#so that means eight more possible time wounds that can be made
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rationaliity · 5 months ago
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gonna just drop a bulletpoint story out there because this aint a lot to go off of but you're soooo right, speak your truth i love you. you're putting two of my favorite things together, ratio and kitsune / foxes
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♡ kitsune! ratio who got eight tails, some joke its one tail for each subject that he's graduated college with a master's degree for
♡ he's really is far more playful than people give him credit for, although in his own deadpan kind of way
♡ like, no, he doesn't outright make jokes, but he'll say stuff that goes over people's heads and then loudly exclaim " why do i even bother ?! " with a feigned annoyance, but it's okay because its ratio and it's cute
♡ he really takes the ' sly fox ' thing to heart. i mean, he already works in the shadows, sly is just a part of who he is
♡ but he is still a good person !! people may often assume that he's not because of how he acts and they attribute that to being a kitsune, but he really does care about humans
♡ especially one stupid little human who likes to visit the shrine he lives at a lot
♡ yeah, you caught his attention, but he would much rather die than admit that to you
♡ he doesn't say anything when you offer him the good tuna while he's in his fox form, even though it irks him a little bit because he's a fox, you moron, not a wild cat
♡ shouldn't you be trying to run away from him anyways ? why are you so brazen about walking up to a fox ? don't you know that they're wild animals and they can hurt you if they wanted to ?
♡ you're so lucky that he doesn't want to, otherwise it would be a problem on your side
♡ he eats the tuna every time you bring it for an offering, enjoying it even though he bites back a snarky comment every single time
♡ he's smart enough not to bite the hand that feeds him. his shrine is so far out into the woods that you're really the only one who comes to visit him from time to time, something that he was silently grateful for
♡ he's not tied to the shrine, he can leave if he wanted to, and he's often out and about doing whatever he wanted to, usually finding a hapless human like you and quietly guiding them towards a better solution
♡ but you liked to visit the shrine every wednesday, so he made sure he was there every wednesday
♡ why ? because he wanted to
♡ when he finally revealed his true form to you, it was purely to educate you on something stupid that you had done, at least that's what he told himself
♡ you'd gotten cut by the bramble out in the forest while making the trip to him, and so of course he had to show his true form to bandage your wounds, that was only proper of him
♡ while biting your ear off about not even worrying about the wound until you were at the shrine. what if it got infected, or worse ? you truly were a foolish human
♡ all eight of his tails are angrily flicking the ground below him as he patches you up the best he can, meanwhile berating you for your idiocy, something that he cant stand
♡ and you're just smiling like a moron, too, despite being injured ! he can't wrap his head around you !
♡ finally, once youre all taken care of, he has to ask why you offer him food, when he just looked like a regular fox to you at the shrine
♡ possibly the most annoying thing ever, you don't have a good answer. no profound understanding, just because you want to
♡ he's so frustrated with you he's sure he may pop a blood vessel, and you offer to leave, but he tells you to stay. it would've made the trip and your injury meaningless if you left so suddenly without staying for anything
♡ and when the sun begins to set, you find him... following you away from the shrine ?
♡ ask him what he's doing and he's just going to give you a simple answer, and if this should've been common knowledge to you all along, and you were an idiot for asking
♡ " of course, someone has to watch over you to make sure you don't accidentally get yourself killed. "
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— ♡ rationaliity 2024
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satansdarlin · 1 year ago
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can i request headcanons for the monster trio plus ace with a Fem!reader on her period?
Sure! Some of these are based off of personal experience of what my boyfriend does for me
Period headcanons (monster trio, plus ace)
Warnings: talk of blood (obv), slightly suggestive in ace's part.
Masterlist
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Luffy
Man does not get it at first. Straight up thought you were dying.
But after some explanation from Robin, you, and Nami beating him, he finally gets it.
Still doesn't understand it in full but gets the most part
This man is now glued to you hip, even going as far as to deny playing games with usopp and chopper.
He kinda treats it like you are recovering from a injury
So obviously you need help with everything in his mind
Taking a bath? Now luffy has to sit in the bathroom and make sure you don't hurt yourself
Hungry? Omg so is he!
You wanna lay in bed all day? He's gonna cuddle you for most of it
Once he discovered the chocolate thing he made sure you had what kind you wanted.
In short luffy is the kind of boyfriend to constantly be beside you during your period if he can help it.
"Y/N can bleed for days and still be able to work! She's so cool right?!"
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Sanji
Ngl man has been prepared for this day
He knows your cycle better than you do man
Like he is prepared with extra blankets
Red meats to help you recover the iron you loose
Mentally prepared for any mood swings you might have
And has stocked up on a stash of snacks just for you during this time
While he is the most attentive and loving during this he is also the absolute worst in the best way possible
He's just trying to be helpful and you know that
But he is also making you eat liver and kidneys because you need the protein and iron
Also the type to just straight up scream at anyone who bothers you during this
You are his baby. Gotta keep you safe and happy especially when you are aching
"Come on, sugar. Eat the kidneys it's good for you- LUFFY DONT YOU DARE EAT THAT"
"But she doesn't want it"
"Shut up stupid. Come on now honey eat the food I even have some chocolate chip cookies waiting after you finish this"
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Zoro
Unbothered king
Straight up just doesn't care about bloody sheets or mood swings
He kinda thought you had a wound at first that you had hidden from him and freaked the fuck out
But after some explanation and him examining you just to be sure, he understood.
Makes you drink water the whole time
Does not care if you complain about being bloated. you are drinking those eight glasses a day
Naps with you during your sleepytimes
Will hold his hand on your stomach to apply pressure when you ask
But will also make jokes about you being his ketchup packet
Will go shopping for your tampons, pads, period cups. Doesn't know what any of them are so he asks Nami and robin for help
Comes back with something from every brand he could find and is now deeper in debt to Nami
Also straight up growled at someone when he could see they were annoying you???
He is now your social shield. Will tell someone where they can shove it if they don't fuck off and let you rest.
"607...608...609....610- oh. Nap time already? Alright alright I'm coming woman- did you just call me your cuddle bear? No I'm not blushing shut up"
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Ace
Ahem. Ace? More like living heating pad.
More than happy to hold you the whole time
Nice and cozy against those warm man titties đŸ€Œ
Anyway. He is absolutely one of the best about things
Completely indifferent if you snap at him. Understands that you are just easily frustrated and also sympathizes with you cause he can't imagine feeling like he wasn't in control of his own emotions
Nap time? Great! He sleeps more than you.. actually he might have a iron deficiency now that I think about it
Warm hands on belly at all times
Will knead at your belly to help soothe out any cramps
None of these men care about blood. It's just the pirate way.
Has his red wings. You know what I mean ;)
"Here, lemme warm you up. Sh sh don't cry, you aren't bothering me at all baby"
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syndrossi · 8 days ago
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resonant ch31 dvd commentary
This one was a doozy, as everyone on Tumblr had a front row view of. I wasn't thrilled with the draft on Thursday, but after some additional eyes and another comprehensive round of edits, I'm happy with how it turned out.
You can really see my struggles with it in the words cut, which were a minimum of 1500 (those are the ones where I extracted more than one paragraph into my scraps doc).
Favorite line(s):
The walk back to the holdfast was like a slow wakening from a dream, and yet Daemon felt desperately tired, his body aching with a fatigue so deep it seemed to scrape the very marrow of his bones.
I was quite proud of the visceral feel of this one.
Jon stood without meaning to, Jon Redfort’s hurt mingling with the rage that surged within his chest. “She hated him. She hated every reminder of him. They dyed Rhaegar’s hair until they couldn’t, and even before that, she could barely look at him. She loved me,” he said, the words choking him, the truth of it almost unbearable, Lady Stark’s love through a distorted mirror, only this time, he was Robb. “And Raymar would cry himself to sleep, convinced it was his own failing.”
The theme of Jon's role being flipped so that he is now in Robb's shoes is one we've been exploring since chapter one, where he notices the way Raymar is treated vs him. It's such a painful thing to deal with, because it both stirs memories of his own treatment by Lady Stark, and the guilt that Jon Redfort has always felt about it. Even though it's not directed at him, the secondhand experience through Raymar reopens those wounds.
Jon dealing with the part of him that is Jon Redfort is another theme we'll explore later on, particularly during the Runestone arc, but we're seeding some of his struggles now.
(Jon continually urging Rhaegar not to mourn Rhea is partly born of this, too. On some level, he believes she does not deserve his grief. And it's easier for him to ignore his own grief that way, or avoid dealing with the guilt-tangled love her feels for her.)
Favorite Details
Marriage hunt
Since the harvest ball is approaching and pretty much all of the marriage-minded misses of the court have been carrying out their pursuits offscreen/in non-canon missing scenes, it felt appropriate to sprinkle in a few hints of what's going on in the background as Daemon and the twins deal with more pressing matters.
Daemon's chair
It's hard to explain in narrative format where Jon was sitting/where Daemon always sits, but it's basically at the end/"head" of the table, while Viserys usually sits at the end of the side facing the window. It killed me a little when I realized that's where I've always written Daemon sitting in his scenes there with Viserys, and it's so obvious why: it's the closest Daemon can get to feeling like his brother's Hand. Similarly, Viserys seats him in an inverted version of that during their supper the first night in King's Landing, with Viserys at the head and Daemon to his side.
Dynamics
Jon & Viserys
This was a fun one to finally write, since we've only had brief interactions between them, from other POVs (Daemon, Otto, Rhaenys). Viserys sees Jon as a mixture of Daemon and Baelon throughout this scene, with Baelon coming out more toward the end. And we can see Viserys respond to Daemon-y Jon in a similar way that he might to Daemon, by getting defensive/frustrated.
Viserys is in a weird place with the candle business where he accepts, generally, that magic is a thing. The boys are fireproof, there is a prophecy that he thinks they will fulfill, he's read about the distant communication made possible by the dragonglass candles of Valyria, and he's seen the red candle spark to life, just as the black ones did once or twice when he was a boy.
But Jon is a child, and unlike Daemon, Viserys has a fairly good understanding of what an eight-year-old is generally like, so he approaches wild claims of high magic with a fair bit of skepticism. Over time, I expect this will change.
I enjoyed weaving in both Baelon and Daemon through the conversation, and the past bond Viserys had with his brother. Viserys absolutely cut little!Daemon's apples for him when he was old enough to carry his own knife. (As did Baelon.) And even throwing in some of Jon's impressions of Viserys and Daemon are alike and not.
And even a few small parallels between Viserys and Jon that I doubt many people will draw: an unwillingness to give up control (Jon not wanting to tell Daemon about the drag marks in the secret passage) and not trusting their brother (Jon, at the end, deciding to "protect" Rhaegar by not letting him in on his plan to go after the candle). They both are convinced of their own mandate to solve problems (the prophecy for Viserys, the candle for Jon).
Daemon & Rhaegar
Rhaegar was in a special hell with Daemon in the latter part of the chapter. He's operating at maximum Aerys damage-control mode there, reading Daemon at speeds enviable by modern CPUs so that he can figure out how to defuse the situation / "fix" him before any (unintentional) harm is done. And the parallels with Aerys's paranoia are incredibly uncomfortable, even if he understands that Daemon is suffering under an outside influence.
It's also terrifying being an eight-year-old child and being dragged along to the dragon enclosure by a father who doesn't seem to hear a word you're saying (or care, if it were Aerys), and you're pretty convinced this is some candle magic at work, but how do you stop him if he decides to take off with you on dragonback? And even if he's unwilling to force you, can you really let him go by himself, in such a vulnerable state?
Meanwhile, Rhaegar better be careful about his plan to claim that the bruise is the result of a training accident, because a blow from a wooden blade doesn't go all the way around the arm, kiddo. Imagine Daemon thinking he's trying to protect Cole after being handled roughly by him. Or just his response in general to his sons downplaying injuries that were clearly dealt by an adult.
