephone #Hades/Persephone #Persephone (Hadestown)#Sad one this one #Whoops #Tw: drugs #tw: alcohol

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irarelypostanything · 4 years ago

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Operation Gamestonk

[A short story I may or may not have written while drunk]

Lewis’ entire family was slaughtered by the hated Hedge Fund Knights — they foreclosed his home, stabbed his parents, and set the manor on fire in less than a millisecond. This was the work to be expected of the Hedge Fund Knights: They could kill, flee, and rob people faster than their victims could comprehend. Even the Goldman Company warriors Lewis’ family had hired were beheaded…Lewis himself survived by some act of fate, God, or Satan. Regardless, he dedicated his life to vengeance. He made friends, shared stories, brokered alliances in the only form of currency he knew could match the violence he was grappling with. Lewis did not fight with a sword and shield, but with information. He built his own power on the back of blackmail and betrayal, and in time he afforded himself the opportunity to slaughter those who had wronged him.

But the Hedge Fund Knights returned with renewed vigor, the same way cancer was never truly gone. With nowhere left to turn, Lewis made his way to the one place no one could touch him.

Part I. The Big Short Squeeze

The Palace of Joe Rogan was protected on all sides by water and gorillas. Rogan’s island was fabled throughout the entire world for growing the finest mushrooms and the most exquisite weed. Here, thanks to Rogan’s diplomacy, there was no war. Visitors were free to negotiate as they pleased, but anyone who spilled blood on these sacred grounds was forced to smoke a blunt so potent, only Rogan himself had ever survived its vaporized sweetness.

The palace was made of gold. The armed gorillas who guarded the palace gates nodded to Lewis as he passed, lowered their guns, and stepped aside. Just outside the gates, Lewis could make out the outline of children attempting to catch a glimpse of what was inside. The courtyard featured a massive gorilla statue, along with a statue of their god: Elon Musk.

Rogan was in his chambers, drinking scotch and smoking a blunt. He recognized Lewis immediately.

“Sup, dude!” he said. “Have you ever tried to fight a gorilla?” Rogan was not a tall man, but in his mind’s eye Lewis could envision him sparring with a gorilla and winning.

“Another time,” said Lewis. “I come bearing gifts.” Lewis reached into his bag and produced two sculpted hands, both of them encrusted with diamonds. “Diamond hands.”

“Sick.”

“The time has come,” continued Lewis, “to speak to Musk, our lord and savior. You are the only entity capable of communing with Him, for your weed is powerful enough to summon even a god.”

“Okay.” Rogan crushed weed in his hand, then lined it on the ground in a Tesla logo. As soon as he finished, the powder turned to fire.

“This will take around 30 seconds,” said Rogan. “By the way, have you been in touch with my new friend, Lord Robinhood?”

“Lord Robinhood?” asked Lewis. “How did he become a lord?”

“Not sure.”

“Don’t you need to be rich to buy lordship? If his product is zero commision, how does Lord Robinhood make money?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Elon Musk was said to have been a bridge between gods and humans, someone who took a mortal form so that ordinary men could speak to someone they understood. Musk would end climate change, build a massive tunnel, and provide humans with immortality long before AI would have the chance to commit mass genocide. But the words of Musk were cryptic. When he spoke, it was through a medium. His words only came several characters at a time.

“Gamestonk,” said Rogan.

“What?”

“That’s all he said. Gamestonk. Do you know what that means?”

“I have to go.”

“Don’t you want to stay and talk about gorillas, first?”

Lewis would sail to his hometown, as quickly as he could, and when he got there he would send ravens to every great king, lord, and priest in the land. The time of reckoning had finally come.

Part II. The Diamond Hands

The city of Gamestop was lame and inefficient — you had to talk to a person to buy anything, and unlike the city of Amazon it had some really bad customer service. When Hedge Fund Knight Kenneth rode in, the Gamestop peasants treated him with scorn…for people so stupid, these ones learned quickly. Before they had time to flee, Kenneth had killed 20 of the town’s youngest children and left a still-bleeding head in the bed of each child’s respective mother.

Their mission was simple: They were going to pretend to supply Gamestop with stores of food and horses, when in reality their intent was to watch the peasants die. They had bet on it. If Gamestop withered and died, like they knew it would, the idiots in Burry would be forced to pay out their lost bet. The Hedge Fund Knights, in their frequent pillaging and raping, knew that it was only a matter of time before Gamestop fell.

But something was off today. Everywhere he looked, Kenneth saw mysterious markings that consisted of a diamond with hands. What did this mean? He caught a hooded man attempting to paint these symbols on a store. In an instant, Kenneth had him by the neck.

“What are you doing?” Kenneth demanded. With surprising force, the hooded man wriggled free. Kenneth drew his sword, produced a magical (and high) frequency, and teleported it direct beneath the hooded man’s throat. As soon as he attempted to make the killing blow, the hooded man grabbed Kenneth’s throat and threw him.

And just like that, in an instant, Kenneth was dead.

The hooded man discarded his robe. He had slicked-blonde hair, sunglasses, and a $20,000 suit. His hands, which had apparently granted him superhuman strength, were no ordinary hands. They were made of diamond.

Around him, the villagers could hear the dreaded high frequency of the Hedge Fund Knights. One by one, each knight reappeared to kill the troublemaker — just as quickly, each Hedge Fund Knight died.

“It can’t be!” said a villager, in disbelief. “Are you…are you with WallStreetBets?”

The man nodded. The first villager kneeled.

“Why are you kneeling?” asked the second villager. “WallStreetBets is nothing but shitposting dumb ass millennials. You know about as much about investing as your average 4Chan user does about being charming.”

“Forgive him!” cried the first villager, “he knows not what he says. I know of your the heroic actions of ControlTheNarrative, as well as your selfless box spreads! You are our saviors, and you are the only ones capable of saving us.

“Now tell me, oh great one, will you save us?”

The man nodded.

“Thank heavens! Musk be good! Will you take Gamestop out of its position?”

“I’ll take it to the moon,” said the man.

Part III. The Citadel

The forces of WallStreetBets were divided. For five days they had held against the combined forces of House Citadel and House Melvin, but their provisions were running low.

It was the afternoon. It was 100 degrees. Lewis thought that this blonde man’s sunglasses were fitting, but not his suit. He must have been sweating bullets.

“Options!” shouted a nearby fisherman, “get your options while they’re fresh!” Lewis ignored him, as did DiamondHands.

“You’ve managed to seize Gamestop,” said Lewis, “what’s your plan now?”

“Hold.”

“What?”

“Hold.”

Lewis was incredulous. Since the Robinhood embargo, a move some believed was the direct result of a bribe from the Hedge Fund Knights to Lord Robinhood himself, many of the WallStreetBets forces had died. Some had taken gold and fled, obviously benefitting from the attack without bearing the risk. Some, in fact the majority, had simply shitposted. They probably died, too, but no one could really keep track of that sort of thing.

“WallStreetBets is chaos,” said Lewis. “Some of you are brilliant, some of you are simply in for the ride. What was all of this for?”

“Hold.”

“Did you ever have a plan? Was this an act of vengeance, a self-interested coup for the sake of profit? What is this? What do you believe in?”

“Holding.”

“Your forces are dwindling. All of this might come apart.”

“It won’t come apart if we hold.”

Lewis looked out at the burning city, the diamond hands flags, and the flag of the shiba inu. He wondered what was coming next.

#fiction #short story #the big short squeeze #gamestop #hedge fund #robinhood #gamestonk #prose

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shinobirain24 · 4 years ago

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Water and Ice- Chapter 4: Poseidon Island, Where we First Met

Poseidon Island, the land of the seas. During the Great War of Remnant, it was once a peaceful land with resources of water dust crystals. The people on land where once called the "sea people," for those who once lived here. Warriors basically have water-based semblances. No ruler, no laws, only harmony have been stored until the war started. Since the land were affiliated with either of the kingdoms. Neither land are trusted for protection, instead, they trained to protect themselves. Rumors has it that the Sea People are skilled swimmers, and with it, that's when their semblances are awakened. Some can turn water into ice, others can turn it into vapor. or rather create a mist. Manipulate the water around them, or to create a storm. But to the cost of their land to become into ruins, each of the rulers of Vale, Vacuo, Mistral and Atlas tried to gain alliances to battle in the Great War. But they all refused, not wanting to endanger the island. Despite the offers given with weapons and dust. Still, a general of the island refuses to refrain himself from fighting for his people and took a stand against all four kingdoms, starting with Vale and Atlas. It was a biggest mistake that the rebellion went wrong, as the island was attacked by the Sea Feilong.

The moon stones are sacred gems created by the the four seasonal maidens, women warriors who can control their semblances and elements without the need of dusts. Some are impossible to find, but with it, it lacks the use of dust to double the semblances and muster their speed, based on the seasons the huntsmen were born from. When it glows brightly, it dissipates the Grimm around them. Like the silver-eyed warriors, they are also feared by the Grimm. It was trusted to the civilians in Poseidon Island to guard them with their lives in the Ocean Temple. It can upgrade any huntsmen only in the night. The moon stones are said to be the pieces of the shattered moon since the beginning of humanity. As a result they turned into meteorites and landed in Remnant.

A white-haired boy with sapphire blue eyes, wears a white jacket and black bodysuit and laced boots and grey knee pads. On his back is a trident he is armed with. Then a girl with long aqua blue hair with a silver heart-shaped hairpin and icy blue eyes, wearing a white dress with teal sequins on her top part and a silver leather jacket overall, and matching heel boots with a rapier on her right waist. Both are walking around the island with the boy reading the map while the girl is on a lookout for any Grimm. "Are you sure you wanted to go through with this? We're not huntsmen yet. We'll get into trouble if out uncle finds out

"Everything's going to be fine, Sis. We can just get back before dinner." The boy said to his younger sister.

"Remind me again why are we here for?" She asked.

"Because according to legend, there should be moon stones around the area. The Ocean Temple should not be far from here."

"From where I got from the rest. Our semblances are very strong because we descended from the Sea People. But the moon stones are just a myth, right?" She asked again.

"Nobody can prove it was just a myth unless we see for ourselves." He scoffed.

"I hate it when you're right." She sighed. "After all, it's not like the moons stones are staying in one place for long."

"Sis, come on, with the moon stones, we'll be able to fight harder to fight in another war to protect Remnant. We're still at war here."

"I'm not sure if there will be another war, Tristan. Besides, you're the first in our family to have two semblances, which no huntsmen or huntresses can have." Said the young girl.

"Hey, there might be for some time, and that's why they're letting us go outside to train."

"Not like this." She sighed again. Continuing the trail to find one of the moon stones. "Although, when I heard that this is where our parents first met before their academy days, it was very romantic. They didn't remember it at first." She closed her hands while resting them on her right cheek while remembering the romantic story. "If only I met someone who is genuine and very kind, also brave. Just imagine." She said lovingly.

"Well, be sure that guy isn't anything like my ex-girlfriend." Said Tristan. "She's a crazy nut-job."

37 years ago

In the same island, a young man at the age of 15 with blue hair with amber-colored goggles and a red jacket with a dress shirt under is having a class trip with fellow classmates in Sanctum Academy, a combat school in Argus before he went to Haven. Since the island was in ruins after the Great War, it is now a tourist trap for future huntsmen and huntresses. "Alright class, if you take a good look in front of you, you can see the Ocean Temple that was once known as the Guardian Palace for the balance of the seas. But sometime in the Great War, when one of the moon stones were stolen, it angered the temple and floods the place as a punishment." Explained the tour guide. Gesturing the students to follow him. The boy followed along without looking up with his goggles over his eyes. Looking down writing down notes for his history test about the Great War, until he bumped into someone and dropped his notebook.

"Ow! Watch where you're going you dolt!" The boy looked up to see a white-haired girl around his age tied to the upper right side with a silver tiara-like hairpin. A white dress with a coat overall. Opening her eyes revealed her ice-blue eyes. What's also seeable is a small scar on her left eye. The boy snapped out of it and lends the girl a hand to help her up, and picked up a bag she was carrying. "Oh man, I am very sorry." He apologized, but the girl turned her back in anger. But then walked over to him.

"It's not often that men could even apologize." She scoffed.

"Look, I'm just trying to be nice around here, okay?" She then placed her fingers onto his goggles to push them up.

"Honestly, you should be more careful. You could've hurt somebody or yourself." She advised in a cold manner, but also in a civil tone of her voice. She then proceed to push his goggles above his forehead. But then gasped softly when she gazed into his deep-blue eyes, captivating the girl. Eyes that shine like the stars in midnight. "Um, are you okay?" He asked, this woke the girl and blinked three times before backing off. "I'm so sorry! It's just that, I was just lifting your goggles cause I was afraid you might bumped into anybody else and your eyes look so...so...argh! She grasped her head with both hands in nervousness. Her face feels warm just facing him. Her heart raced nonstop. He then saw something over her eye, as he almost forgot what he saw.

"Hey, is that a scar over your eye?" He asked.

"Ahh! Don't look at it!" She yelled, covering her eye. Feeling humiliated by the scar she received during training.

"No, I didn't mean it. I meant to say that it's actually cute." He said it, smiling at her. She then looked at him again with a look of curiosity. "Huh?"

"I mean, it's nothing to be ashamed of. It's a symbol of a warrior's pride. From what I can tell, you're pushing yourself so hard in huntsmen training. When wearing scars, it's a medals for something to be proud of. It also represents bravery. Take it from me, I have a brother who has a scar after fighting a Nevermore." He assured her with a brave expression on his face. "By the way, I never seen you around before. Are you from a different class of Sanctum?"

"No. I'm from Atlas. This is my first time outside of the kingdom and my sister has permission to take me there for a vacation." The girl sat next to the boy on a rock, they forgot that they're in groups, but this moment seem to last forever as the day sets into night.

"Your sister graduated from Atlas Academy, huh?"

"Yes. She was at the top of her ranks in the school. Ironwood did say she is a promising prodigy after my grandfather taught her to unlock her semblance. She graduated and become a soldier for the military. I haven't seen her much. But to be honest, she is the reason I was inspired to become a huntress. But I wanted to enroll to Beacon. So I have to pass many trials to get here." She explained, hearing her story about her sister reminded him of how much he looked up to his older brother. "The thing is, I wanted to go to Beacon to get out of my father's shadow. It's safe to say that he can be very controlling for as long as I can remember. My sister was cut from her inheritance after she decided to join the military. But, that move have lit up the fire in her pride that day. My father couldn't care less about her when she has to fight for the good of Remnant." Hearing that story got the boy concerned if the girl is having some troubles at home.

"You know, the way I see my brother. He's tough, and way smarter. He graduated from Haven. He may not be the leader, but he's also the most reliable member of his team. Just thinking about him makes me want to enroll to Haven. He's always been keeping his cool in his days as a student. But, he's also my inspiration to become a huntsmen. That's why I wanted to be like him. However, during a mission, he was killed in an accident a year ago." This got the girl in shock when she hears the story. "And somewhat, it was my fault. I could've saved him that day because of my semblance." This got the girl to place her hand over his, feeling sorry for his loss. "I am sorry." She said softly. Then the boy looked at her and gazed into her eyes.

"Don't be. All I want to do now is to honor him by becoming a hunter. The first thing I wanted to do first is to conquer my fear. For you, keep your hopes up until you become a full-fledged huntress. Cause by the end of the day, month and year, you'll be a beautiful star who fought for a warrior's honor."

"Well, I hope you can. Keep your brother at heart, okay?" They then look up at the meteorites showering at the sky. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" She asked.

"Yeah. It is." He replied. They still held hands for hours, until a woman's voice is heard. "Weiss, time to go!" Called her elder sister.

"Coming, Winter! I have to go, I can't worry my sister one bit." She said, and he nodded. She then turned back and asked him. "Hey, will there be chance to meet again? I haven't caught your name yet."

"You'll have to find out yourself. But, if there's a chance, let's meet again sometime, Snow Angel." He winked. She quickly turn away and blushed at the nickname he gave her. While heading back to her sister who was waiting for her in the pier to head back to Atlas.

Snow Angel. I really like it. He's so dreamy. She thought.

7 years later

Neptune, Weiss, Drey, Rick and the 12 other huntsmen have decided to camp out for the night since it took them 17 hours for the ferry to stir to Poseidon Island. The current conditions of the island are still in ruins. It was closed for some of the reasons, but it's only available for any huntsmen and huntresses to investigate the disappearances of fellow hunters who vanished in thin air. But Weiss wonders if this is all a trap, from what she heard the day before the mission is that her sister ran from Atlas the week after she was promoted as General of the Atlas Military. They all sleep soundly by the bonfire.

Weiss is startled by the sounds of Neptune whimpering, and hyperventilating. "No...can't breath. Stop. No...stay back. Stay back." He was tossing and turning on the ground. Wondering if that's what's bothering him in his sleep. But then he cracked his eyes opened. "Ah! Jupiter!" He then took a deep breathe, and walked to the nearby pond behind the pillars of a colosseum. Weiss secretly follows, for unknown reasons, she couldn't forgive him for something. But she is also worried for his wellbeing, she hid behind a pillar and watches him reaching out to the pond. But once again his hand shakes when he got closer and closer. But he pulls back again. "Why can't I do this?!" Enraged, he threw a rock at a nearby pillar where Weiss was standing, but it missed her. It only created a dent in front. He then spotted her. "Weiss?" He said softly as he calmed down staring at the eyes of a huntress. She then ran back to the camp as she began to question herself in silence before he can apologize.

Neptune, what has gotten into you? I never saw you act this way before. Why did you take this mission? I'm sorry I haven't forgiven you, and for shutting you out. But I can't risk losing you. She thought with tears in her eyes.

#iceberg rwby #weiss schnee #rwby fanfiction #neptune vasilias #Jupiter Vasilias #Weiss x Neptune #Arctic Ocean #Icy Seas

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monsterlovinghours · 5 years ago

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More Than I Deserve

So here is the long coming second chapter of my self insert fic. @beetlejuicebeadoll this is for you, sorry about the number of times I said I'd post and didn't.

Tw: mentions of death, suicide attempt, depression. Chapter 1 is here.

The first few weeks in his new digs had been...frustrating. She just didn't seem scared of anything. Bugs crawling on her? She laughed and swatted them off, replying that she had lived in roach infested apartments and this was nothing new. Severed head in the cupboard? Nothing more than a gasp, a press of her hand to her chest, and a "very funny!" Shadowy figure standing in her closet, doors opening and closing on their own, disembodied voices and reaching hands clawing out from the walls? Acknowledged and dismissed, as if she were observing the weather. Not a single scream. Beetlejuice tugged at his hair, growling to himself. What the fuck was this weirdo afraid of?

Finally, when she had had the audacity to laugh at a dark figure skittering across her ceiling, he appeared in her room, hands thrown above his head and scowling. "Alright, I give up. What the fuck makes you tick? What are you afraid of?"

Molly had stared at him for a moment, then shrugged, lips pressed together as if to suppress a smile. "When you know the house is haunted, it isn't scary anymore."

He opened his mouth to argue, then sighed, dropping his head in defeat. "You make a good point."

"In any case, why do you have to try and scare me? Do you want me to leave?" Her voice held notes of earnestness, genuine curiosity. "Is it the house you want?"

"No! No, I don't want your house, goddammit." He folded his arms grumpily across his chest; this wasn't how a haunting worked. "This is just how these things go. This is what I'm supposed to do."

"Why?"

Beetlejuice paused, absently tugging some loose threads from the sleeve of his blazer. It was a while before he answered, his voice still carrying that signature rasp, and yet softer somehow. Pensive. "Y'know...I don't really know anymore."

Molly stood from the chair she had been reclining on, and reached for him. Out of instinct, he drew back, looking untrustingly down at her hand, and her heart gave an odd lurch in her chest. Still, she let her fingertips graze over the back of his hand, his skin as cold and smooth as marble. "Maybe you can just, you know, live here. Well, not live." To her relief, a hint of a smile tugged at his lips. "Its okay for you to just be here. Honestly, I kind of like having you around."

He snickered. "Babes, you're so full of shit, your eyes are turning brown." His posture relaxed a bit as she laughed, and she took his hand between hers, warm palms pressing around his fingers. God, that felt nice.

"No, really. The house doesn't feel so empty now. It's a welcome change."

Once again, he chuckled, grasping her wrist and tugging her against his side, slinging his arm over her shoulder. "You're fucking weird, kid."