@inkykate asked for Rhaegar's POV here for the upcoming winter promptathon, and I'm very tempted!
Quick-hitters
Lady Sera and Lady Dynessa are both from this little impromptu ficlet.
Originally, there was a plot thread where Jon and Rhaegar discussed telling Erryk and Arryk about the candle. At one point, it was in their debriefing at the start of the chapter, a request from Jon to Viserys during their breakfast scene, and even the start of a scene where they actually tell the Cargyll brothers. I cut it because there was a lot going on already and we can revisit it later.
The Rhea grief/anger outburst from Jon caught me by as much surprise as Viserys, but it was lurking beneath the surface. And I cry at a dime, so you can bet I was a mess writing it.
Can we appreciate for a moment the breathtaking gall of Viserys telling Jon he should be grateful for him repeatedly banishing Daemon because it resulted in his birth? Imagine him saying as much to Daemon himself!
The candle is candling hard.
I didn't go into the dragon dynamics with Daemon because this is already quite long, but there was some interesting stuff there for those with a keen eye, including hints at how some of the candle's (sorcerer's?) magic works.
Daemon actually did something so unthinkable (hurting Rhaegar) that Qelebrys hissed at her beloved not-Rhaegar. The heartbreak!
Lots of people keeping things to themselves. So far, for example, Daemon hasn't mentioned the bounty on him to anyone.
I have fun with Rhaegar's strengths vs Jon's, especially when it comes to dragons. Jon has a fairly significant leg-up with his warging experiences and his former quasi-bond with Rhaegal, but Rhaegar is basically a horse girl, except with dragons, so what he lacked for originally in experience, he's making up quickly. But I also like to throw in nods to Jon being able to pick things up that he's discovered very quickly, once shown/pointed out.
Finally, there were quite a few bits cut out of the chapter. I'll probably throw them in a separate post later, since this is pretty long!
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annabethy · 1 year ago
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39! đŸ„°
39. Kissing tears from the other’s face. Percy/Annabeth
New York at four AM has never felt this calm.
It’s not what this city is known for. New York is famous for its bustling streets. When people think of here, they think of the twinkling lights and the sounds of young adults living their lives to the fullest.
New York is also not known as a place to raise a family. Sure, people do it and turn out fine, but it’s different than the suburbs. There aren’t many schools in plain sight, or driveways made for building snowmen and Fourth of July fireworks. It’s just not the place that people choose to start a family, but here she is, eight months pregnant at four AM New York, finding peace in the chaos.
That’s what she’s trying to do anyway.
Annabeth isn’t sure why she’d woken up in the first place, or what had prompted her to slide out of bed away from her husband’s safe embrace. All she knows is that familiar ache in her stomach like everything is wrong. She knew she wouldn’t be getting any sleep after that, so she found herself sitting on the couch of their apartment, facing the tv but looking beyond it. She’s been like that for twenty minutes, or maybe two hours, thinking of everything and nothing at the same time. Maybe it’s more accurate to say she’s been feeling everything and nothing.
Being a demigod is a scary thing. She’d been born into this world of monsters and gods, and it was never easy, but she got used to it. Eventually, she met Percy, and for a while there, things were bad. Bad is a polite way of describing the years she’d spent thinking she was going to lose her best friend, but that’s what it had been. Then, things were better. They got married, and then she got pregnant and wound up here.
If she thought she knew fear before, then she had been wrong.
This. Bringing a baby into a world of uncertainty. That’s fear.
It’s not that Annabeth isn’t happy that they’re going to have a baby—a daughter—but she knows what she has to lose. She knows that she can try to hold her baby close, watching her grow up safe and sound, but there is going to be a point that Annabeth can’t do that anymore.
Even if it’s far in the future, there will come a day when her baby grows up. She won’t be able to protect her the way she can protect herself, and it terrifies her, so she sits here at four in the morning in silence. It’s all she can do.
People would say she’s lucky, and she knows she really is, but gaining something so valuable means gaining the possibility of losing it too.
Annabeth is content to sit there a little while longer, knowing she’ll fall asleep at some point and these worries will be reduced to nothing more than violent whispers in the back of her mind. The view of the city is already helping her breathing return to normal, and if she had been given five more minutes, she probably would’ve returned to bed, crawling into Percy’s arms pretending nothing bad can reach her there. Of course, Percy being the sweet and genuine husband that he is, could never take that long to notice her absence.
“Everything okay?”
Annabeth doesn’t turn around at the sudden voice behind her. She knows he’ll come around the couch soon enough, so instead she focuses on the sleep lacing his voice, low and gravelly, and she has the decency to feel guilty.
“Annabeth?” he prompts.
“I’m alright,” she responds lightly, but the worried frown on his face when the couch beside her dips with his weight tells her he doesn’t believe it. “You can go back to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I’ll wait,” he assures her, grabbing her face in his palm gently. It’s dark, so she doesn’t think he’s able to see her very well. It must be her voice that prompts him to tilt his head and ask, “Have you been crying?”
Annabeth’s lower lip quivers. ïżœïżœNo.”
“Baby
”
“Percy
” she teases, but it doesn’t reach her heart.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, just barely holding back the burning in her eyes. “I’m just
scared.”
She doesn’t elaborate, but when they’ve gone through what they have, they don’t need words to know what the other is thinking. He knows.
“There’s no reason to be scared.”
“There is,” she argues, and the first tear falls. “What if I can’t protect her?”
“You can.”
“You don’t know that. There are monsters and gods, and—not to mention the human things. There are bad people, and they could hurt her, or I could make a mistake and drop her, or—”
“You’re not going to drop her,” Percy says, laughing quietly. “Is that seriously what you’re worried about?”
“It’s up there,” she says. “What if I’m a bad mom?”
Percy laughs again and kisses her nose. “Impossible.”
“I don’t have a mom,” Annabeth points out. “How am I supposed to be one?”
“I think the fact that you’re worrying about this says something,” Percy says. “I don’t think a bad mom would care about whether she can keep her baby safe.”
Annabeth whines, sniffling back the tears that fall against her will. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” he promises, moving aside a strand of hair that fell in front of her face. “I’m worried that you’re feeling this way. I want to be able to help you.”
“I want to be able to help my daughter.”
“And you can,” he says, “So let me help you. Let’s go to bed, okay?”
“How is that helping me?”
“A warm bed with blankets sure sounds a lot better than sitting alone in the dark, doesn’t it?”
He is not wrong. Annabeth will allow him that.
“I don’t think you have any reason to worry. You’re not doing this alone. I’m here to look after you both, and we’ve also got my mom and our friends. Even the gods would never let anything happen to her. They owe us that.”
“Because the gods have always been good at keeping promises, right?”
“They’ll keep this one,” he assures her. “No more tears. Tomorrow, we’ll get up and make breakfast, and if you still feel like crying then, I’ll let you. But right now, let’s sleep.”
She nods, but the tears seem to keep falling anyway. Percy pulls her to her feet, hand brushing against her swollen stomach, and he presses a smile into the top of her head when she stands.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Getting there,” she replies.
“Hm. Not good enough.” And he presses his lips to hers in a soft kiss, salty and sweet. It doesn’t wipe away her worries, but it’s a start.
He pulls away for a second, green eyes staring down to hers, and then his thumb is beneath her chin, pulling her closer. His lips press to her cheek, over the tears that keep falling, and then he kisses the other. The tears don’t stop falling, but he kisses them away, a silent promise that things will be okay, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.
Percy begins to lead them down the familiar path to their bedroom, but his lips stay delicate against her skin.
One kiss to her cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay.”
Second kiss to the other. “How about now?”
“I’m getting there
”
He kisses her properly and murmurs, “Now?”
For the first time that night, Annabeth smiles.
Things will be okay.
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becauseanders · 4 months ago
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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❀
ahhh hi thank you! (finally answering this!) đŸ–€
It Took the Night to Believe: chapterfic, complete, 100k. dragon age ii, anders/male hawke. pacific rim au. i am honestly really fucking proud of this fic, like i thought it was great even though it didn't do super well kudos-wise and i did notice that i definitely did lose readers as it went on. i truly have no idea why, this fic is fucking great. it's got angst, it's got comfort, it's got near death experiences, it's got fluff, it's got kaiju—what's not to love??
No Wound as Sharp as the Will of God: chapterfic, complete, 99k. dragon age ii, anders/female hawke. canonverse, post-da2. it took me seven years to post a second chapter of this and a total of eight years to finish it, and the whole time i was writing it after i picked it up again i was so unsure of it, but turns out i really like it. very heavy content, please do mind the tags. takes place while hawke is with the inquisition. anders positive, justice positive. a very intense, very deep, very affectionate friendship between anders and fenris is an extremely important part of the story. like, seriously, the platonic fenders is just as important as the romantic handers. a lot of angst, like so much angst, but the hurt/comfort is real. the b-plot pertains to my theory that justice cures anders of the taint. cole is there. the emotions are high and you can feel them strongly in the writing. again, be careful, but this is a good fic.
A Thing With Feathers Now, Elevate: one shot, 11k. dragon age: origins, alistair/female amell. canonverse, takes place over the course of da:o. this fic is a fucking masterpiece. another that didn't do well numbers-wise but this is easily one of the absolute best things i've ever written and is quite possibly one of the best fics on ao3. i am so fucking proud of this one. the prose, the metaphors, the handling of trauma, the found family—this one deserved way more love than it got. like, i'm serious, this fic is amazing.
It Means Tumult: chapterfic, wip, 349k (yes, you read that right). dragon age ii, anders/female hawke. modern au. okay, obviously i've got to mention this one. i have been working on this fic for eight years and i am very sorry to everyone who saw this go from updating multiple times a week and asking me how the fuck i write so fast to three years without a single update and then i think only one more in the past two years. i'm working on the penultimate chapter, i swear i am, i'm just super stuck right now. this fic is
this fic. i'm not going to lie, i don't really know if this is any longer some of my better writing, but the premise is fucking solid and i have been told more than once that it's clear this is a labor of love and that this is endearing. au where the obvious metaphors are made reality: the circles are psychiatric institutions and being mentally ill is a crime. a lot of angst, but a lot of love. pay no mind to how much better of a character and person aveline is when i write her. i also do admittedly use this fic to deal with my own demons frequently. an andrea gibson poem helped me write one chapter and i later got to tell them about it and they hugged me. this is also very heavily centered on music and has a lengthy soundtrack. please ignore the fact that when i first started writing this i used british english when i typed because i thought it looked better, as i had started doing as a teenager, which tbh i still kind of do but i also realized that's just fucking pretentious to do when you're american, and it was already so long by the time i stopped doing it that there was no way in hell i was going back to editing all of that (as i actually did do with nwasatwog). so that's just the way it is. but yeah, there's a lot of feelings happening here. also the only fic on this list that has an original title instead of song lyrics despite being the one with the most music involved, lol.
Through the Fall and the Feel: chapterfic, wip, 52k. dragon age ii, anders/male hawke. modern au. this is the one i'm working on most right because that's just where the brainworms are. hawke is a teddy bear doctor and anders goes to see him because instead of a pillow from his mother he has a stuffed cat, and she has seen much better days. this fic has a very wholesome premise but has gone into some pretty heavy angst already and i did not mean for eating disorders to be as important to the story as they have become, so be mindful of that. but this fic has a lot of heart and it's absolutely tanking, so if this piques your interest maybe go give it a look? this is also my second foray into m!handers and i am again having fun writing them. but yeah, i actually like this fic a lot and i do recommend it.
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anikusings · 1 month ago
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1 - what makes life worth living despite
We often think that growing old, adulthood; these things are bestowed upon us as curses. Our skin starts to sag, crow’s feet at the corners of our eyes, laugh lines where our plump cheeks once were. I am not an exception to this trick. I often forget the line where growing up ends and begins. It’s been a year since I started to claim my own autonomy, but it’s also close to a year when I cried like a baby when my childhood best friend left for Canada. Sometimes, when I’m by myself, I feel like I’m alone (which, they are not synonymous). I entertain my own thoughts and never really write or say them out loud. I’m 21 now, and it feels like growing up never ends. But it feels like it hasn’t really stopped anyway. 