It did take some adjusting; after all, there was a bit of a learning curve when it came to dead/living cohabitation. But once he stopped pushing her out of bed because he was bored and she got used to the smell of damp earth on everything, it was remarkably pleasant. He was an oddly good conversationalist, having been around for longer than she could really comprehend, and would sit cross legged in midair, gesticulating wildly, his expression animated as he told her story after story. She didn't shy away from the fact that he had killed people; but then, by now, he didn't expect her to. "You're not trying to kill me," she explained, "so what does it matter? You're a demon, I expect human lives aren't as sacred to you."

"You know, you probably shouldn't be as chill with this as you are," he joked.

"Mm. Maybe. Death doesn't really faze me anymore."

The smile on his face faded slightly. "Lose someone?"

A pause. "Everyone." She looked up at him, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "Why do you think no one ever comes by?"

All was quiet for a long, long moment. “Look, babes, I’m not that great with...y’know, human shit. Emotions.” With a sigh, he settled down beside her, legs kicked up on her coffee table. “But if you wanna talk about it, I’m listening.”

She lifted her head, a soft smile on her face that didn’t touch her eyes. “Careful, or I might think you have a heart in there somewhere.” Her gaze faraway, she spoke, her tone carefully measured and emotionless. “Where I grew up wasn’t exactly a great place. It was a small town, most people were dirt poor. We weren’t well-off, but we were comfortable enough. Grew up just fine. The neighbor kids weren’t as lucky. Their parents made meth and child abuse into an art form.” Absently, she picked at the chipping dark green nail polish on her right thumb, still gazing into the far distance. “When I was fifteen, my older sister had her high school graduation party at the house, and my whole family came. Like, the whole family. Aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins. The whole gang. I was a little shit and didn’t want to socialize, so I snuck out and went for a walk. Didn’t feel like they’d miss me anyway. Turns out the neighbors were cooking up a big batch of fresh methamphetamine that day, and something went wrong. The explosion was so big it took out half the block. My house and everyone inside included.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. My whole family, vaporized.”

“Jesus, kid,” he said softly.

“It took me five years to really process everything, you know? At first it was pandemonium. The state got involved, since I was a minor, and no one could figure out what to do with me. Too old for foster care, not old enough to live on my own. I was checked out, barely spoke to anyone, and frankly didn’t care if I lived or died, so I literally didn’t give a shit where I ended up. I floated around for a while, until I was sixteen and could legally live on my own. Turns out Mom, Dad, and both sets of grandparents named me in their wills, so I ended up inheriting quite a bit of money. I bought a shitty apartment in a shitty little town and did nothing but marinate in a delicious stew of survivor’s guilt and PTSD for four more years.” There was bitterness in her tone; he could almost taste it in his mouth. She returned to picking at her nail polish, not even attempting to look up at him. “Then I started getting my shit together. Got my GED, took online university courses and got a bachelor’s in library science. Started going to therapy, started talking to people. Got a job. I relearned how to be a person all over again. I even got a girlfriend.” At last, she looked up at him, as if challenging him to say something, or perhaps gauging his reaction to her sexuality. When his expression didn’t change, Molly lowered her head and continued.

“She lived upstate, about a two hour drive away. We met online through a literature forum.”

“Pff. Nerd.”

Molly gave a soft huff of something close to laughter. “We hit it off, I took a leap and asked her out, and we dated long distance for two years. She was the first person I was ever in love with, the only person I’d gotten close to since my family died. Then around Christmas on the third year of our relationship, she was driving down to see me...and she hit black ice and went off the road. Killed instantly. I found out about it two days later because her brother found me on Facebook. Her parents...they didn’t know she was a lesbian. They would have made her life hell if they knew. I couldn’t even attend her funeral.” Once she stopped talking, the house seemed unnaturally silent, as if even small sounds were muffled under the weight of her suffering. “After that, I just kind of...shut off again. I figured I was cursed or something, that I wasn’t meant to be around people. I bought this house, found a job editing online articles, and that is the story of how I ended up being the town recluse at the ripe old age of twenty-eight.”

He was quiet; what could he possibly say? Throughout his long, long existence, he had seen worse things than the life she had described to him...but not many, and not by much. There hadn’t been a single human interaction in the time he’d been here, he hadn’t seen her leave the house except to take the trash to the curb once a week. Yet, she seemed...stable. At peace with it all somehow. There was a current of strength running through her, of fire-tested resilience that he begrudgingly admired. Beetlejuice glanced down at her and saw that she was staring expectantly up at him, as if waiting to see what he was going to say. With an easy smirk, he knocked her shoulder with his. “So...you’re into the ladies, huh?”

Molly was silent for a moment, then burst out laughing, awkwardly swinging her fist to land a glancing blow on his chest. “Really, you dick? I bare my soul, my whole tragic life story, and the only thing you take away is that I’m into girls?!”

Chortling, he dodged her second swing easily, darting forward to perch on the edge of the coffee table. “Can’t help having a one-track mind, babes. That explains why you haven’t fallen for my roguish charms yet.”

Scoffing good-naturedly, she relaxed back into the couch; he was relieved to see her posture ease, her body more relaxed after a break in the tension. “Oh, is that what you call it? Besides, what makes you think I’m only into girls, slick?”

He raised an eyebrow, all but leering at her. “Swinging for both teams, doll? I won’t lie...that’s pretty fucking hot.” He could practically hear her eyes rolling, but she laughed softly. It was quiet for a moment, then he reached for her hand. Ever since she had taken his in her own, he had slowly been testing the boundaries of how much touch she allowed. Hand-holding was fine, a casual arm slung over her shoulder was tolerated, but anything beyond that and she would flinch and ease away. Though, knowing what he knew now of her past, touch must be something she was unused to. Now, as easy as anything, his fingers meshed between hers, squeezing softly and holding back a sigh at the hot press of her living skin against his. “Hey, uh...thanks for telling me. Family shit isn’t easy to deal with.”

A beat, and then she squeezed back. "Thanks for listening." She smiled. "You know, for being a demon...you're pretty nice to me."

"Yeah? Well, don't read into it, babes, I'm just trying to get in your pants."

His eyes followed her as she laughed and stood, lingering with her hand in his for a moment before letting go and padding barefoot into the kitchen, a strange expression creasing his brow when her back was turned. Slowly, at the very roots, the tiniest flush of pink tinged his hair. This wasn't how hauntings were supposed to go. The dead were not supposed to feel, especially for the living. This was unnatural, topsy-turvy, wrong in every way, but even so, he was grateful that she had decided to try that summoning spell; after observing her in his time here and learning about her usual practice (what she called "green magic"), he knew now how outside the norm such a dark spell was. Yet she had called him, said his name with no hesitation. Hell, she had all but put out a welcome mat. For him. The pink in his hair slowly began to spread upwards as the barest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth; not a smirk, a grin, or a disingenuous lopsided curl of the lip, but a genuine smile. Perhaps just being here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice the musical #tw mentions of suicide #tw mentions of death #chapter 3 is forthcoming

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realityhelixcreates · 5 years ago

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Lasabrjotr Chapter 53: Cleanup

Chapters: 53/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: none Relationships: Loki x Reader (Getting There) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Keep Walkin, Nothing To See Here,

Aftermath and looking forward. A small confession

The next few days were spent out among the camps, helping to organize their rebuilding. You had to write down who lost their tents to the fires, what belongings needed to be replaced, and who was sharing their tents with whom. The Icelandic authorities had come in force-probably every cop and emergency serviceperson on the island-to oust the militant camp. Large portions of it had been found empty, which was concerning, but those remaining mostly went peacefully. Either they felt they had accomplished what they had come to do, or they realized that they never would.

Whoever owned those empty tents had either escaped into the countryside or the city, or, more worryingly, had slipped in among the other camps, and were hiding there.

There were a total of five bodies that needed to be transported to Akureyri for storage, so that their families could be notified. Three militants, one protester, and one believer. That was not counting the two who had vaporized. Nobody seemed able to identify who they had been.

As you logged everything, you also recorded names, and thus found out about a number of missing persons. Several people from the protester's and believer's camps had fled in the attacks, and not yet returned. Fritjof was still missing and Sofie's friend, Savane, was adamant that he would not have run away from the battle.

The protesters camp was coming apart. Many people just quietly packed up their things and left, much like the unsavory elements of Trolekaerhalla had done months before. Several others had asked to join the believer's camp, and their leaders had convened for a quick Thing to discuss the subject. Eventually, they agreed, with some conditions: while no one absolutely had to worship the gods, they did have to hold a certain respect for them and Asgard. No more angry signs, no more blame. A curiosity about Asgard, and the will to learn was all that was required.

The remainder of the protester's camp consolidated, re-pitching their tents in a tight circle and refusing to discuss anything further with you.

Trolekaerhalla was just itching to get started on their longhouses, each person trying to decide what they could offer to the construction, looking up how to make this and that, getting in touch with people who knew more about how to build such things.

There were going to be six to start with, arranged in rows, with room to move or store things between them. People who preferred their tents could set them up in the alleys the houses created, which would shield the tents from some bad weather, and allow the inhabitants to easily get inside, if things got too harsh outside. There were plans being made to create areas of outdoor worship, little shrines to each god, called hörgr, and a large building for indoor worship as well. Sofie told you that it would be based on a probably mythical temple that was supposed to have existed in Uppsala, Sweden, but now was only remembered in the writings of people who described it after it was destroyed.

She said the grand temple was supposedly wrapped in gold chains, but that they would probably just carve chain patterns out of wood or plaster, and paint them. That all the gods would have their little niches and thrones inside, and that they would plant some trees outside, in remembrance of the sacred grove that grew outside the old temple, but that they wouldn't sacrifice any living things there.

“Our ancestors did it to please the gods, and ensure their prosperity for the coming year.” She said. “But the gods have asked nothing of us, and we are already prosperous, so there's just no need for it anymore. It would just be uncivilized now.”

Though it was weirdly exhausting, just taking notes all day, you were strangely excited about building houses. You wanted to stack stones, you wanted to hammer nails, you wanted to cut thatch. You didn't even know for sure what thatch was, but you wanted to!

You were pretty sure Loki would not want you out here, putting together buildings, but he surprised you by not only saying that expected you to do so, but that he would be aiding in the construction himself! Not just supervising, but actually building, with his own two godly hands.

“It will confer a blessing on the building.” He said. “At least, it will seem to. My blessings are...rather fraught, I'm afraid.”

“I think the bragging rights alone would be worth it to them.” You said. “Sofie told me that some of the pagan groups from elsewhere in Scandinavia are pretty jealous. Some of them are gonna be sending official representatives, if they haven't already. But she also tells me that some of those groups are pretty racist, so I think they are bound for disappointment. Serves them right though. Oh, she wants to know if she has permission to film you next time you go out there. She was too nervous to ask.”