But when I really think about it, when I eat birrias with my best friend for the hundredth time, when I get to wear my favorite earrings, growing old is so much of a gift. The grueling realities of society have taught us otherwise. I often say that every day is hard, and I do still think that. I don’t doubt that most people do. I often say that I harbor a deep darkness within me that no one will understand. Four years ago, I wrote that I wake up with anger sewn into me. I no longer feel that way, but sometimes I can feel it open back up. There are so many wounds that have and haven’t healed, and I know that every day is an obstacle for everyone, and not just me. But we learn to preserve; despite the darkness we heave through, despite the hurdles. We persevere despite as a language of love. How have we become ourselves? Sole perseverance is the answer.
Once I become better, once I get past the generational trauma, once I defeat this creativity block — no. It does not matter. We persevere and see the way out. Despite. Despite. Despite. Yes, despite it all. It will be another day where the fight is not over, but it will also be a day that you are alive and breathing.
Despite the darkness, despite the sadness, despite the rage; there is the warmth of the sun on your skin, there is the fat white cat that lounges under the park bench, the laughter from a video, a hug from a friend, the smell of your soap. Living does not have to be this large, significant task. Most days you are simply alive and there is nothing more to it. What could possibly be more important than to be alive? For too long, we have put too much meaning into attaching our value to our productivity, our beauty, and what we offer to the world. What we cannot see is what the world willingly gives us: the gentle breeze swaying through the trees, the slow dance of the clouds across the sky, the sunlight squeezing itself past the shade. 
Through our narcissistic meaning of scrutinizing every little thing, we forget ourselves. The poison that is individualism runs its course through our veins and whispers that we are not good enough. Every week, we trick ourselves into creating a new standard of beauty. But it does not matter. We forget the role we play in the life of others in our indulgence of self-depreciation. In the eight years since I’ve met my best friend, I forget how much she loves me during the times I hate myself. We think so little of ourselves that we do not see the love that we have shared with others which has truly made us important. I attempt my very best to see myself in the lens of her love, but it's been trying. I attempt my very best to pretend that I feel okay with myself as others are. It is trying. I am trying. Despite. Despite.
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pleasestaywithmedarling · 1 year ago
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Sin of Purity, Purity of Sin: Part X
previous masterlist next
see end notes for full content warning
Everything hurt.
The pain that coursed through Anden’s back was no longer white-hot, but it still burned a dull red. The way his hands were bound, stretched so high above him, made his shoulders hurt horribly, but every time he tried to roll them to relieve the ache it just pulled at the barely-healing wounds that littered his back. His arms were going numb, and so were his legs below the knees. And his knees—he could already feel them swelling, unaccustomed to bearing his full weight like this.
He sighed. “You know, you sure picked a hell of a place for a heart-to-heart.”
But he couldn’t bring himself to actually mind. Last night he’d seen Kiri disappear into herself after being half-drowned. All day he’d watched her float through the temple as a ghost of herself, only to be brought back to this brutal reality by an assault from that bastard guard Edric. He’d looked into her panicked eyes as Emitis carved up her back—a torture she’d only been put through because he’d acted without thinking, because he wasn’t strong enough to take his own punishment in silence. And he’d just listened to her crying from the depths of her core because she somehow thought that she, quite possibly the kindest person he’d ever met, deserved to be treated this way.
So if this was what she needed, for this to be the night they swapped the tragic tales that were their lives, how could he possibly let a bit of pain stop him from giving that to her?
Anden was beginning to fear that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for her. He hoped that if he confessed his crime to her, it would scare her away. And he hoped so, so desperately that it wouldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” said Kiri. Her voice was somehow gentle despite its pained rasp. “You know you don’t have to tell me any more right now. Or ever, if—if you don’t want to.”
“You may as well know.” And frankly, he didn’t think he could tell her this anywhere but here—it was easier with the statue between them, so that he couldn’t see her face. He shifted his weight from one knee to the other, grunting at the awful ache but almost grateful for the pain—it was at least a distraction from his nerves. “I, uh, I was out with my brother. Midsummer, eight years ago. It’d been just me and him after Dad died, and we’d been on the streets plenty long enough to know Midsummer’s the best day for picking pockets. The crowds are packed tight, it’s way easier to not get caught. You plan a good route and you can make more in that one day than you could most months. Anyway, uh, that year I thought we’d try to work a new block, closer to the craftsmen’s district. We—we needed more income that year, cause of Omika.”
His throat closed up. Gods, she’d been so little then. She probably barely remembered him.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah.” He blinked back a few tears that had nothing to do with the way his entire body ached. “Yeah, I—yeah. I’m okay.”
“Who’s Omika?” Kiri prompted gently.
“She, uh, she’d been with us almost a year. She was five when we found her. You kinda have to learn to ignore kids like that, cause what can you do to help them, you know? You’re barely making by yourself.”
“That must have been hard.”
“Yeah. I mean, you get used to it, I guess. But I don’t know what happened. We meant to just share some food with her, and she just kind of stuck around. But it was good—I mean, she was family. But it, uh, it meant another mouth to feed. We barely made it through the winter. So then that Midsummer, I wanted to try working a different block—figured there’d be fatter wallets there. And I was right. Made a killing that day. But then everything was over and people were starting to go home, and my brother wasn’t where we said we’d meet. So I went looking for him.”
He heard a shout and he knew that voice and oh gods he knew that voice and there was Antoni and he was curled up on the ground and there was blood in his hair and please fucking please don’t be dead.
“Found him in an alleyway getting the shit beat out of him by this old guy. Never found out for sure what happened, but I think he’d claimed the block we were on. I’d thought I knew the city pretty well—I didn’t think we were on someone’s turf. He pulled a knife, and I—I fucking panicked. Barely remember anything, it happened so fast. I remember wrestling with him over it, trying to get it away from him. Got my arm cut up pretty good. And I remember this one moment, his face is only inches away, and I’m thinking, this guy’s as scared as I am. And then—”
The knife hit bone and he could feel the reverberations running up the blade and the handle and his arm and his arm and he was the one holding the knife and there was blood and it was his blood and it wasn’t his blood and it wasn’t his blood but it was his knife.
“—then I stabbed him.”
The man was breathing and his breathing was wet and he wasn’t breathing he was drowning he was drowning in his own blood it wasn’t Anden’s blood but it was his knife.
“And then my brother was trying to pull me up off the ground—couple of enforcers had showed up. We tried to run for it but I—I don’t know, I don’t think my head was working quite right. I got caught—I didn’t even make it out the other side of the alleyway. I remember yelling at him, my brother, that he had to keep going. Had to take care of Omika. Guess he heard me. Cause he almost came back—I saw it. He was a stubborn little shit, probably wanted to do something stupid like try fight off those asses. But he must’ve heard me, cause he kept going.”
Anden took a deep breath, relishing in the pain flaring across his back as his lungs expanded—maybe not the best way to ground himself, but it did the trick. “So, uh, yeah. Got off easy—only eight years. Probably cause they didn’t actually give a shit about that old man.” He exhaled a humorless laugh. “You know what’s really fucked up? He was still alive when they hauled me away. Probably wouldn’t have made it even if someone had helped him. But still. They just fucking left him there in that alleyway. Just as much their fault as mine that he died.
“But I was still the one with the knife.”
Feeling all at once utterly spent, he fell silent. And with the same dread he’d awaited his sentence eight years ago, he waited for Kiri to say something, anything.
When her soft voice at last spoke out, it sounded rather choked—with pain or with feeling, Anden wouldn’t have presumed to guess. “I’m so sorry, for—for him and for you. And for your family. You shouldn’t have ever been in a position for something like that to happen—none of you.”
Anden sagged in relief before the strain of the ropes forced him to pull himself back up. She’d not brushed his actions aside by saying some nonsense about how none of it was his fault, and yet her words held such compassion that he was fighting back tears. He’d had plenty of time to make his peace with what he’d done—as much as anyone could ever be at peace with the weight of the knowledge that they’d ended a human life—but he’d assumed it was too much to expect anyone else not to hate him for it. At least if the anyone else in question was someone so obviously good as Kiri. But by some miracle, it seemed that perhaps his confession had not scared her away after all.
Warmth flooded through him down to his core. For just one moment, he did not try to somehow stop himself, or scold himself for his foolishness; he merely allowed himself the privilege of caring for her.
“Anden, I—” she hesitated, a small gasp of pain escaping her.
He felt his chest tighten. Gods, caring for her was agony. “You okay?”
“Yes,” she panted. “Are—are you?”
“Yes.” And it wasn’t entirely a lie.
The rest of the night passed miserably enough—they were both at the point of collapse when they were finally released the next morning. Standing at that damned pillar all day was absolute hell, especially now that he was chained up more thoroughly than ever thanks to his ill-considered attack on Edric. But Anden took comfort in his growing hope that, surely, they wouldn’t be trapped in this nightmare much longer. That Kiri wouldn’t. That she would escape. That she would find safety.
That maybe she might even want to find that together.
next
I've been debating whether to end this chapter here or keep it going...cause this ending makes me happy. Which is great, but not the vibe I wanted to go for right now lol But like...and I'm not saying it'll necessarily be the next chapter, or even the one after that, but like...soon, I think...shit is gonna hit the fan. May as well let my characters have a bit of hope right now. As a treat!
taglist: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams @little-peril-stories
content warning: captivity, religious abuse, restraints, minor character death, mentions of assault and torture
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emi-writings · 1 year ago
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Burning Iron and Honey Sweet Promises: Chapter One
Fae AU. Tntduo.
Wilbur is a witch born in a village of fae hunters. One day, his father and brother brings back the Unseelie King.
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Eight of Swords. The Tower. Death.
Past. Present. Future.
A simple three card tarot spread.
One of the more common and well-known tarot card spreads.
His past – the Eight of Swords. A tarot card that embodied restriction, imprisonment. Being trapped between a rock and a hard place, with no resolution available. It could mean anything from an unfulfilling job to an abusive and toxic relationship. While it wasn’t always a good card, in the past position it made Wilbur feel at least a little settled. All of that was his past, he no longer needed to be worried about it.
His present – The Tower. A tarot card that symbolized the unexpected, upheaval, massive change, destruction, and chaos. It could mean anything from financial or relationship problems, to natural disasters and death. Now, The Tower could also have positive meanings – it wasn’t all pain and turmoil. It could technically also be a card of spiritual awakening or revelation. Wilbur doubted it.
His future – Death. A tarot card that represented change, transitions, transformations, and endings. The Death card symbolized getting rid of that which no longer served you, clearing away limiting factors to door to a more satisfying experience of life. However, literal death wasn’t completely off the table, and with the cards he had laid out in front of him, Wilbur wasn’t ruling out any of the possibilities when The Tower was involved.
Wilbur hadn’t been given the opportunity to ruminant on the cards for very long, as he heard commotion from outside his house. He tried to gather up his cards, but his peace was disturbed by a loud bang as his door slammed open, followed by thundering footsteps. Technoblade, his brother, through open the kitchen door, covered in blood of red and gold, clearly injured.
“Lapis, get your cloak and mask on! Now” Techno snapped.
Wilbur frowned, “Your injuries—”
“Now!”
Before Wilbur could reply or continue what he had wanted to say, Technoblade quickly reached for Wilbur’s cloak on the other side of the kitchen bench. Wilbur sighed and pulled up his face scarf before he secured his mask over his eyes. He had always hated the masks his father forced him to wear – they had a thin fabric that obscured his eyes, but frustrated Wilbur to no end. He could still see, but everything was slightly tinted. Technoblade tossed the cloak around his shoulders and fastened it, while Wilbur replaced his gloves. As soon as Technoblade stepped back, Wilbur knew he had turned into a simple blob of brown and tans, nothing of interest.
“Can I tend to your wounds now, Gold?” Wilbur asked his brother with venom laced words.
“Keep quiet, Lapis!” Techno hissed, a slight edge to his tone.
Wilbur rolled his eyes at that and went to retort, but he was once again interrupted – this time by a screech. Multiple people yelled and called out as something screeched and hissed at them. This was accompanied by the sound of crashes and metal as it clanked against other metal, furious and frenzied. Technoblade immediately pushed Wilbur behind him and drew his sword as the sounds pulled closer and closer. But the sounds weren’t coming from inside the house, instead it came from the kitchen window. So, in all his curiosity and concern, Wilbur rushed forward to the window to take a peek.
In that moment Wilbur finally understood what people meant when they said the fae were inhumanely beautiful.
Phil was accompanied by a group of men – nearly every hunter in the village – and each of them held onto a separate chain that connected to their prisoner. The fae was bound by its wrist and ankles with fic metal cuffs, which rendered its long, red coated talons unless. its wings of black, gray, and white feathers were tied with chains. They even had a collar sat heavy on its neck, which showed signs of burning where it touched the fae’s skin. All tools of cold iron Wilbur had blessed the last new moon. A cloth gag had been shoved into its mouth, tied tightly around its head, and Wilbur was almost certain a rock or knot had been added to make the gag more effective.
The fae struggled despite the heavy bonds and deadly weapons that surrounded it. It glared defiantly into the eyes of the hunters around it with the eye that wasn’t covered by golden blood. It was almost impressive, how much effort it forced the hunters to use, even though it clearly should have suffered from iron sickness at that point. When it settled his gaze on Wilbur, the witch felt himself freeze under that stare. But Technoblade finally caught up with Wilbur and pulled him back, away from the window and the fae’s sight.
“What were you thinking?!” Technoblade snapped.
Wilbur glared at him, despite his brother being unable to see it, “What I was thinking was that you were murdering some kind of animal out there! What the fuck are you doing? Why is there a fae in our village? And why aren’t you at the healers?”
“The healers are busy right now – I’m not the only one who was injured, I’m just the one who isn’t dying,” Technoblade explained with a sigh, “And that fae is the key to saving everyone.”
“What do you mean ‘the key to saving everyone’? Because from my vantage point, it looked kind of murderous— sit down. If you’re not going to the healer, then I will do it” Wilbur said as he rummaged through the healing supplies, “At least I know where mom is now. I thought the ritual preparations were taking too long.”
“Right, the new moon isn’t too far away. We really need more supplies after that whole fight” Technoblade hissed as Wilbur disinfected a cut on his face.
“How powerful was this thing?” Wilbur said as he grabbed one of the salves.
Before Technoblade could answer that question, they both heard the sound of the front door opening. His brother jolted, moved to his feet immediately to stand at attention, which caused Wilbur to give him an unseen eye roll as his father walked into home. He looked disheveled, coated in red and gold, with clothes torn to shreds. He gave Technoblade a gesture, and the latter fell at ease back into his seat, which Wilbur took as permission to keep treatment. Phil glanced around the room with a frown.
“Where is your mother?” Phil asked.
Wilbur sighed, “Busy at the healers, by the looks of things. What is going on?”
“We captured the Unseelie King.”
Wilbur nearly dropped what he was holding, “That was the King of the Unseelie Court? Are you insane?!”
“This is the opportunity of a lifetime – with the Unseelie King at our mercy we can potentially save humanity from the threat of fae forever. No one will have to live in fear anymore” Phil explained.
“How exactly did you get to that conclusion?” Wilbur questioned.
“We can make a deal of some kind. Force their hand so they can’t leave their realm or stop them from being able to harm anyone” Phil continued.
“Is this a good idea?” Wilbur asked his cards as he shuffled the deck.
“Lapis—”
“Oh, that’s a big yikes right there” Wilbur held up the card he had drawn, “Ten of Swords.”
Phil dropped his weapons down with a loud thud, “Lapis!”
And the room fell into a tense silence.
“Sorry,” Wilbur muttered after a moment.
“Gold and I will handle anything related to the Unseelie King” Phil sat down at the bench, “No real names, we don’t know how good its hearing is and we can’t risk it. That means no removing the cloak and mask unless absolutely necessary. No going anywhere near the cellar.”
“What about the new moon ritual?” Wilbur asked.
Phil sighed, “You wear a cloak to the ritual circle and back. A heavy one. Fae can sense magical energy; we’re not giving any of them the chance to get a feel of yours. No going anywhere near the cellar.”
“Oh, of course,” Wilbur gathered his cards, “Stay away from the fae.”
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The cellar doors were cold iron, heavily bound by iron chains. Around it was a line of black salt, highly protective salt that could only be made by witches. Above the doors were bundles of primroses, rowan wood twigs, and a St. John’s wort. There wasn’t any way a fae could enter or leave the cellar. The iron would burn their fingers, and the salt would stop and magic or enchantments, so they couldn’t use that to open the door. The other items also worked, but in between the iron and salt, Wilbur thought they were just a touch excessive.
The Devil. The Tower. Ten of Swords.
Those were the cards that had forced Wilbur to stand before the cellar door in the middle of the night. Three cards that had answered the question “what would happen if the Unseelie King died?” in the most terrifying way possible. So, there he was, a stolen key in one hand, an unlit lantern in the other, with a bag of salves, balms, tonics and food slung over his shoulder. All because he knew he couldn’t let the fae fall to his injuries.
The cellar door didn’t creek when it opened – a sign that it had been well maintained. Despite the fact that it worked in his favor, Wilbur could help but think that it would have been better if Phil had let the doors develop a creek. It would’ve made it even harder for the fae to be sneaky. It didn’t matter, because that wasn’t the hard part. The witch descended the ladder, slowly and carefully, too afraid to light the lantern where it could be seen by one of the other hunters. When he reached the bottom, he finally lit the lantern before he unlocked the last two doors that separated him from the King of the Unseelie Court.
The King of the Unseelie Court made an unsettling, yet beautiful sight.
A large cage stood proud in the center of the room; a ring of salt made a boundary line around it. The Unseelie King was chained up inside the cage, its hands bound above its head with only the slightest bit of slack in the chains. An iron collar attached its throat to the bottom of the cage, along with chains around its ankles. Its wings were no longer bound, but the bottom feather looked hacked – someone had clipped them. In the flickering lantern light, with the gold and red blood that coated its skin, it looked feral yet ethereal. It stared directly at Wilbur, one eye shut from the blood, but no less intimidating.
There was no mistaking what court it ruled over. The fae was donned in a bright crimson undershirt, with poet sleeves, and a lacy black vest that still looked nice despite the tears. It had sleek black pants tucked into black boots, and it was covered head to toe in damaged red and purple crystals. It wore no crown, but it was obvious to anyone who looked at it that they gazed upon the King of the Unseelie Court. There was just something in the way that it carried itself that, in the way it looked at you, that made it clear you were beneath it.
The witch stood frozen under his gaze, keenly aware of just how many rules he had broken in that moment. Keenly aware of just how many more rules he was about to break. Wilbur took a deep breath, then slowly made his way closer to the fae. He would be fine, with the cloak, mask, and gloves, not a single sliver of skin was showing. The Unseelie fae wouldn’t have much leverage on Wilbur and wouldn’t be able to gain anyway. So long as kept the rules in mind all the rules of fae etiquette, even the King of the Unseelie Court wouldn’t be able to do anything.
As soon as he stood outside of the salt ring, Wilbur felt himself once again frozen in place. Slowly, he unlocked the cage door with the key, eyes trained on the fae in front of him at all times. The fae watched as well, him with its head slightly tilted like a curious bird. Not that he couldn’t blame the Unseelie fae, he must have made quite the confusing sight all things considered. With only a slight shake in his hands, he slowly reached up to the gag.
“If I remove this gag, you won’t yell or scream or try any enchantments, alright?” Wilbur whispered, “No funny business. Deal?”
The fae huffed out a breath through its nose but nodded.
The air shifted, and Wilbur cringed when he realized what that funny sensation that settled over him was – he had just made a deal.
Wilbur removed the gag and the fae immediately spat, “Ugh. Do you wash your gags? That shit is disgusting!”
“Look, I’m going to heal you, so just keep still” Wilbur asked.
The fae leaned forward slightly, “Oh? Heal me? Let me guess, you want me in tip-top shape before you torture me? Just know that things probably won’t turn out well for you.”
“What? No, no one is torturing you or whatever the fuck you think is going on” Wilbur settled the lantern down, before he rummaged through his supplies.
“Right, right. You’re just a hunter looking out for me because of your sense of altruism” The Unseelie King laughed without humor and looked away.
Wilbur ignored that comment and, with great reluctance, removed his gloves. Afterwards, he dipped a rag in a container he had filled with a mixture of water and vinegar to clean and disinfect the fae’s wounds. He rinsed out the rag of excess liquid, before he started with the fae’s face. The Unseelie King remained silent and unflinching throughout the ordeal, and Wilbur tried not to fidget unnecessarily under its unflinching stare. When he finished with the fae’s face, Wilbur’s face warmed as he realized he would have to undo the fae’s shirt to reach the rest of his injuries.
“Something wrong, healer?” The fae smirked.
“No, nothing” Wilbur rushed out as he raised his hands to proceed, “Just lost in thought.”
“Oh, really?” The fae asked with a suggestive tone, “While looking at my chest?”
“Not like that! This is just
 kind of unfamiliar territory for me” Wilbur admitted.
The fae leaned back slightly, “I thought you were a healer?”
“I am! I mean
 I just usually only heal my brother
 and occasionally my father. This is different” Wilbur explained.
The fae was silent after that, but Wilbur felt the way he stared directly into his soul. He ignored it, the witch had one task, and he would finish it sooner if he stopped conversing with the fae. When he finally finished cleaning the fae’s wounds, he returned to his satchel and browsed through the salves until he found the one he needed. With a little victorious hum, he opened the jar and began to apply the salve to the fae’s wounds.
As soon as his fingers touched the fae’s chest, Wilbur felt something rush through him. A warm and pleasant sensation, that slowly traveled from his fingertips to his arms to his chest. At first Wilbur thought that perhaps the fae had decided to cast his own magic on the witch, but he quickly ruled that out. The feeling didn’t really do anything or make him feel anything other than warm. So, Wilbur chalked it up to the fact that previously the only people he had touched in such a way had been his brother and father. Of course he’d be weird about treating a fae.
“You’re Emerald’s child, aren’t you?”
Wilbur looked up at the fae, “What?”
“You’re Emerald’s child. I noticed you in the window earlier” the fae explained, “I was confused when I saw you at first, then I thought if you were a healer, you were just making a house call. But now I know you’re his son.”
“I have food” Wilbur started as panic began to set in, “And if you want a single bite of it, you have to swear that you will not tell anyone that this happened. You won’t tell anyone I snuck down here. You won’t tell anyone I healed you. You won’t tell anyone I talked to you. And you won’t tell anyone I fed you. Understood?”
“I’ll accept your deal” the fae answered after it mused on it for a bit.
Power settled over Wilbur once more and he sighed, “Good.”
“You’re gentle.”
At Wilbur’s confused hum the fae elaborated, “Your hands are gentle. I hadn’t been expecting that.”
“Oh. Is it bad?” Wilbur asked.
“It’s nice
” the fae sighed.
“Good, that’s good” Wilbur returned to the injury on the fae’s face, “Now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to save your eye.”
“Yeah, I had little hope for that one – one of the hunter’s blessed weapons got me there” the fae slightly leaned into Wilbur’s touch.
Wilbur’s stomach dropped a little, “Which one?”
“I didn’t really notice; I was busy fighting for my life” the fae answered.