Loki thought about it. “Tell her to ask me herself. Only then, may she know my answer.”

“Tough, but fair.” You said, texting Sofie. “When will we start building?”

“Oh, it will be some weeks yet. We need to measure out foundations, how much we need in the way of materials, where we are getting the materials, and how long it will take them to arrive. This is going to be a mostly human endeavor: our builders and the Bifrost are still tied up in the construction of Asgard.

But there are so many humans out there, from so many different backgrounds, and they have so many connections. Some already know where to get the stone and wood, and some even already have building tools being sent to them from home. They are just as impatient to get started as you are, my dear. My, but humans really do love to build, don't they?”

You had resumed your lessons in magic and knifework, though Loki kept it light and still made you check in with Bjarkhild once a day, to make sure your head was okay. You didn't mind; the check ins never lasted long, and it gave you the chance to speak with the injured humans before they were all released. Most of them marveled at the way the machines had healed their burns and broken bones-much more efficiently, now that there was more human data programmed in.

“Let them get their county established, and maybe soon, these things will be all over the world.” You had said, and that made even the angriest of the protesters think.

You had presented to the scholars the leaf you had taken from your most recent shared dream of Titan, and they had placed it next to a vial, containing a tiny amount of the orange dust that had come through the last time- likely scraped from your blankets for study.

You really wanted to get to the bottom of this. What if this dream travel one day took you some place you couldn't survive? You had been safe so far, the blue light that helped you fly had also protected you from freezing on Jotunheim, but who knew if that would last.

Loki seemed as clueless as you on this subject, even though it never happened without him. All he could say for sure was that magic was involved.

Your magic was becoming more precise, though you still hadn't tried to move anything big again, not since the huldra. That had been far too much. However, your skill at moving small things with increased accuracy was coming along great!

So great, in fact, that when Loki had attempted to prank you at dinner by having hot peppers hidden in your food, you had gotten back at him by teleporting the peppers into his own food, and had the immense satisfaction of watching him go nearly purple in the face and pour sweat in front of Brunnhilde and his brother.

The Valkyrie general had, of course, laughed uncontrollably, and declared you a national treasure, and even Loki had congratulated you, once he could speak again.

It turned out that, while both Thor and Loki had an insatiable sweet tooth, neither of them had any tolerance for spicy food, and that opened up plenty of opportunities for mischief. Loki was one day going to fall prey to hot cinnamon candies, though you would save that one until a time when he needed a proper punishment.

Your knifework was still nothing to write home about, though you knew, with all the exercise you did, both with Loki, and with the Valkyries, that your body was getting stronger. Borgliot still taught you, but she didn't flirt anymore. That was fine. You knew she was a good catch, but she did still intimidate you a bit, while Loki didn't so much anymore. Maybe it was because you had seen more sides of him than you had of her. Still, you hoped she would find a nice lady soon.

You took ever more lessons with Saga, learning Asgardian law and language. Lofn still shot you sly little smiles, either because she thought you weren't looking, or because she wanted you to see. You didn't think she was making fun of you anymore, but you also didn't know what else her game might be.

And Loki grew ever softer with you, as the weeks went by, relying more on your emotional support, and trying to offer you the same. Often you found yourself sitting beside him, in front of his fire, discussing little anecdotes from your childhoods, planning out the next day's activities. There were always things he was withholding from you, which you expected from him, but it also seemed like they were very important things. The kind of things one probably should discuss with one's Seidkona, but also the kind of things that shouldn't be forced. You were not a professional therapist, after all, you didn't know how to deal with everything he might be feeling. You could just barely deal with what you were feeling.

And, oh boy, were you feeling.

You lusted after him, and then felt bad about it. He had no idea what you were thinking and feeling about him, and you had abandoned the idea of just coming out and confessing to him after all the trouble with the huldra. That tinged your secret fantasies with a patina of guilt, made the pleasure you felt in his presence just a little dingy. When all you had to touch yourself to was the vivid memory of that horrid 'kiss'-how it had felt so good, but had been under such bad circumstances-you couldn't help but feel conflicted.

You wanted him to replace that memory. You wanted him to just grab you by the shoulders during one of these thickly romantic evenings in front of the fire and kiss you silly. Steal your breath, hold you too hard, leave your lips bruised from overuse, any release for this emotion.

And he had no clue.

You went to bed every night, charged with desire, while he slept blissfully unaware, just a few yards away. It was driving you nuts.

You would keep it on lockdown though. You were an adult, you could handle this.

You could handle it.

*****

Fritjof limped back into camp a week after he had disappeared, bedraggled and shivering, but very alive. He had been welcomed back like a hero, to his very visible shock; his hurts patched up, and his presence celebrated.

Once they'd pried Savane away from him, he'd been brought to the rest of the camp leaders, to explain where he'd been.

“I was kidnapped off the battlefield.” He confirmed. “They tied me up and put me in this small camping trailer, like the ones some tourists use. They drove it to a new place every day. I don't know who they were, but they took things from me. Blood. Hair. Skin. I don't know why. I escaped because one of them was stupid enough to stop for a smoke break too close to the trailer. I had to walk back from Mývatn though. Couldn't use the road.”

Sofie got him another blanket and something hot to eat.

“Frit, once you've rested, you need to present yourself at the gates.” She said. “I believe they want to speak with you.”

He nodded. “Do I have to leave?”

“No, of course not.” She said. “Why would you have to leave?”

“Because,” He called the central fire to his hand, then put it back. “of what I am.”

“Oh, Frit. We don't care what you are. It's who you are that's important.”

“You know that's not true.”

“It is here.” Sofie assured him.

*****

“So he's a mutant?”

“Is that what you call human Aesir?” Loki asked. “Seems strangely disrespectful to some of your people's greatest heroes.”

“What are you talking about?” You asked. The jerk from the camp-Fritjof, you remembered-had presented himself for 'processing', and Loki had decided to question him in person. He seemed much less of a jerk now, much more subdued, though he refused to look directly at you, and spoke only Danish the entire time. Loki claimed that he was ashamed of himself, that he could tell a great change had come over the young man. “I thought mutants were new?”

“New according to whom? It's possible the terminology is new. Certainly, your ancestors probably did not call figures such as Herakles 'mutants', if only because they liked their bones where they were. But you know now that mages have existed on your world for thousands of years. Why not mutants? This is one of the planets where Aesir have been found. Many became legends; you would have heard of a few, I'm sure.”

“Wait does that mean that you, and Thor, and Saga are just mutants?”

“...'Just'?” Loki repeated, looking insulted. “Pray, what is 'just' about me? I am Aesir. You know of my greatness. Your 'mutants' are Aesir as well, and if your species had even a fraction of the religious freedom you claim to, you would be worshiping your native Aesir just like you used to do alongside my father!”

“Woah, woah, geez I'm sorry!” You held your hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “I was just trying to understand. I don't mean the word as an insult.”

“It is reductive.” He insisted. “Neither of us needs to like him, but he is Aesir nevertheless, and when you refer to him in such a way, you also refer to me as such...oh.”

“Epiphany?” You asked.

“Perhaps. Though I wonder why you do not seem to think that you are one of these mutants yourself?”

“Well...because I'm not.”

“You think not?” He grasped your wrist, teasing the mark on your hand with a fingertip. “Yet you wield powers that other humans do not. Does that not set you apart?”

“It does, it's just...Magic is something you learn, isn't it? Mutation is something you're born with.”

“We do not yet know from whence your power springs.”

“Wasn't it from you?” You caught his gaze, while he continued tracing the mark. “I wasn't able to do any of this until I met you. Until this rune.”

“Ah, but I did not lay this mark upon you. Something else inflicted it on the both of us. What that was, exactly, remains a mystery to me. Perhaps it was the Norns, weaving our strings together ever more tightly. Perhaps we truly were meant to come together, and just needed added incentive.”

“Yeah, without either of our consent.” You pointed out.

“True. But the Norns, should they exist, do not ask, they simply act. Think of them as vast consciousnesses, far beyond ours, incomprehensible and impartial. Still, if they brought you and I together, I cannot hate them for whatever else they might have done.”

You blinked in surprise, and he released your wrist, looking away.

“Loki...That's very sweet.”

“I see no reason to pretend to austerity here. It should be clear by now that I...care.” He said, slightly flustered, as if he'd revealed something he hadn't meant to.

But of course he cared. You knew that. He defended you, and protected you, and tried to take care of you and make sure you were happy. He was your friend, whatever else he might be.

“I know, Loki. I do too.”

His embrace was tight this time, heart fluttering fast. Yours worked to match it.

#lasabrjotr #loki x reader #loki (marvel)

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tanadrin · 5 years ago

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Reordberend

(part 25 of 30; first; previous; next)

The rest of the journey passed with little conversation, but now the silence was more comfortable. Katherine mulled over the conundrum of how to get the elders to listen to her. She watched Leofe, as they walked, and tried to imagine what it must have been like to have been born in the Valleys, to have grown up here amid the ice and stones. It was difficult, to say the least.

They spent the night at the mouth of the valleys, and in the morning they switched to snowshoes, to gently descend the long glacial tongue to the surface of the ice shelf below; from there, it was a straight shot across McMurdo Sound to Mount Erebus, which loomed now in the darkness only as an absence of stars. The open ice was the most treacherous part of the journey: cracks could open up here, as the ice shelf was squeezed through the narrow passage of the Sound, big enough to swallow you whole, and they had to go carefully. They spent two nights camping on the open ice, crammed into one tiny tent, huddled together for warmth. On the morning of the third day, though, they found their path forward blocked by an enormous crevasse, which forced them to go south, to try to circle around it. Eventually, they realized, it ran all the way to the coast of the island; the quickest thing to do was to head straight for McMurdo Station, and go overland up the mountain.

At first, Katherine was kind of excited to see the ruins. Once upon a time, McMurdo Station had been a major scientific and transport hub for a huge part of Antarctica, a waystation on the way to the South Pole. But it had been abandoned a long time ago, and it was one of the few old scientific sites that hadn’t been reclaimed by the Antarctic Authority. On closer inspection, though, Katherine could safely say it was the creepiest place on the continent. It didn’t help that the aurorae australis were glowing a sickly green hue as they approached. Skeletal buildings, ravaged as much by the People’s salvage as by the weather, stood out the slopes, and old radar domes cracked and open to the sky. They spent the night in a mostly-intact building on the edge of the base, and Katherine could have sworn she heard what sounded like animals scurrying around in the ruins.