Wilbur frowned at that. He wasn’t sure where the sudden pit of guilt inside him had come from, he knew what the weapons he and his mother blessed were for. But to see the results of something that he might have created left a sense of shame and horror. The witch tried to reassure himself as he continued his treatment – the fae were evil, and a little scarring was nothing compared to all the pain and anguish they had caused humanity for centuries. That line of thinking didn’t make it better, though.
Wilbur stepped back when he finished, “I can’t bandage your face without giving everything away, but I can bandage your chest, alright?”
“That should be fine” the fae sighed, “So, what do I call you?”
“I thought I said no funny business” Wilbur commented as he fetched the bandages from his bag.
“I’m not asking for your True Name; I’m asking for your hunter’s alias. I’m assuming everyone in this village has one, since they’re dedicated to the extermination of my kind” the fae shifted so that Wilbur would actually be able to wrap bandages around him, “You’re clearly taking a risk for me. It feels rude to just call you ‘healer’, as if you’re nothing more than that.”
Wilbur paused at that, “Lapis Lazuli. Lapis for short.”
“Lapis. Pretty name” the fae commented, “You can call me Q.”
“Q?”
“A nickname of sorts – a half-fae I know started calling me ‘Big Q’ and it kind of stuck” Q explained, “What pronouns do you use?”
“Pardon?”
“Pronouns – he/him? She/her? They/them? Some combination? Come on, I don’t feel like being a dick to the only person willing to heal me.”
“Oh” Wilbur tried to remember if there was any reason why he shouldn’t reveal that to the fae, “He/him I guess
”
“Alright, same” The Unseelie fae hummed.
Wilbur felt confused. All his life, his father had kept him far away from the fae – for good reason. They were dangerous creatures, and there was no better prize to a fae than a hunter's child. Whether to keep as some kind of sick trophy, or to force into a lifetime of servitude, the fae had a record of seeking out the children of fae hunters more than any other group. Yet Wilbur managed to hold a civil conversation with one, and had touched one without falling to harm. The fae even wanted to go out of its
 out of his way to show Wilbur respect, as an acknowledgement of his effort. It went against so much of what the witch had been taught.
“I’m going to be honest, I couldn’t get much in terms of food – it would be too noticeable if suddenly an entire meal worth of food went missing – but I tried to get stuff I heard fae made deals for” Wilbur pulled a jar of different fruits, “I heard fae liked sweet things and fruit.”
“Some fae do. Honey is best, but for fae based on certain animal species fruit can work'' Q explained.
Wilbur looked up at him, “Are you one of them?”
“Anything is better than starving to death” Q replied.
“So that’s a no” Wilbur frowned, though the other couldn’t see.
“I’m a shrike fae – a fae based on a carnivorous species of songbird. But I can eat fruit, and it will provide me with more strength than starving would” Q countered.
Wilbur nodded, “Right. Except that carnivorous fae tend to get stronger from blood, and in order to feed you I’m going to have to put my fingers right in front of your mouth.”
“I won’t bite you” Q said, “At least, not without your permission.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Wilbur backed up a bit, wishing he had brought more than just his boline down with him.
But the fae just laughed a little, “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to add a loophole. I was trying to be flirty. Guess I should have realized it could’ve been taken as a threat.”
“And why would you want to flirt with me?” Wilbur continued.
Check. Mate. The fae could try to use his words to endear himself to Wilbur, but the witch wasn’t fooled. He wasn’t going to free the Unseelie King just because of one flirty remark. And now Q would either admit it or remain silent and refuse to acknowledge the question. Regardless of what he did, Wilbur would be proven right. Maybe he could even use the fact that the fae had tried to manipulate him against him. It could make for some decent leverage.
“You’re fearless” Q started, “Not many people who know as much about the fae as you do would say half the shit you have to a king. You’re kind and gentle. You’re the only one here who hasn’t treated me like a thing. But maybe it’s just the blood loss and iron sickness making me think that flirting is appropriate.”
That hadn’t been what Wilbur had expected. Worse, Wilbur hadn’t predicted that the Q’s words would resonate with him. Still, that didn’t mean anything – fae were well known for how they played with the truth, unable to lie but masters of deception. He didn’t mention that the flirtation had been anything more than just flirting, but that didn’t mean the witch should accept that at face value. Especially when the fae he spoke to was a member of the Unseelie Court. They were far less honorable and far more devious than Seelie fae.
“I’m telling you now, I’m not going to fall for this. I’m not freeing you, you’re not getting out of here” Wilbur snapped.
The fae paused, head cocked and eye bearing right into Wilbur, “Do you think that I am tricking you because I am a fae? Or is it because you can’t imagine I’d be interested in you beyond how you could serve me?”
Wilbur huffed and pulled out an apple slice before he shoved it in front Q’s face. The smile the Unseelie fae gave him was full of haughty amusement, but he refrained from commenting. Instead, he opened his mouth and slowly leaned forward to bite into the apple. The witch realized rather quick that the fae intentionally took slow, small bites out of each piece of fruit. Though he didn’t know if it was because the fae just wanted to draw it out, or if he just wanted to mess with Wilbur a bit. Every time Q’s lips brushed against Wilbur’s fingers, he felt the same warmth return, though it felt slightly more intense.
“That’s the last of the fruit” Wilbur looked away from the fae, “I have an elixir for you to drink as well, then I’ll leave.”
Q nodded, “Alright.”
The witch opened the bottle of medical elixir and raised the bottle to the Unseelie King’s lips. Wilbur tried to keep the bottle from spilling the drink all over the fae, but other than that he just wanted to finish up so he could leave the cellar and never have to think about the fae ever again. The longer he lingered, the higher the chance of him getting caught. As terrified as he was of the fae, Wilbur knew his life would be over if his father caught him anywhere near the cellar, let alone inside and talking with the fae.
As soon as Wilbur was certain he had done everything he could to keep the fae alive – at least through the night – the witch left the cellar and the fae inside.
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8 notes · View notes
lowlylux · 1 year ago
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I am a Sinner (You are a Saint)
Chapter Eight | Revelations
Ship: HeiKazuScara
Rating: E
Status: In Progress
Word Count: 2.2k
Description:
“You shall be cast out of the heavenly realm indefinitely.”
Kunikuzushi feels arms grab his own as he is forced to his feet. He struggles, keeping his eyes on his mother only. “Mother! Don’t let them do this!” The guards continue to drag him away, even if it is a struggle. “Mother!” He knows the gate to the human realm is growing closer to him. The more time passes, the less chance he has to escape. But the divine never back out of their decisions
never. He looks to his mother one last time, hoping that she at least looks at him. But her gaze refuses to meet his own.
When he is finally cast out, the air rushing past his entire body, he could only visualize his mother’s pained expression.
He has never felt so alone

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Heizou groans as he feels pain erupt from the back of his head.  His eyes have not yet adjusted to the lack of light, causing him to squint, but even that attempt is futile.  Heizou in this very moment is helpless when it comes to finding out his situation and specifically how to rectify it.
He tries to move his arms, only to realize that his hands are tied together.  And, considering the fact that it is rope and he has nothing to cut it with, he doesn’t even have a chance to free his restraints.  Suddenly, he regrets going into that damned factory.
Memories of the last time he was conscious flood his mind.  He can’t remember much, just Sanada knocking him out.  And sure, that is pretty shocking, but he really doesn’t think Sanada is the murderer.  He just isn’t the type.
So that leads to his long-running theory of the possibility of supernatural involvement, which seems much more likely now.  But he still can’t prove it, which definitely is a problem.
Lights are flicked on in an instant, leaving Heizou no chance to prepare whatsoever.  He hisses in surprise, scrunching up his face until he finally feels like it is safe to open his eyes once more.  Although, truth be told, he regrets opening his eyes once he does.
In front of him is Sanada, who is very much not alive in any capacity.  Blood pools from a wound on neck, the liquid inching closer to Heizou’s feet as time goes on.  He’s pale, but not enough to mean he’s been dead for long.  Sanada’s black hair is messy, the back of it being wet from what Heizou can only assume is his own blood.  But what bothers him the most is the never blinking eyes.  They stay staring at the ceiling, slightly cloudy, the last expression of pure horror forever etched onto his face.
Sanada was still young, and while Heizou didn’t know him, he knows that Sanada didn’t deserve this ending.
Heizou looks further, noticing the fact that someone is across the room.  He’s shrouded in a partial shadow, but what Heizou cannot even comprehend is why someone would just be sitting in a chair, calmly watching the scene unfold.  “Past the shock?” The person asks, standing up so that he is in full view.
Heizou gapes at the sight.  He has never really seen this person outside of a few interactions, but seeing them here so calmly is incredibly mind blowing.  “Pantalone?”
In front of him is the medical examiner, a usually flippant individual that Heizou rarely sought out.  He was always strange, obsessed with the dead in a way that seemed unnatural and frankly made Heizou uncomfortable.  But here he is, standing there proudly, his unnatural pale blue hair pinned away from his face.
“You couldn’t even go by a seperate name?” Someone asks, causing Heizou to snap his attention to the newcomer.  
He looks just like Pantalone

“I like my given name,” the one Heizou assumes is Pantalone says, shrugging while he talks.
“Well I could’ve given you a name.”
“I’m not going to take advice from someone who’s named Dottore.”
Dottore gasps in a fake manner, feigning offense.  “I’ll have you know that my name is-“ his focus turns to Heizou in an instant, as if he forgot that he was even there.  “He’s awake.”
“Obviously,” Pantalone scoffs before glancing at his hands and groaning.  “You know, your skin is the fucking worst.  Would it kill you to actually take care of yourself?”  If Heizou wasn’t used to Scaramouche at this point, the sight in front of him would cause him to scream out.  But even if he’s used to the unknown, it doesn’t make it any less shocking.  Pantalone completely changes in a mere moment, his features meshing together until a new person emerges.  He has longer black hair, however the hair clips remain.  But what is most shocking is his eyes, the pupils resembling that of a snake.
Dottore walks toward Heizou, kneeling so that they can be eye to eye.  His smile is strained, as if he is annoyed with Heizou’s presence, but he keeps his intentions unknown for the time being.  “Shikanoin Heizou, we need to talk.”
â—â€ąÂ·â€ąâ—
It took hours before Kazuha fell asleep.  Scaramouche at first didn’t really know what to do.  Sure, he knows how to support someone, but Kazuha was damn near inconsolable.  Scaramouche couldn’t even understand half of what Kazuha said in those hours, but he could understand the fact that Kazuha feel guilty.  That morning, Heizou mentioned both of them calling out of work so that he could take Kazuha to the boardwalk, but Kazuha insisted that they needed to work.  So Scaramouche sat there, letting Kazuha cry his heart out in his lap until he inevitably couldn’t bear to be conscious anymore.
That was when Scaramouche took the chance to get out of the house.  When he found himself at the doorstep of a summer house that reeked of magic, he knew there was no turning back when it comes to the decision he is making.  He knocks, and isn’t at all surprised when the door opens.  
Zhongli stands there, face completely neutral. “Kunikuzushi
”
“It’s Scaramouche.”
Zhongli releases a sigh, shaking his head.  “Fine, Scaramouche, what are you doing here?”
Scaramouche stares at Zhongli for a moment, as if he would be able to decipher what the old archangel is thinking.  Obviously, he can’t, but it would be nice if he could.  “Is Childe here?”
The older angel clears his throat in an instant, as if doing so will clear any tension between the two.  “He’s inside.”
Scaramouche just nods as he steps into the house, pausing for a moment once inside.  “You know, I knew you took frequent trips to the human realm, but I never thought you would have an entire life here.” He just sends Zhongli a side glance as he continues to talk.  “Tell me Zhongli, do the divine know about all of this?  What would Celestia think of one of their own archangels, an archon of power, being a lover of a demon?”
“And who would tell Celestia of my transgressions?” 
Scaramouche turns around fully, sending Zhongli a glare.  “You’re an ass for that comment, you know that?”
“That was the point.” Zhongli says, leaning toward Scaramouche so that he can whisper, “I pity your situation, I truly do, but don’t threaten me and what I’ve built here again.  Am I clear, Kunikuzushi ?”
Scaramouche just glares at him, not enjoying this interaction at all.  “Crystal.”
“Great,” Zhongli says, straightening his back as he smiles at Scaramouche.  “Childe is in the kitchen, he’ll be so happy you stopped by.”
Scaramouche just nods in response, not particularly wanting to egg on Zhongli any further.  He turns, going toward what he can only assume is the kitchen and luckily he is correct.  And, to Zhongli’s credit, Childe is in the kitchen.
The ginger is humming to himself, a pile of folded laundry on the table and a pot of something on the stove.  Childe grabs another shirt, finally noticing Scaramouche when he’s in the middle of folding.  “Scara!  What a surprise!”
“Childe, Heizou’s missing.”
Childe finishes folding the shirt with a sigh.
And Scaramouche, for how smart he is, is absolutely dumbfounded.  The odd realization that Childe knew more than he let on creeps into his very soul, gripping his mind until he is unable to think of anything else.  “ You knew? ”
“I was aware of a potential threat, yes.” Childe says, grabbing another shirt in the process.
“What the fuck Childe?” Scaramouche says, grabbing the shirt from Childe’s hands.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it wasn’t my place.”
“If Heizou’s dead-“
“He’s not,” Childe says far too quickly for Scaramouche’s liking.  The demon glances at Scaramouche before shaking his head, as if pitying him.  “We would be meeting in much worse circumstances if he was.”
Childe reaches for the shirt but Scaramouche proceeds to keep it away from the ginger’s grasp.  “What haven’t you told me about?”
The demon stares at him for a moment before groaning, running a hand through his hair.  “The witch involved with all of this, Dottore?  Well he needs a certain amount of human blood spilt to and he intends for the head detective to be the final offering.  It’s supposed to be symbolic.”
“So Heizou can be dead any minute.”
“Correct.”
“How the fuck is that supposed to make me feel better?” Scaramouche yells out, throwing the crumpled shirt onto the counter.  He holds his head, tears threatening to pour down his face.  “He could be dying right now and I can’t do anything about it.  If he dies
Kazuha will never forgive me.  I’ll never forgive myself .  I really care about him and if he-“
“Diluc’s already investigating it,” Childe says, immediately rushing to Scaramouche.  “He left this morning to try and find Heizou.  He’s not going to die, Scara.”
Scaramouche just stares at him, his eyes unblinking as he processes the information.  “I want to find him
”
“I can’t help you with that,” Childe says, sending him a pitying stare.  “My specialty is being a glorified demon bodyguard.  If you wanted help from someone, you’d need to find a demon who specializes in assassinating humans.”
“Do you know of any demons like that?”
Childe pauses for too long, already giving Scaramouche the answer he so desperately craves.  “I know of one
”
“Then point me to them!”
“No,” Childe says immediately, shaking his head.  “Dottore is a fucking psycho and the demon he has tailing him is no better.  He thinks he has Pantalone on his leash but trust me when I say this, out of the two of them, I would be more concerned about Pantalone.”
Scaramouche finds himself staring at nothing in particular, trying to gather his thoughts but ultimately being unable to.  “I’m going to bring Heizou back to Kazuha.”
Childe doesn’t say anything, instead standing so that he can continue folding the laundry.  “Do you want to stay for lunch?  I’m making spaghetti.”
Scaramouche can’t help but stare at Childe.  Here is a demon, supposedly a sworn enemy of Scaramouche, offering him lunch while simultaneously folding laundry.  It’s oddly domestic and definitely doesn’t fit any social norms that were drilled into Scaramouche’s mind since the beginning of his existence?  And Childe, while rather eccentric, is just oddly nice for a demon.  “How did you become a demon anyway?”  Scaramouche didn’t even mean to say it aloud
it just happened.
And Childe pauses, his soft smile dropping at that topic.  He sets a pair of jeans down, supporting himself with the counter.  “How much do you know about the process?”
“Not much, just that you have to make a deal with another one.”
“That’s actually pretty much it
just more painful,” Childe jokes, taking a seat next to Scaramouche on the floor.  “I’m Russian, did you know that?”
“No, I actually didn’t.”
Childe starts to mess with a ring in his finger, twisting it slightly just so that he has something to do.  “My parents died when I was a teenager.  My dad worked as a guard for some noble, got killed in the line of duty.  My mother
she studied witchcraft at the time and was found out after his death.  My village executed her not too long after.”  Every word he speaks sounds as if he is physically pushing the words out, completely unwilling to tell this story but at the same time giving this information freely.
“My older siblings had already started their lives and I had three younger siblings to take care of.” Childe smiles, seemingly remembering his siblings before his expression sours.  “It was the eighteenth century, and the Black Plague made it to my village.  I begged the kids to stay inside but Teucer met someone
”
Scaramouche really doesn’t know how to even act, but he does try to listen as Childe talks.  “Her name was Klee, her mom was a traveling physician.  She urged Teucer to come outside and he snuck out.  A few days later he started showing symptoms.  I begged every doctor I could to help him but I was told it was too late.  During that time, I was so proud of myself for keeping my mom’s book of spells.”
Childe laughs at himself, as if he had said the funniest joke known to man.  “I exchanged my soul to protect Teucer.  When I was turned
the demon I had a contract with didn’t trust I would keep out of touch, so I was banned from returning to the human realm for two hundred years, just so I would have less of a chance of finding a descendant...I couldn’t even say goodbye.”
Scaramouche puts a hand on Childe’s shoulder, causing the demon to snap out of his own thoughts.  Childe stares at him for a moment, as if searching his very soul to see if he can unearth anything.  But, when he can’t, Childe just lets out a breath as he continues to stare at Scaramouche.  “I’ll take you to see Albedo.”
And, while Scaramouche isn’t too sure who Albedo is, he can assume this is something good.
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dicaculus · 1 year ago
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Title: A Pile of Hot Metal and Dirty Dishes
Artist: Crankyfossil
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Magnus Bane/ Alec Lightwood
Wordcount:42,462
Summary: Magnus Bane is the Head Chef at Encanto and doing just fine. Or that’s what he tells Simon the therapist, his boss Raphael, orders him to go to. Magnus is a genius in the kitchen, his food is art, but if he starts a fight with one more disrespectful customer, he’s gone. Simon is useless though, going on about Magnus using work as a means to distance himself from meaningful relationships, and emotional walls that could rival a fortress. What does he know? Magnus is fine. Then everything goes wrong. His best friend, Catarina and her daughter get into an accident. His eight-year-old niece, Madzie, is the only survivor and Magnus finds himself going from cool uncle Magnus to the only parent Madzie has left. To make matters worse, Raphael has replaced him while he’s on leave. Alexander Lightwood is a menace. He’s careless, breezy, and annoyingly good at everything he does. Magnus can’t stand him, but with Madzie refusing to eat his cooking and his hands full, Magnus needs all the help he can get. Along the way, Magnus begins to realize there’s more to life than seared cod and lemon dressing, and maybe, just maybe, it’s a life that he wants Alexander Lightwood in.
This fic was created for the Malec Discord Mini Bang 2023.
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CHAPTER SEVEN
Magnus sleeps terribly that night. He tosses and turns in his bed, their fight running through his head on repeat. Behind his closed eyes he sees the hurt of Alec’s face from the things he’d says. Terrible things that Magnus hadn’t meant but had said in anger, anger that wasn’t really directed towards Alec, he mostly upset with Raphael. If Magnus could go back in time, he never would have pulled Alec into that freezer or would have stopped their conversation the moment Alec admitted Raphael had offered him Magnus’s job. Instead, he’d taken it out on Alec and now he lays in bed, full of regret, surrounded by Alec’s spicy scent on his sheets, too afraid to pick up the phone and apologize. Then he thinks about Madzie, Madzie, who was still mourning and healing the fresh wound of her mother’s death. She’d really taken to Alec, opened up to him about Catarina and whenever he was around she smiling and laughing. How he was going to break this to her and how she would take it, he had no clue. So he doesn’t tell her. Instead, Magnus spends the morning acting like everything was fine, and he doesn’t feel like he just ruined what could have been one of the best things that happened to him.
 Magnus skips the restaurant’s lunch that day, not ready to endure the stares from the servers and his other chefs just yet, especially not Raphael. So he sits in his car for as long as he possibly can without compromising his job even more before entering the restaurant. Magnus keeps his down, entering the restaurant, not making eye contact with anyone and ignoring anyone who greets him. 
Magnus begins his prep work for dinner service, but instead of it being the distraction he hopes cutting onions would be, he finds himself noticing how quiet the kitchen is and just how different it is without Alec. There’s no music for him to turn off in a huff, no singing to endure, or someone trying to distract him every few minutes. Magnus hears every sizzle, every pop of oil, and every cut being done with knives, and it feels almost eerie. But he carries on. He’ll get used to the silence again. He was fine before Alec pushed his way into his heart and he’ll be fine now.
Eventually Raphael finds him. He pushes the swinging kitchen doors with two hands, then stomps to the front of Magnus’s station, putting his hands on the metal table and leaning forward.
“You had no right driving Alec out of here! This is my restaurant—”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear.’ Magnus grumbles with an eye roll.
“You better find me a replacement, fast.” Raphael demands.
“Why?” Magnus asks, setting his knife down to cross his arms. “You didn’t need my help with the last one you sprung on me.”
“Magnus!”
Magnus sighs, deciding not to argue further. “Okay. I’ll find someone.”
Raphael puts out the job listing that day, and by the end of the night, the restaurant’s email is flooded with resumes from chefs, all wanting the chance to work at the restaurant and with Magnus. So Magnus spends most of the week conducting the interviews, asking the same monotonous questions. Magnus interview people through the restaurant’s lunch meeting on the other side of the restaurant and somehow every applicant is worse than the last. There are applicants who aren’t qualified but apply, regardless.
“Like a certificate or something?”
“Yes, a culinary degree, like you get from graduating culinary school”
“Oh, I don’t have that little piece of paper. But there are guys driving on the street without a license. They can’t drive, so, you know.”
“My signature dish? I’m famous for my grilled watermelon with saffron mashed potatoes and key-lime asparagus.”
“I’m sorry, did you say grilled water melon, saffron mashed potatoes and key lime asparagus?”
Chefs who Magnus wants to strangle.
“Am I a team player? I get along great with people. Really, I’m actually a big people person!”
“Oh, I’m a such a people person! I can’t wait to get to know you all on a personal level!”
And chefs who are just an immediate no.
“Am I a team player? I’m a team player so long as everybody follows my lead.
“My signature dish? I wouldn’t say I have one, but my specialty is in the beef area. I deal with meats all the time. Sausage, beef, slaughtering pork. I find butchering an animal almost meditative.”
“Why was I fired? There was a misunderstanding between me and the head chef and the owner. 
“What about?”
“Oh..I misunderstood that they were married and started a relationship with the owner. But, I think we parted on amicable terms.
God, he misses Alec.
—---
It’s a week before Madzie mentions Alec. 
“Why doesn’t Alec come to see us anymore?”
Magnus had been dreading this moment and that exact question. She asks at bedtime just as Magnus leaves her room after tucking her into bed. He sighs and leans against the door frame, deciding how to break it to her gently.
“We had of a fight.”
“What about?”
What didn’t they fight about? His insecurities, paranoia, his trust issues. His false accusations of Alec trying to steal his job, his kitchen and everything he’s worked for. 
“Just grown-up stuff,” He says dismissively as he tries to end the conversation. “Nothing you need to be concerned about sweet pea”
Madzie sits up in her bed and squints at Magnus. “How come you don’t wanna tell me?”