The actual mountain ascent was not so difficult, although it took another two days. The People had cut a path on the western side of the mountain, so they approached from that side. The ground was icy, but the weather was good. “We would have to wait for it to clear if it was not,” Leofe said. “You cannot climb the mountain in fog.”

On the second day of climbing, by midafternoon--right when Katherine’s legs were threatening to give up for good--Leofe held out her hand to stop Katherine. “We’re here,” she said. The last hundred meters or so were up wide stone steps, which ended at a great tunnel mouth, bored straight into the mountainside. “We go carefully from here,” Leofe said. “If the wind is bad, dangerous fumes can rise from the crater.”

“This is where you build your temple?”

“If the wind is favorable--well, you’ll see.”

The tunnel ran straight for fifty meters; it opened out onto a wide porch that had been cut back into the side of the crater, with a protective stone overhang. Rough pillars supported it, and pairs of steps off to either side led up to narrow paths around the inside of the crater rim.

“Jesus Christ,” Katherine said. “How was this place built?”

The view was clear, for the moment; clumps of steam or vapor clung to the stony slope here and there, gases leaking from vents that led to Mount Erebus’s fiery interior. Far, far below, and almost at the other side of the crater, there was a sullen red glow visible from within a cloud of smoke.

“Is that--”

“Molten stone, yes. The fire rises to the surface here; it is often restless.”

“Is this safe?” Katherine asked.

Leofe rolled her eyes. “It’s a volcano.”

Katherine walked to the edge of the stone balcony. Here and there--possibly at regular intervals, although it was hard to tell because of the clouds--great pillars with tops shaped like animal or human heads gazed out over the scene. There were steps that led further down into the crater, although Katherine couldn’t see how far. It was an austere and threatening landscape; Katherine could also appreciate its beauty. A bright aurora glowed in the sky overhead, illuminating the whole thing in pale light. Katherine could see why they called it the Fane of Awe.

How long had it taken to build this place? Even with handheld laser cutters, the stone pillars had had to be hauled up here, had to be raised in the smoking crater, when the fires were low and the wind was strong enough to dissipate the volcanic fumes. The climb up the mountain had been exhausting enough unencumbered. Katherine couldn’t imagine hauling enormous blocks of shaped stone up the slope as well. How would you even begin to do that? Or maybe they had quarried it close by, but that was still heavy work. It would have been many, many years of labor. Seasonal, probably. Done in summer. The tunnel itself and the porch of stone would have taken even longer to cut through, but the evidence of her experience so far was that the People were patient, and were not afraid of difficult labor.

She found Leofe back near the entrance, kneeling down and taking some small objects out of her pack.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I have some… things I must do.”

“Sure. The rites. Wulf said. I’ll, uh, come back later.” Katherine thought about exploring the crater, but she didn’t know much about volcanoes, and she didn’t like the look of the clouds coming up from the ground. Instead, she went back out, and decided to go for a walk up near the crater rim. The ground here was steep, although not terribly treacherous. She tested each step carefully, bracing herself with her staff in case her footing failed. After another thirty minutes or so, she was at the crater edge.

The lava lake was still visible, far below, although partly shrouded in clouds. McMurdo Sound was a pale swathe of ice, ten or fifteen kilometers off. The mountains along the coast were just barely visible. The wind here was fierce, bitterly cold, colder than anything she’d felt in her life. But God in Heaven, it was a beautiful view. In some ways, perhaps, she had shared the experiences of the People, clutching as a child after something sacred in a world in which the sacrosanct seemed to hold little meaning. But in other ways, their perspective was completely different. Katherine’s experience of church was the plain, low meeting house, whose only adornment might be a picture of Jesus on the wall. Simple wooden benches, a hard concrete floor, a plain white exterior. Some of the meeting houses in Sand Mountain didn’t even have running water. God--awe, if you like--was an internal experience in those places. A thing you contemplated, which rose up within your mind and your heart, which grew out of your faith and your desire to feel it. Here, though, the sacred was an immutable and implacable fact of the world. It would be here, whether you cared to experience it or not. And if you did, it would shout itself forth from every hill and every stone and every patch of ice, and it would overwhelm you. Even the great cathedrals of old Europe could not match this. They were in comparison the feeble attempts of human hands to imitate what nature had been doing for millions of years. Or billions. To imitate a thing which shot through every atom of the universe, every star and every planet, the fractal majesty of existence that you only really appreciated when you stood in a place where survival was almost, almost--but not quite--impossible.

Katherine had read once, in her high school science textbook, that there was a rock they had once found in Australia that was four and a half billion years old. It was so old that it had formed when the surface of the Earth was half-molten, when the air was still toxic, when the oceans had just begun to form. There was a picture. And something about that picture suddenly made everything the book was talking about feel real, in a way that dry numbers like “four and a half billion” never could on their own. A sense of the enormous weight of time had staggered her, and she had stared at the photograph, trying to understand. For millions of years afterward, the Earth had no continents, only craggy islands of rock that had not yet accreted into the ancient cratons. Even once life emerged, for three and a half billion years--for three quarters of the span of life of the entire planet--it had been single-celled organisms confined to the seas. If you had been an observer on the ancient Earth, fixed in place at the dawn of time and forced to observe the slow march of geologic time across the surface, then for the overwhelming majority of the world’s history, for a span of time longer than the human mind was capable of understanding on any level, the world had been empty. Barren. Bereft of voices. Bereft of names. Silent provinces, whole nameless countries, continents, cataclysms had come and gone, with no one to see them, no one to name them, no one to record their passage. And only late--in the last five hundred million years or so--had a riot of life burst forth. And only in the last eyeblink, since the retreat of the glaciers, had humans swept across the world to give all these things names and meaning and histories, but of all these places, Antarctica had been empty the longest. And even then, for a long time, we had come and gone as phantoms, she thought; not until the People came did they begin to let their names and their stories sink into the Earth. Not until the People came did anyone call Antarctica home.

She stood there as long as she could stand it--ten minutes, maybe, no more--before making her way back down the slope to the entrance of the fane.

By the time she returned, Leofe was apparently done with her business. She had set up their tent in a sheltered alcove in the passageway, and Katherine was terribly grateful they would at least be out of the wind tonight. They built a small fire on the stone floor, and warmed their hands for a little while, before making dinner, and settling down to bed.

Katherine lay awake that night, listening to the wind howl against the tunnel entrance. It felt wrong, somehow, to try to sleep at the summit of an active volcano. The kind of act of hubris the Greek gods would punish you for.

“Leofe?” she said quietly. “Leofe. Are you asleep?”

“Grnk.”

Katherine rolled over, doing her best not to jostle her bunkmate. She lay there a little longer.

“Hey Leofe. Do you want to come with me in the spring? We can leave together. If you want.”

The wind howled louder.

“Leofe?”

“Hbble.”

Katherine closed her eyes, and did her best to sleep. Her dreams that night were jumbled, and the next morning all that she could remember was that they were filled with fire.

#tanadrin's fiction

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fire-toolz · 5 years ago

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Infinity and “I”: An interview with Fire-Toolz

Sometimes you encounter music that opens your ears to new possibilities in such a way that your subconscious burns the moment of impact into your memory. For me, the most potent of these include an early adolescent exposure to the cyclic, minimalist bliss of Miles Davis’ In a Silent Way as in-between-set music at a neighborhood basement show, doubling over laughing with my sister on our drive to school at the vocal-sourced percussion of Björk’s “Where is the Line?”, and having my 19-year-old shit permanently rocked amid my (still) daily breakfast of eggs and oatmeal by the opening few tracks of Fire-Toolz’ Drip Mental.

At least to my ears at that time, the breakneck transitions between Mego-style avant-pop glitches, digitized metal skree, snapshots of vapor memories and scream-led dance pop offered up a vision of shape-shifting music that felt wholly new, almost sacred in its profane blend of styles and sound. “To me, that constantly shifting atmosphere and mood is the ebb and flow you perceive,” says Angel Marcloid, the face behind the Fire-Toolz moniker. “Lots of waves and conditions to pass through, but they all make sense to me … Ideas flow out of me with absolutely no effort made, my body records as many of them as it can and the song gets built in little bits at a time.” The idea of musical “sense” might seem at-odds with the free-wheeling, genre-agnostic sounds of a Fire-Toolz album, but sustained exposure breeds familiarity: By the time I rolled around to my third or fourth listen through Drip Mental, the chaos began to cohere into a logical world of its own.

If my ears grown more accustomed to the utter uniqueness of Marcloid’s art, so too does it seem that “Fire-Toolz” is becoming a musical language of its own. Every new release brings the euphoria of Marcloid’s music toward higher and more mind-bending plans, and nowhere is this more true than on Rainbow Bridge, Marcloid’s new album for Hausu Mountain. The music is distinctly Marcloid, taking the same hallmarks I found on Drip Mental and refining them into sharp gems. A monophonic hymn drives “⌈Mego⌉ ≜ Maitrī,” making for one of the most patient and profound Fire-Toolz composition to date. At the other end, “Rainbow ∞ Bridge” hurls in with synthesized black metal fervor before it combusts into a grooving, tuneful section of electronics. A soaring electronic guitar solo dominates the middle third, and the track eventually loops around on itself into the ear-splitting pulses and crashes of the opening. “It’s less stitching sounds together, and more like inventing gigantic puzzles made of both large and tiny pieces dancing around and overlapping each other, interacting with each other,” Marcloid says of this segmented composition process.

A standout sonic quality of Fire-Toolz’ music—on Rainbow Bridge and all its older siblings—is its embrace of the sounds, chord structures of new age, jazz fusion, prog and a host of other styles based around extreme musicianship, and exacting production. Born in 1984, Marcloid finds that many of these sounds are inseparable from the nostalgia of her childhood. “I wasn’t raised on jazz or electro-pop or adult contemporary or electronic music, but in the distance, there it all was—in waiting rooms, in the background of movies, at the mall, in TV shows, in educational films, in video games, in my friends’ parents’ vans,” she says. These musical encounters all share a sense of accidents. From muzak to soundtracks to chance encounters, Marcloid never supposed to take this stuff in.