Magnus sighs. “Madzie, it’s not that I don’t wanna tell you—
“Is Alec ever gonna come back?” she asks, her eyes suddenly glassy with tears
Magnus shakes his head, trying to hold his own tears back. He walks back into Madzie’s room and sits on her bed, wrapping her in his arms as she cries. 
“No, he isn’t, sweetpea. I’m sorry”
—
He holds Madzie as she cries about Alec. Magnus knew she would be upset, but he didn’t think she would be this upset. Alec really had an impact on her, becoming a friend to her, a teacher, an adult she could trust and count on, someone who made her laugh and probably made her forget about the trauma she’d endured. Magnus is filled with guilt. Maybe he’d moved too fast, falling for Alec’s charming laugh, silly jokes and warm smile. Perhaps he should have waited, not brought Madzie to the restaurant that day, and hired a babysitter despite her protests. Maybe he should have kept the relationship quiet for a while, not invited him over and kept him out of Madzie’s life for a while longer, so she wouldn’t get attached and not reel over yet another adult suddenly being gone from her life.
Magnus wakes up late the next morning, forgetting to set his alarm with everything from last night. He rushes out of bed and yanks the door open, calling down the hall.
“Madzie! I forgot to set my alarm, we have to get going or you’ll be late!” He shuts his door assuming she’s heard him and go to his ensuite to get himself ready, but when he doesn’t hear her familiar footsteps, he opens his door again. “Madzie, you awake? We have to go!” Once again, no response. Magnus walks down the hall and peers into Madzie’s bedroom but it’s empty with her bed messy and unmade, but he heard Chairman’s familiar cries for food. “Are you feeding Chairman?” He heads to the kitchen but finds it empty except for the cat who paces his in front of his bowl. 
“Madzie!?”
At that moment, it’s like time stops. He’s frozen in place with his heart racing in his chest. He checks every room and they’re empty. Magnus rushes out of the apartment, going downstairs hoping maybe she’s at a bus stop or decided to take a walk, but she’s gone. Magnus goes back to the apartment and checks again, hoping she already went to school but her lunch is in the fridge, her homework from the night before still on the table and her school bag open on the floor beside the dining table. The apartment is empty and Madzie is missing.
Magnus stands in place, unsure of what his next steps should be. Should he call the police? That’s what people did when someone was missing, right? Magnus unlocks his phone, opening the dial screen. But he pauses as he’s about to press numbers. That felt like an overreaction. Maybe he should wait a bit or look at other places first. But where else could she have gone? Madzie was a shy child. She wasn’t fond of strangers, so it’s unlikely she would have gone with anyone she wasn’t familiar with. Before he can stop himself, Magnus finds himself tapping a familiar contact.
“Magnus?”
Magnus sighs in relief that Alec even answers his phone call. He’s not sure he’d do the same if the roles were reversed. “Alexander, it’s me. Is Madzie with you?” 
“No? Why would be she be with me?”
Panic sets in again, his heart thudding in his chest. Magnus sniffs, tears welling up in his eyes and falling down his cheeks. “I woke up late this morning, and she was gone. I told her about us last night. She was so upset I was hoping she was angry with me and went to see you”
Magnus hears rustling on the other end, indicating Alec getting up.
“Are you at the apartment?”
“Yes”
“Stay there, I’ll be there soon, we’ll find her Magnus”
True to his word, Alec arrives quickly in his familiar car, Magnus yanks open his passenger door and the pair begins their search. They check bus stations, the train station, the park down the street she played at, but she’s not there.
“ She could be anywhere.” Magnus cries, letting his face fall into his hands.
“Magnus, it’s gonna be fine. We’ll find her.” Alec reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. Magnus leans into his familiar warm and comforting touch. She’s a child, so she’d probably go somewhere familiar, somewhere she knew.”
Images and scenes from various fictional and true crimes series he’d watched circle in his brain. She could be anywhere, with anyone who could be doing who knows what to her. Was she stuck? Was she injured? Cold? Hungry? Magnus shakes his head, trying to rid his brain of scary thoughts.
“Madzie only went to school and the restaurant, sometimes the park down the street, but only with me or a friend, never alone.”
Alec nods and strokes Magnus’s back. “Okay, why don’t we go back to the apartment? Maybe she decided to come home.”
So the pair drive in silence back to the apartment. Alec’s hand clenched tightly on the steering wheel while Magnus looks out the passenger side window, desperate to find a glance of Madzie on the street. Once there, Magnus jogs ahead of Alec, racing his apartment while praying to every god he can think of that Madzie is there.
“Madzie!”
But once again, the apartment is empty. Madzie is nowhere to be found. Magnus loses it. He crumbles to the ground, overwhelmed by his emotions. Catarina trusted Madzie in his care and she went, lost who knows where, with anyone. He sobs in his hands for a moment then feels Alec’s body slid beside him, then his arm wrapping around his shoulder and squeezing him.
“We’re going to find her, Magnus.”
He lifts his head and wipes his tear stained cheek. “I let her down, Alexander. I feel like I made a mess of everything.” He shakes his head. “I should have known better than involving you in her life so fast. It was too soon after her mother, she got attached too quickly.”
“Magnus, you’ve done your best.” Alec says gently, “Sure, maybe we moved too quickly, not only for Madzie but for you. Madzie isn’t the only one grieving a death. As for her letting her down, I think you’ve done everything you could, given her everything she needs—”
“What she needs is her mother.” Magnus gasps and pulls himself to his feet.
Alec slowly stands. “Magnus?”
“I think I know where she might be.”
Magnus flies down the stairs with Alec on his heels. They get into the car and Magnus directs Alec towards the cemetery. The drive isn’t long. In fact, they’re probably driven by the cemetery multiple times that day without giving it a second thought. Alec pulls into the parking lot and Magnus, looking out his window, gasps and taps on the glass with his finger when he sees Madzie’s familiar red jacket.
“There she is, thank God!”
Magnus leaps from the car the moment it comes to a stop. He runs into the cemetery, deciding screaming his niece’s name in a quiet cemetery where he can see a ceremony taking place wouldn’t be his best idea. When he’s within earshot, he calls her name.
“Madzie!” She turns to Magnus, hearing her name being called, and accepts the hug Magnus pulls her into when he’s close enough. “Are you all right, sweetpea? Please, don’t ever do that again.”
“I’m sorry, Magnus”
Magnus pulls back and squeezes her shoulders while looking her in the eyes. “I was so afraid something happened to you!”
“I’m afraid I’m gonna forget her.” She cries, her eyes and cheeks wet with tears.
Magnus looks up at the grave stone behind Madzie for the first time and notices the date. Today would have been Catarina’s birthday. Magnus curses himself for not remembering and squeezes his niece tighter.
“We’ll never forget her, I promise. We can come here whenever you want, okay?”
The pair stay at the grave until Magnus decides they need to go, since he has to work that night. He holds her hand as they walk back to Alec’s car. Alec hugs Madzie and tells her he’s glad she’s okay, then helps her into his backseat. He drives them back to Magnus’s apartment. The drive is quiet except for the soft sound of the radio, but it’s comfortable and feels like it had been before with the three of them. Magnus thanks Alec before leaving the car but Madzie lingers, taking her sweet time unbuckling her seatbelt.
“Aren’t you coming in, Alec?”
Alec shakes his head. “Not today, sweetheart.”
Madzie scoffs, looking between the two adults. “Guys still mad at each other?”
“No,” Magnus says, “Come on, go inside. I’ll see you upstairs.”
Madzie sighs but finally leaves the vehicle. Magnus watches her enter the building before turning back to Alec.
“You know-”
“You know-”
They laugh awkwardly, and Magnus clears his throat.
“I just wanna say I’m sorry, Alexander.”
Alec shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I actually wanna thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“Yeah,” He continues. “I thought a lot about what you said about me not having the guts to go after what I want, and you were right. That’s why I took a job in San Francisco.”
Magnus’s heart drops to his stomach. 
“The executive chef at a new restaurant.”
Then it shatters.
No, this isn’t what Magnus wanted, or maybe it was what past Magnus wanted but present Magnus wanted nothing less. He wants to tell Alec he didn’t mean those things he’d said that night, he’d learned to love working with Alec and if he was being honest the kitchen ran much smoother with him there and the kitchen became a much nicer environment with him in it. Magnus wants to cry and scream at Alec, begging him to stay, come back to the restaurant and work with him again, but he can’t.
“Well, that’s great.” Magnus says instead with a fake smile, and his voice is tight, empty of emotion.
“Yeah?”
Magnus nods, not trusting himself to speak again.
“Well, I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Yes, you could have. You’re such a talented chef you never needed me. “That’s not true”, he says instead.
They talk for a few minutes longer before Alec leaves, having to start packing for his move. Magnus waves goodbye until his car is out of eyeshot. Magnus takes a deep breath and buries his feeling in the same way he’s used to before entering the apartment. He’s got work tonight.
“Guy at table seven said if he wanted it cremated,” She smacks the plate on the counter in front of Magnus and Raphael, “He wouldn’t have asked for it rare.”
Magnus inspects the steak, poking it with his fingertip to check the doneness then notices just how pink it is inside. “That is rare.”
The waitress rolls her eyes. “Apparently not rare enough.”
“Any rarer, and I'd milk it!”.
“Look, these are ad-agency people.” Raphael interrupts, “They spend a lot of money here. No tantrums tonight. Just fire another one.”
Just fire another one? It’s like Raphael was unaware of how expensive of a cut the tomahawk steak is. But instead of arguing, Magnus turns around and orders the refire.
“Fire one rare steak on the fly.”
“Rare steak on the fly.”
“Where is the chicken roulade for six?”
“How are the quail?”
“Great, chef.”
“Pick up! Terrine, carpaccio.”
But only five minutes later, after the newly fired tomahawk steak is sent out, the kitchen doors fly open with the same waitress, a scowl on her face.
“From the asshole on seven again. He wants to know whether you’ve ever seen a rare steak before.”
Magnus scoffs to himself, gripping the counter tightly, and breathes through his nose. It’s like every emotion he’s buried, put away and not dealt with comes bubbling to the surface. Everything with Alec, Raphael’s anger towards him, how much he hates cooking this snotty food, the insistence on finding another chef, which he still had not done, and now the steak. 
Magnus is done.
“You said table seven?” The waitress nods nervously. Magnus makes a fist on the counter and lets out a deep breath. “Let me handle this one darling, go take care of your other tables.”
Magnus doesn’t wait for her response and instead heads into the walk in. He picks up a raw tomahawk steak, holding it from its very large bone, and leaves the kitchen through the doors. Magnus ignores the gasps, and looks of shocks from other customers and walks through the restaurant, finding the asshole from table seven. Magnus barely hears them over the way his blood boils and heart pounds in his chest. Magnus spots table seven and when he’s close enough, he stands behind the asshole and drops the raw on the plate. The plate shatters underneath the sudden weight of the steak and the table is in shock.
“Rare enough for you?”
“Are you out of your mind?” The man screams.
“Yeah. That’s why I’m in therapy.”
“I’m so sorry.” Raphael apologizes coming out from somewhere in the restaurant. “I’ll get you a new tablecloth.”
“No, please, let me take care of that.”
Magnus grips the black tablecloth and pulls it out from underneath all the dishes, managing not to disturb anything before he tosses the tablecloth to a nearby server. Magnus sees Raphael, who glares at Alec with a fury he’s never seen before and Magnus knows he’s fired. So he unties his apron and throws it at the man.
“That felt so good.”
With that, he leaves the restaurant through the front door, ignoring anyone who calls his name and drives home.
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sorchaivy · 2 years ago
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TL;DR - Sir Terry Pratchett continues to be an amazing presence in so many lives, and will do so for as long as his books (over 70 of them!) are read and loved. So pretty much as long as literate humanity continues to exist, I reckon.
I first wrote this on the morning that he passed away. It holds true eight years later.
~~~
Because I never can just say something simply, I have to go back and try again.