 Though that’s precisely the path she took, and Fire-Toolz takes a magnifying glass to these background sounds and exposes their inherent beauty and strangeness. “Because of the internet, and having the privilege of being able to access those sounds and use them creatively, I am living out my second childhood in a heartfelt, authentic way,” she says. This “second childhood” is an apt analogy for the giddiness that Fire-Toolz music exudes. These sounds and harmonies are familiar—some would argue overused and tired—but Marcloid approaches them with a renewed sense of optimism. At their core, these styles hunt for religious ecstasy and otherworldly piece, cosmic qualities that Marcloid’s art exudes with boundless glee.

These ideals of grandiosity that run rampant through Marcloid’s music also appear in the conceptual and philisophical framework surrounding the Fire-Toolz project. The track titles alone convey this sense of out-of-body msyticism. Through a combination of between cheeky, internet-based puns, dense transcendental philosophy and creative linguistic construction through the use of atypical spellings, punctuation and word structuring, Marcloid constructs a verbal world inside which her singular music lives. “Infinity and wholeness is a constant theme, but it is by default. It is a framework from which I operate,” she says. “I’m on a journey; steadily growing every day, until my body no longer works. I’m not even saying I’m getting better and better, but I’m always changing. I’m constantly falling, and there is no ground.”

Stand out examples of these constructions from the past include the warm, nostalgic hum of Skinless X-1‘s “In The Computer Room @ Dusk ☕” or the scattered sonic metamorphosis of “Fluids Come Together & The ‘I Am’ Appears.” On Rainbow Bridge, one of the most stunning realizations comes on “dEcRePiT φ PhOeNiX,” a track which Marcloid says “is a direct reference to myself and evolution. A decrepit phoenix is kind of how I see my body-mind and personality. Always escaping from the ashes, sore and tired … But, a phoenix nonetheless.” With its wobbling chromatic synthesizer melodies and arena-ready drum slaps, the music presents a colorful foundation atop which Marcloid’s screamed vocals delve head first into this beautiful crisis of change: “Melted and melded and molding crashes / Illusion of self reduced to ashes,” she sings, highlighting the twin agents of destruction and rebirth that accompany any process of change.

While these ideas might traverse the breadth of Fire-Toolz’ discography, the new album places the themes in a more specific context. “For Rainbow Bridge, I felt like I had an enormous amount I needed to say and express; so many questions to ask, and expressions of energy I needed to release. I just make music with that in mind,” says Marcloid. Specifically, “the title references the pathway that our pets take when they leave us. My cat Breakfast, who passed away in December of 2018, is the talking point of the album. A lot of it is about her, or speaking to her.” Breakfast also appears on the album (as she has on a number of previous Fire-Toolz releases), creating a sort of living/lasting artistic tribute to the lost friend. In this light, the epic constructions feel even more special, as if the explosions of colorful sounds on Rainbow Bridge are paeans to Breakfast. The songs build towers that stretch toward the bridge in search of communication.

 “Fire-Toolz has always been sincere,” Marcloid says. “Melodramatically sincere.” It’s this sincerity that’s kept me coming back time and time again after that fateful February morning encounter. Especially at its most bombastic and indulgent (see: the sing-along chorus of Rainbow Bridge‘s “It’s Now Safe to Turn Off Your Computer,” the neon, fusion-drenched guitar outro “Clear Light” off 2019’s Field Whispers (Into the Crystal Palace)), Marcloid’s music teethes with a sense of purpose and meaning. What might illicit chuckles of disbelief upon first encounter transforms into a beautiful sonic odyssey that offers more intruige and magic over time.

Like each and every Fire-Toolz album, Rainbow Bridge is a mind-bending excursion that blows up music into a cosmic, surreal land, and it’s only the tip of the iceberg: In the last year or so alone, Marcloid has put out equally incredible music through her Mindspring Memories, Angelwings Marmalade, Nonlocal Forecast and Path to Lobster Believers projects, as well as a number of mastering jobs (some personal favorites include The Car? and w i n t e r q u i l t 愛が止ま). A number of these projects (including Fire-Toolz) have future releases already in progress, and there’s a high chance I’ve even left of a name or two in this list. If this seems like this stretches the limits of what one entity can perform and produce, Marcloid suggests that there’s other energy at play: “Something tells me it’s not me doing it. ‘Me’ in the individuated sense,” she says. “It feels more like something I am a part of is doing it through me.” What form this ancillary force might take is unbeknownst to anyone save Marcloid, but let’s hope their fruitful collaborations continue for years into the future. We’ll always need more rapturous shock; we’ll always need more Fire-Toolz, ad infinitum.

-Audrey Lockie/Slug Mag

https://www.slugmag.com/music/interviews/music-interviews/infinity-and-i-an-interview-with-fire-toolz/

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starsailorstories · 5 years ago

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“500 Babies is A Lot Of Babies,” or, a post about astraea Mothers and genviae

I’ve not gotten too deeply into this because it’s not something that many of my characters are directly touched by (after all, most of them are lux, made in factories and necessarily motherless) and also because I recognize that it is Weird, but Mothers and the specific conditions they need to have children are a pretty major factor in why astraea society has developed along the lines that it has, and it’s hinted at through things people say, so I think it’s important that these questions have canon answers even if I never Get Into All This in the books beyond the extent that’s needed to understand the clone-class situation. I feel like someone was going to ask eventually so, yknow, it’s out there

Fidelity Fortefemen Vega-Revoni half-reclines, in respectable fashion, on a sofa in the fonsilia collonade; solelas stuck flush against her cheeks; shoulders veiled in her long, dark curls; curls veiled in the mantillas of Ouria’s sacred moon. It’s mid-summer, and her body glows softly through the loose weave of her dress; soon she will sleep for the second time. The grey-haired colony midwives attend her constantly, hovering at her extremities with vapor-pipes and paper fans [....] the basic dynamics of the Vega sisters survived the marriage intact until the delivery of Fidelity’s first genvia. At that instant--when Chivalry was seven and a half quinturns old--the sister she and Dignity had known suddenly became honora pecara, the future hope of the family name and the nucleus around which life at Fortune Flats revolved.

The above (from the vol. 3 draft) is a glimpse of the figure around which, by the conservative/traditionalist ideal, all astraea life is meant to revolve--the titled, landholding colony Mother, who is seen as a giver and sustainer of life on both the biological and social level.

Mothers are born with some characteristics specific to their reproductive capability--they tend to be bigger and may have specific markings or other bits, depending on species (for a bunch of species, including Basillans and Caesurans, mothers are born with spots on their faces that fade away as they get older; a few cultures, like the Zasci on Caesura, tattoo these into place so they don’t).

From birth they carry a mini-nebula in an abdominal pocket--it’s the same spot where a human might have a womb, but a bit of a different structure. What happens inside an astraea Mother before she “gives birth” (to chrysalises, not live babies) is basically akin to the start of the stellar life cycle. Her nebular material begins to form protostars, which start to produce light as they develop the potential to form a baby once in a chrysalis.

Mothers usually get glowy every few planetary cycles, often in accordance with shifts in atmospheric pressure (which may have some role in how they take in nutrients from the air). It’s quite easy to halt the process here, if 500-800 new children and a nearly two-(earth) year-long gestation process wouldn’t be convenient for the Mother or the colony, with various medications.

If the process isn’t halted, the Mother will eventually need to go into a hibernation-like state to take in and consolidate trace solids from the atmosphere with which to spin chrysalises. The hibernation prevents too many of these solids from being burned up in her light, which can be deadly. Before astraea species developed their current understanding of this state, it was common for Mothers to simply be out of commission for months with no resulting children--if a certain amount of solid matter isn’t breathed in and stored in specific organ systems (the same ones they use to regrow limbs and stuff) the protostars will simply disperse inside her body and the process starts over from scratch.

But with the proper atmospheric composition--nowadays often delivered by a pneumatic pump fastened directly to one of her spiracles, just to take all the variables out of the equation--the Mother will eventually rouse and start to produce silk from spinnerets on her inner thighs. The bit that follows looks a lot like human childbirth with two key differences: first, the “baby” is just a little glowing blip that’s born into a kind of bag made outside the body, and second, any astraea who has ever been involved in the process will tell you that the hibernation period is the part that, you know, sucks. That’s their equivalent to human labor. The actual birth event--which is called a genvia, as is the particular “batch” of children born in said event--is usually very peaceful and repetitive, with drama occurring only if the Mother runs out of natural silk before she runs out of nebular globes (for which there are fairly easy-to-operate artificial-cocoon incubators--this tech was actually part of what got the cloning industry started).

Chrysalises are mostly air, with superstrong carbon-based tissue (?) woven around. The Mother usually just detaches them from her body and lays them out somewhere comfortable where they can be easily checked on and where the babies will be safe once they start to hatch, which uhhhh they do by chewing their way out. There is no way to make that not sound like a creepy sci fi monster of the week thing but it’s just normal to them and in some smaller/more isolated colonies the sisters even come visit before the kids are properly “born” and just sit and tell them hello, it’s all in how you frame it.

There are usually a few older daughters who stay around where their Mother lives and become “midwives” (obviously it’s my translation of their word but it is analogous) and are stereotypically very present and very fussy, especially when the colony’s Mother is young. They are basically a necessity though, both because in the hibernation phase and the weeks leading up to it the Mother’s health is really vulnerable and it’s hard for her to muster the energy to take care of herself when her body’s forcing her to stay at a super-low baseline, and because 500 Babies Is A Lot Of Babies even if they’re still developing. Once they start to hatch more sisters will show up and help and begin divvying them up to adopt into the various individual households of the colony but also just kind of keep them corralled because they can toddle as soon as they hatch.

New Mothers aren’t generally born until their own Mother is older. As she ages her chemistry will change just slightly, making the subtle “genetic” adjustments needed to create a Mother more likely. Because of this it’s very rare for a new Mother to be born in her Mother’s first genvia, leading to the tradition of Mothers being raised by First Daughters.

A lot of astraeas have strong psychological drives to care for and protect Mothers at all stages of their lives--similar to the drive to nurture children, it’s tied up in the perpetuation of their species. The hierarchies of Basilean society, however, heavily exploit this reasonable tendency. In noble colonies, where the Mother is titled, the peasantry will still be made up of her biological daughters, who idealize her archetype and may feel strong loyalty to her even though she’s given them the short end of the stick. The powers that be of Basilean capitalism, meanwhile, dangle the opportunity to secure comfort for one’s colony’s Mother and future sisters and daughters in front of the lower classes to rope them into various forms of wage slavery.

ON THE OTHER HAND, Mothers who are...good mothers and really care about their daughters as people (rather than out of noblesse oblige or w/e) are a really powerful force for social change, because they tend to be highly influential within their colonies and more or less have the ear of a few thousand people by default, and can say to those people “let’s all act in our best interests together” and be listened to, at least to a certain degree.

#sweet chariot #astraea biology #semphorean concerns #uh #ask me to tag?#childbirth/#maybe???? but it's aliens

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codyfernaesthetic · 6 years ago

Text

Dichotomy

Part 12

Summary: Sometimes you have to lose everything...

Author’s note: I hope you cry. :) Love you!

Warnings: Blood, violence, angst

Finding Michael was relatively easier than Mallory first thought; his energy was palpable, all she had to do was concentrate to transmute herself to where it was most concerted. She appeared in a room that resembled interrogation rooms on those cop shows. It was sleek and steel, a large one-sided mirror on the right wall. Michael stood looking into it, his back to her. On the other side, Rhoda sat in a single chair in the middle of the room, her head hung low, her arms crossed. Mead, who was beside Michael, saw her and quickly turned, straightening defensively.

Mallory ignored her, “Let me talk to her.”

Michael looked over his shoulder, “Now, why would I do that?”

“Because you’re trying to figure out exactly who or what she is,” she stepped forward, Mead reacting by moving in front of Michael protectively.

Mallory stopped her advance, “I can do that.”

He turned to face her, placing his hand on Mead’s shoulder, “It’s not that hard to figure out what she is. I suppose I should have expected a witch to somehow infiltrate the Sanctuary like a cockroach escaping the nuclear winter,” he cocked his head, “No offense.”

She restrained from rolling her eyes, “What do you plan to do to her?”

He tapped Mead, signaling for her to stand down, “She’s proven herself to be unstable and violent.”

“She was protecting me.”

He shrugged, “It seems you too have an odd way of making friends.”

“It poses no threat to you if I just talk to her.”

He started to move back to his original position.

“Michael.”

He froze at her sincere tone, biting the inside of his cheek.

“I literally have nowhere to go. Everyone I know and love is dead. There’s nothing outside of here besides death and nuclear waste. It’s not like we can escape anywhere,” she chuckled ruefully, “This is your kingdom, and we’re just guests enjoying your generosity.”

His eyes were daggers, “Don’t patronize me, Mallory.”

She strode toward him, uncaring of Mead’s jerky movements to block her.

“If you truly believed either one of us was a threat, we'd just be bodies on the floor.”

He stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable.

“You can speak to her,” he quirked his eyebrow, “Under my supervision.”

He sauntered towards the door, glancing back at her as he turned the handle, “And don’t presume to be so informal.”

“You’ve exclusively called me by my first name,” she chased after him as he was already out the door.

“You made no last name available.”

That gave her pause, then she muttered, “Church.”

He stopped, looking at her with a serious, intense gaze, “I’ll stick with Mallory.”

She scoffed, “Fine with me, Michael.”

She noticed his jaw clench and couldn’t help feeling a little self-satisfied.

Two armed guards waited outside the door, they moved over for Michael to walk inside, the two women following behind.

Rhoda’s head shot up upon seeing her friend, “Mallory!”

She rushed on her and hugged her tightly. Michael and Mead observing from the other side of the room.

Mallory pulled back, “Rhoda, I need you to tell me exactly what you did to Lydia.”

Her relieved smile fell.

“Please.”

She sighed and sat in the chair again, explaining everything; Michael ordering her to be a spy, Lydia recording them, how she made the elevator crash, tears spilling as she finished, “I’m sorry, Mallory,” she grabbed her hands, “I swear, I didn’t tell him anything.”

Mallory stole a glance at Michael, then crouched in front of Rhoda, “How long have you been able to do things like that?”

She shook her head, “It’s just...always I think. I don’t know, I’ve never had to really use these powers before. I just thought….” She covered her face, “I don’t know what I thought.”

She pursed her lips, “Rhoda, do you know anything about whose DNA you were grown from?”

“No. Nothing.”

She looked up at Michael once again, “I want to try something. There’s a spell. It’s like a spell that allows me to extract information from you,” she lifted Rhoda’s head, “Not just things you know, but things about your past and heritage, things you may not know about, but are true about you. I want to try it on you.”

She curled in on herself, “Why?”

“Rhoda, you’ve performed at least three of the tests in a series of them called The Seven Wonders, basically they determine the...Queen Witch, so to speak. I think you have Salem blood in you.”

She was confused and silent.

Mallory put her hand on the young woman’s knee, “This spell is intense, it’s like exposing everything about you to another person, like baring your soul. You don’t have to agree, but I’d like to at least give it a try.”

She looked down, twiddling her thumbs, then finally meeting her eyes, “If it will help you in any way, I’ll do it.”

Michael didn’t object to the exercise, helping Mallory prepare what she needed. With a piece of chalk, Mallory drew a large spiral starting in the center and nearly reaching the four walls. A concoction of various herbs and plants were made into a liquid which both she and Rhoda drank.

“Cordelia really trained you extensively,” Michael commented, almost sounding impressed.

She felt a tiny blush bloom on her cheeks, as if against her mind’s will. She instructed Rhoda to lie down in the spiral diagonally, Mallory following suit on the opposite side. Michael sat in the chair outside the spiral, Mead ever by his side.

“Are you ready?” Mallory asked.

“Yes,” she answered intrepidly.

Mallory took a deep breath, “Ostende mihi faciem profundis.”

The world exploded into bright flashes of purple and bright pink, a noise like crashing waves surrounded her. She could taste iron, like the feeling of a nosebleed. Everything spun. She thought she screamed, but couldn’t be sure.

Then blackness

2 years before the Apocalypse

Cordelia, Madison, and Myrtle all stayed hidden in Misty’s cabin.

“Was there anything else you saw that could help us?” Cordelia asked Myrtle as she nervously paced. Madison stayed silent, smoking a cigarette in the corner.

Myrtle nodded, “Besides the two boys with haircuts that can only be described as the greatest sin since Eve bit the apple, I saw something else. It seems they are collecting DNA samples under something called Operation: Dynasty. They’re growing people, dear,” she said disgusted, “growing humans in a lab.”

Cordelia stared ahead, biting her fingernails before stopping, raising her head.

“What is it, dear?” Myrtle asked.

“That might be a way for us to help Mallory and Coco.”

Madison piped up from the corner, “How?”

“If I could somehow transfer my energy into a new body, then that could give them a powerful ally,” Myrtle started, she quickly assured, “just until she is strong enough, then I can invoke the Sacred Taking and she will rise to full power and defeat Michael.”

Madison walked Cordelia, shaking her head, “We don’t even know where or when or why these samples will be used to grow humans, it’s a one in a million chance that you’d even be able to find Mallory in all that chaos, not to mention we don’t even know if it’s possible.”

“I can’t just lay down and die, Madison,” tears pricked at her eyes, “We saw what Michael did, we know what he can do, we aren’t safe,” she turned to Myrtle, “He will make sure we will not survive. If there’s even a chance that I can be alive for them, to help them, then I am willing to take it. I am still Supreme. And I will still protect this coven.”

Myrtle fell silent, knowing that Cordelia wouldn’t change her mind no matter what she said.

“Well, then,” Madison put out the cigarette, “we’d better start planning.”

Everyday waiting for the nuclear apocalypse was excruciating. Cordelia planned and prepared, gathering her strength for the final day.

Just like the first day seeing Michael, a vision came to her. A vision of the exact day and time the bombs would strike. The three remaining witches decided that Michael would not have the final say in their lives. It would end on their terms. The day of the apocalypse, Cordelia performed the ritual to transfer her energy into the new body being grown for the Cooperative upon her death. Then, all three of them with tearful goodbyes, even from Madison, drank a poison that put them to sleep, to never wake up again.

And their bodies were vaporized the blast radius when the bombs hit.

Across the country, in a designated safe area, scientists and doctors worked tirelessly on Operation: Dynasty, where they had perfected methods to grow human beings and accelerate the maturation process. They were able to produce a healthy, young adult from a sample in just two years. On the table now laid one such testament to their success. A woman, pale and beautiful, lay comatose. Not yet awoken to the world, she and the others would be awakened upon entry to the Sanctuary, which had entered its final stages of completion a year before.

While the common world was exploding in chaos, they were unaffected, going about their routines. Until, the young woman on the table gasped to life, her eyes opening upon sterile white lights. Cold metal stung her bare skin. An older man in a white coat rushed over to the suddenly awake woman. He appraised her clinically.

“Well, you’re up early.”

The perspective changed. You were staring out through new eyes, in a new body. Your name was Rhoda. That’s what they told you. You were trained from day one to serve and be quiet. You complied, despite a spark of rebellion that burned in you. You knew it was all for a greater purpose, though what that was, you had no idea.

Then came the time for Michael Langdon to visit the Outposts.

You remember the day that Michael left on his campaign to dispose of the Outposts. Rumors circulated everywhere that the Outposts were nothing more than extra cages for DNA-producers that became too much trouble than they were worth. It was the plan all along that the Outposts would be eliminated once they outgrew their use. As far as the Cooperative was concerned, the Sanctuary was the only world that existed. They would expand, but only with their current residents and their descendants. A part of you knew this was none of your concern, you were just a servant, made for the sole purpose of serving the elite. You were a no one.

But there needed to be an available room.

Call it intuition, divine intervention, whatever, but someone new was coming, and there needed to be a place for them in the Sanctuary.

So the woman you worked for died.

She was some social media influencer who’d had just barely enough clout to make it into the Sanctuary. It wasn’t originally your intention. You didn’t even know it was happening at first.

She was yelling at you, telling you how stupid you were. Something about not cooking a dish right. She’d pushed you out of the way to the oven, where a skillet was sitting on the front eye. The pop and sizzle of the grease in the pan was pounding in your head along with her angry ranting. Along with them a voice like a low hum whispered like static burn her burn her burn her burn her--

The flames sprung from the pan and nearly consumed her. She was screaming and rolling on the ground, but you kept the flame burning. You knew it would be suspect if she was the only thing burned.

So you set the room on fire and ran out calling for help. By the time other people came to help, she was dead.

You told those who asked that it was an accidental kitchen fire, and they believed you because there was no reason not to.

Her body was taken away and the room was refurbished. And you waited.

When Mallory arrived, you knew things were falling into place.

_____________________________

Mallory awoke with a gasp, sitting straight up. She jumped up from her place, visibly shaken, blood dripping from her nose. Rhoda...Cordelia shot up, immediately after her, hyperventilating.

“Mallory!” Michael was at her side in a second, almost reaching out to touch her to calm her, but stopped himself.

Rhoda rose shakily to her feet, glaring at her hands and body, as if suddenly realizing it was new.

Mallory managed to rasp out one word, “Cordelia…”

The Supreme looked at her, face etched with regret, “Mallory, I-“

A gunshot exploded in the room. Blood poured from a perfect hole in Cordelia’s forehead. Michael jumped and pulled Mallory with him away from the origin of the blast, wrenching himself in front of her. Mead stood with a sleek, long barreled gun where her right arm had previously been; her face was cold and unflinching. The door swung open as the guards tried to rush in, but they were brutally taken out in an instant. Mallory ran to Rhodoa Cordelia and looked her over, her fingers trembling in shock over her body, her dark eyes open wide in frozen realization. She motioned over the wound with her forefinger, making an incision without touching her skin. She swallowed hard as she dug her fingers into the incision to pull out the bullet.

Time crawled.

Michael looked over and saw Mead preparing to shoot again, aiming directly at Mallory’s head. He screamed for her to stop. She paused. Met his gaze.

Then raised the gun to him.

Mallory threw her back against the wall but not before another shot rang out. Michael stumbled back yelping in pain. Mead moved with lightning speed as soon as Mallory turned to see Michael. Her cold robotic fingers wrapped around Mallory’s throat, lifting her off the ground. She tried to think clearly to use her magic, but Mead threw her against the wall to disorient her. Then her hands were around her neck again, bruising force cutting off Mallory’s air. The world started going dark as she stared into Mead’s lifeless eyes.

Mallory was thrown back with such force she hit the back wall, luckily her right arm catching a majority of the impact. She lifted her hand to massage her aching neck as she surveyed the scene. Mead was in pieces all over the room, her limbs strewn about, sparks of electricity and frayed wires spilling out like intestines on the ground. Mallory’s eyes shot to Michael, on his knees, with his left arm extended, his right shoulder spilling blood. His eyes were wide, he fell forward, groaning as he grabbed his wound. She rushed to him, helping to prop him up against the wall. His breathing was rapid.

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” she reassured, looking up at him. Tears were pouring down his face, splatters of his blood dotting his head; his whole body was trembling, face twisted in agony. He wasn’t breathing so hard from the pain. He was sobbing.

She reached to start removing his jacket when he hissed behind gritted teeth, “Help her.”

His hand fluttered towards...Cordelia. She hesitated but did as he said. She was able to remove the bullet carefully and close of the wound without a trace that it had been there. She laid her hands on her breathing in and out, concentrating all her energy.

Nothing happened. The warm power she’d felt flowing out of her before was gone. She tried again...and again...and again...and again…

She slammed her fists onto her body, “Wake up!”

Nothing.

“Cordelia, please,” she lifted her head, tears nearly blinding her, “Please wake up.”

Mallory stared into her dead eyes for a moment, hoping for a spark or a sign; but nothing happened. She set the woman’s head back onto the ground, closing her eyes. She turned back to Michael, who had collapsed on the ground and curled into a ball with loud sobs, nearly screaming in grief. Mallory plopped down next to him, exhausted. She wrapped her arms around him tightly and sobbed with him. She felt his arms return her embrace.

When more guards rushed the room, they stood in stunned horror at the sight of Mead’s mangled pieces, Cordelia’s body, and the Antichrist wailing like a scared child in the arms of a crying woman.

#michael langdon #mallory #millory #mallory x michael #millory fanfic #michael langdon fanfic #ahs apocalypse #ahs fic #cody fern #billie lourd #cordelia goode #sarah paulson #miriam mead #kathy bates #myrtle snow #madison montgomery #emma roberts

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armstrong-senpai · 6 years ago

Text

Alone...

"I'LL PROVE ALL OF YOU WRONG!"

Those were the last words I said in a normal voice.

I sprinted to the hangar, the voices of my so-called Fireteam echoing in my ears.

“You're not serious about being a Hunter, why do you bother?”

“You never pay attention to your surroundings; you're going to get us killed!

“Maybe you should just stay at the Tower...”

The sadness and betrayal I felt fueled my rage as I transmatted into my ship and sped away from the Tower. Blinded by my emotions, I chose an area with the highest concentration of enemies: the Dreadnaught. As I approached Oryx's floating crypt, I didn't even bother to slow down. I jabbed the auto pilot and opened the ship's hatch. As the auto pilot corrected to avoid a collision, I threw myself into space and flew toward the Dreadnaught like a comet of death. The first wave of Hive didn't even know what hit them. I landed and sliced through them without loosing any momentum. The second and third were just as unlucky, but the fourth finally noticed me; not that it helped them. With each enemy I felled, my anger only grew; 'Who's taking the job seriously now?' I thought as my knife seperated a Knight from its arm. A trail of limbs and bodies lay behind me and still I lusted for more blood when an odd sound caught my attention. My curiosity overpowered my rage for just a moment and I sought out the source. I made my way to the Court of Oryx and there was the source of the sound: a Hive ritual performed by a Wizard and I recognized her. Crota's mate who sought to bring her beloved back from beyond the viel.

'This will prove to them that I'm serious' I thought to myself.

I came at them from high above and threw two knives. They imbedded in the back of a Knight and it fell forward, dead. The Knight to its right barely had time to notice before I landed on it, cracking its spine under my weight. The other four Knights and Wizard all turned to face me. They spoke in their shreiks and growls and even thought I didn't speak the language, I knew what they were saying.

“How dare you defile our sacred ritual! We'll rip the Light from you and gorge ourselves on it so that we may become more powerful” Or something like that anyway.

The Knights advanced as one, each swinging their massive swords. I easily dodged their slow attacks, but then the Wizard launched her attack. A couple of her blasts hit me and I leapt behind a rock for cover. I barely had a second to breath before the Knights pulverized my cover and I was forced to move. I chucked another knife, but it only put a chip in the bony armor of this Knight. It chuckled

and managed to grab my cape. I scowled as the other three Knights raised their swords, but they suddenly vaporized in wave of Arc energy. The very ones that had driven me on this crusade were here. The Titan that had just slammed tackled me as the Warlock appeared, launching a Nova Bomb. I braced for impact, but the Wizard flicked it away easily. She cackled madly at us as we got to our feet. We each stepped forward to attack, but then our Light was gone.

For the first time on our lives as Guardians, we were powerless. We couldn't believe it and even the Wizard seemed confused as we tried to activate our Light. Reality dawned on us and we began to slowly back away while firing, but the ritual prevented all damage. The Wizard cackled again and shot at us with reckless abandon. We all tried to dodge, but there were too many blasts. I cried out in pain as they hit me and my legs collapsed under me. They were numb and completely useless. I reached out for my fireteam's aid and while my Warlock partner tried to help, the Titan pulled her away.

“She'll only slow us down. We'll die if we try to save her!” He cried as he dragged the Warlock away. The pity in his eyes only served to rekindle the hate in my heart. The Warlock cried out an apology and then they were gone.

The Wizard glided over to me slowly, deliberatly and regarded me with an odd expression. She'd never seen Guardians act this way and this one wasn't healing. The expression changed, as if she made a decision and raised her hand with finality. I don't know how I did it, but I manage to toss the last Smoke Bomb I had and in that brief moment of invisibility, I dragged myself away and hid. The Wizard searched for me for what felt like hours, screaming the whole time. Finally she must have assumed I escaped and returned to the depths of the Dreadnaught. I finally relaxed and without the adrenalin to numb it, the pain of my injuries washed over me and I nearly cried out. I clenched my fists and only then did I realise I'd been holding something: my Ghost! I almost got mad at it for not healing me, but then I noticed it's eye was out. My Ghost was dead. I knew at that moment that I was going to die my final death. I turned myself best I could figure towards Earth and awaited the soft embrace of that eternal sleep.

That sleep was interrupted though. It started small, just on the edge of my senses, but I heard a clear voice calling for me. The voice was familiar and try as I might, I could not call back out to it. With the last of my strength, I tossed my Ghost out of my hiding spot. Thankfully the person searching for me saw it and next thing I knew, Cayde-6 was lifing me into his arms. His expression was grim, but he still tried to make me smile with his jokes.

Time lost meaning to me as I moved in and out of conciousness. I was at the Iron Temple and Rose was at her wits end. She was arguing with Cayde but he was calm. I could hear the words they were saying but most of it made no sense to me. All I understood were 'anything...can do?' and 'make...Exo'. I managed to move my head which immidiately got their attention. They spoke again, but I couldn't make sense of the words. I tried to smile and choked as I said, 'Do what...have to do. I'll...fine'.

I woke up what seemed like decades later. Somehow I knew that was innaccurate but I ignored the feling. I opened my eyes and things kept going in and out of focus; I blinked a couple times and it went away. I heard Rosey's voice first, "Rhea?" I slowly turn my head toward the sound and see her. She looks like she hasn't been sleeping properly again. "Oh thank the Traveler it worked!"

I blinked a couple times confused, "What worked?"

That's when I hear it. A robotic voice that was a pitch higher than my own. I felt my face and the soft flesh had been replaced by metal. I felt panic rise in my chest, but then Cayde stepped in. He gave me a calming smile and explained what happened: In order to save me when the Light vanished, they transferred me into the closest Exo body they could find. I felt like crying but I had no more tears to shed. Cayde leaned over and put his head against mine as if to try and calm my unease.

"I'll help you through this..."

After the incident Cayde and I became more than friends. Zavala was uneasy of course, but was happy to know Cayde would keep out of trouble now that he had a reason to stay in the Tower.

"What do you mean you're going to the Reef?" I asked as I sat on his desk eating a piece of cake.

"All that sugar is gonna rot your teeth you know." He says as he packs a couple more things.

"I don't have any anymore thanks to somebody” I said playfuly, “Now stop avoiding my question." I say as I poke his chest.

"Look honey, Petra needs my help. The prisoners are getting a bit rowdy and she needs help with the drop in patrols." He said with a sigh. He puts his head against mine, our way of kissing, and mentally reaches out with his Light to touch mine.

"Dont worry babe, I'll be back before your birthday."

(had to repost this cuz Tumblr is bein a butt)

#destiny #destiny 2 #destiny ocs #rhea #destiny fanfiction

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