Which seems fitting. Since it was Sir Pterry (note spelling) who first introduced me to the concept of the "Draft 0". Draft 0 is pretty simple, he said. You just write. You write everything you could possibly need, and an awful lot you possibly won't, and then some more that you certainly won't. You write and write until it's all there on the page, your verbal block of marble.
And THEN you start carving out the piece, the story, the masterwork. Storycraft as sculpture. It's a metaphor that appeals to me.
He said that in a talk he gave at Melbourne University, which Mum took me to see back in, oh, would have been 2006, I think. That was the same talk where I heard the Best Cosplaying Story ever. Where he talked about going into the Outback, looking up at the stars, and realising that Orion was upside down, and what a giddy, marvellous, humbling moment that was. And where I discovered that he thought Sam Vimes was a better man than he was himself (I would respectfully disagree, but in fairness I only ever really met Sam).
Terry Pratchett has been a part of my life since Mum first handed me "Mort" at age 15 and said, "I think you might like this." (She was right.) He had a gift for saying a thing in a way that made it seem like it had always been obvious, and yet was completely revelatory at the same time.
His books helped me walk away from organised religion (and, ultimately, theism full stop). Helped me forge my own moral and ethical codes. Helped me enter the heady world of critical thinking. Helped me find humour and gentle amusement in the foibles and oddities of this weird species we belong to (don't get me wrong, I still get furious at deliberate ignorance, bigotry and cruelty; but simple mistakes and errors don't infuriate me as much as they did before I encountered his affection for the stupidity of people). Helped me when Mum died. Helped me when things seemed to fall apart, and when things seemed to be going so impossibly right that I was waiting for the other shoe (not Reg).
Sir Terry once wrote that a person's life isn't truly ended until the last ripples of their life dies away. Until the clock they wound winds down. Until the words they spoke no longer echo. Until the worlds they wrote no longer spin. Until the Turtle no longer moves.
My sister called to see if I was okay. She said, "He never meant as much to me, but for you, it's like you've lost 1,000 friends all at once."
And I smiled. I honestly did. Right there on the tram. Because you know what? I haven't. They're all still there, in the books on my shelves, in the places in my head, in my bones. And a little piece of him is in every single one. I haven't lost anything, not truly.
His family. His friends. The people who had the privilege (and, possibly, frustration) of knowing him, the man behind the words, the humanest human, who talked and laughed and swore and wept and breathed and ate and shat and slept and snored and sneezed and all the little things that will suddenly mean so much. Because now he is not doing any of them.
Those are the people my heart breaks for now. Not myself. Not those of us who were touched by the works but not the man. We still get to hold him and his memory, and we haven't lost anything at all, not truly. But they have. So spare a moment's thought for the ripple that is a tidal wave passing through their lives right now.
And I hope that, in time, they too can draw comfort from the knowledge that the ripples are still going. That they may never stop.
The Turtle Still Moves.
Vale Sir Pterry. You aten't dead. Not to me.
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autolovecraft · 2 years ago
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I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.
Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago.
He could not walk, it appeared, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner.
As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul.
As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. An eye for an eye! Perhaps he screamed. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb.
He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. When Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.
Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. Why did you do it, Birch? I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Birch, in his ghastly situation, was now too low for an easy scramble out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked.
He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August 
 He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it.
You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb.
God, what a rage! Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. God, what a rage!
Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. Why did you do it, Birch? In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. Birch returned over the coffins to the door.
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withsunlight · 1 month ago
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blood has never fazed her all that much ---------- at least not in the small doses of skinned elbows or knees or the occasional nosebleed she’d dealt with growing up with two older brothers who liked to roughhouse ( the same older brothers who had to deal with a little sister just as eager to get herself dirty ... or risk those same occasional nosebleeds ). but this 
 what she sees when he shifts his arm before she can make contact with it is well above any cut or scrape or trickle of blood tickling her top lip after a good bop to her nose.
christopher would tell her on occasion about coming across cases like these after his night shifts at new york presbyterian, but his stories always somehow came colored differently; enthusiasm and wonder ( and probably, a good dose of adrenaline and caffeine that had helped ensure he made it through to the other side of his shift ) skewed blood - red a little more rose - colored. for him it was a part of who he was, what he saw himself doing for the rest of his life. they were simply cases, somehow made faceless ( either by necessity or ambivalence, she’d never been able to pinpoint one over the other in their time together ). but this isn’t one of her ex’s emergency room stories at eight am while she hovered over a cup of tea hoping he’d spare her the gory details. the blood, all this blood isn’t secondhand news. it’s familiar. in a relative sense. it’s familiar in the way all this blood has a face. a face she’s become rather fond of. a face, she notes briefly with a wide - eyed glance before long hair attempts to hide him from her completely, seems to be focused far more on her in this moment than his side.
the explanation comes slowly; quietly --- ‘i got shot.’ — almost in the same vein as someone attempting to find the softest way to deliver something upsetting matter - of - factly 
 but not quite. ( she wishes she’d learned to be a better listener to all those stories over morning tea; that she’d figured out a way to become as numb and normal about them as the good doctor had been in telling them. but she can’t. she’s feeling just about everything but numb, if that’s even possible. ) she gently pushes up her sleeve as he continues, eyes fixed on his side with a furrowed brow while her lower lip becomes fodder for the point of a tooth. business ... contracts ... opting out with a bullet ... one answer knocked down only for a half - dozen more to pop back up to take it’s place. ( but those are for later, she scolds herself with a sharp inhale of breath for even attempting to pull on that thread. because there’s going to be a later. it’s not the conversation she wants to be having right now anyway. ) he offers up something about how it looks, but her focus remains on getting him out of his own way just so she can feel see for herself just how worse worse can be.
she hears him say her name, but her fingertips catch his sweater before he can speak again; warm - wet knit attempting ( and failing ) to prepare her for the shock when they reach his side.
she doesn’t mean to gasp. she really doesn’t. and it isn’t about the frayed sweater, or torn skin, or the blood he’s been trying to control.
it’s rage, hot and red 
 warmth flush on her face and like pin pricks along the back of her neck. it’s a sadness she can’t quite place 
 thick and tight in her throat and unwilling to budge. it’s a fear of ----------- not the wound, not that the assailant might come back through that door to take a second shot at terminating that contract esmĂ© had mentioned prior. it’s a fear of her turning tail and walking out the door and leaving him like this. she manages a swallow finally, but the feeling of his grief hasn’t budged ( and neither has her hand; her palm runs slick over it, knowing her hand must be just as red as his are now ).
“esmĂ©,“ there isn’t much more to her voice than there has been to his, but she manages to get his name out without it wavering. ”listen to me,“ her head cants enough for her to see him again ( as best she can as her vision becomes increasingly blurred ), the expression on his face holding a bit more context for her now. she won’t tell him just how she knows ----- while she’s got an eye for catching character in a person’s face through a camera lens, she’s not so good as to gleam her newfound understanding from a glance or two. or ten.
“i’m not going anywhere. i'm here. i'm staying.” unless of course, it’s the both of them heading to the hospital. but based on the kit he’s got scattered across the top of table, there were never any intentions of his leaving to seek treatment to begin with. which means, there’s only one thing she can truly ask of him now. “let me help you.ïżœïżœïżœ
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He didn't quite process pain the same way. His brain certainly understood that the impact wound, the torn flesh and muscle, the broken and severed blood vessels weren't right. He certainly knew that his nerves were on fire and ringing warning signs up to his brain. Proclamations of this is not right and look how you've destroyed us returning back the answer of so bleed. He'd be sore in the weeks to come while everything mended itself and more, mentally where he'd be stewing over the sour meeting and how it had turned so crimson in the first place. But pain did not register. It dulled itself into something more familiar, churned into the factory of his mind and let the machine gears of his cranium return that it would be answered in rage.
Rage.
Something so perfectly familiar. His first language - damndable and so easy to turn wicked and destructive. He allowed it to make so many decisions in his short, young life and not once did he mewl about what rage had wrought. A broken heart. But she had made that rage, not him. She had ignited that fire.
Emmy was not the same.
Before her now he did not feel that withering anger, the hot flames did not lick the sides of his face and turn the tops of his ears a fiery red. Sitting, perched, atop the bar stool where he was taller though he bowed over himself in that paused - frozen state of tending to his wound not unlike a throne, he did not feel quite so large. Her worry (and whatever else that crossed her delicate features in that time) made him shrink. He felt not like a man of substantial height and musculature ... he felt like a child.
James Everhart had the ability to freeze his blood when he lectured. Esmé could remember a time where he'd broken his smallest finger on his right hand and James' indifference was as harsh as if he'd been struck. This expression that had captured the bow of Emmy's lips was so foreign to him. It was enough to steal the ragged breath from him, and it left in a whisper that came out as a rasp for all of the effort of holding his breath ... which he hadn't even realized he'd been doing.
Let me see.
She hadn't bolted. She hadn't fled and slammed the door behind her, leaving a mess of his bloody rivulets and this strange but familiar feeling that blossomed in his chest. He blamed it entirely on the angry hole in his side, which he let his arm move away at her gesture but snagged the hem of his black sweater as he did. Why wasn't she running?
Fury gave way to curiosity and where Esmé perhaps should have allowed himself to focus on the bullet hole he instead watched Emilia. For her expression. For the tenseness in her shoulders. For how her body language might change subtly here or there to give way where words would not allow. He watched the pieces of effortlessly wavy hair untuck from behind her ear and fall over the crest of her cheek. He watched the way her own gem-green eyes took in the sight. He watched the shape of her lips when she asked how.
Ah yes, how.
Laundromat owners did not get shot. He didn't look roughed-up enough to lie about a mugging. He could attempt to deny the truth that his two worlds were colliding in real time right before his eyes but Esmé Everhart chose to believe that he wasn't much of a fool. This was a supernova, the death of a star, a bang so bright and brilliant and hot that it was undeniable and furious. When he finally blinked he felt the gears in his mind churn. He licked the dryness from his lips and found his voice - still a rasp from lack of use, from shouting earlier (cursing really).
"I got shot."
Obviously. He paused for a moment, let the words string together.
He wondered if she could hear the whir of parts inside, mechanical bits guttering for the damage done.
"Someone ... decided they did not want to do business with me any longer. They chose to leave the contract violently."
Most did. He studied her expression harder, let himself shake out a sigh, licked at his lips once more.
"It's ... it's worse than it looks." He hoped. It didn't feel too terribly, as far as gunshot wounds were concerned. And he had a few of those for comparison.
"Emilia."
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alteredphoenix · 3 years ago
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Holy hells, I thought I’d never get this done. IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SHORT, YA DAMN MUSE.
But uh, yeah, here’s that “Dragonborn accidentally murders Kharjo during a Forsworn attack and angsts so badly he goes back in time and hard resets it out of existence via Thu’um” fic that was inspired by an actual gameplay session I had as detailed in this post. Bonus points if you like your Dragonborn to be allied with the Imperial Legion and the Greybeards/Paarthurnax, too; they don’t really add anything to the story other than a brief appearance by Super Mario Paarthurnax at the end.
As of that particular post, I’ve managed to avoid offing Kharjo - or any of my companions - via manslaughter. For now.
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p0orbaby · 2 years ago
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Time
a/n: based on this request
warnings: mention of experimentation, child abuse and panic attacks
word count: 1.6k
-
It takes you a while to get to sleep. It always does. Perhaps you’re still not used to the comfort of a warm room and a soft bed. Perhaps it’s the nightmares that still sometimes plague your mind.
As she lays there with you, stroking your hair, Wanda comes to the conclusion that it’s probably both.
You had made progress in the short month you had been at the compound. Not much in all honesty, but progress is progress and Wanda will take whatever she can get.
Sleeping on your own is one of the larger accomplishments you have achieved. At first it was even a chore for Wanda to go to the bathroom on her own, let alone sleep without an eight year old curled into her side all night.
It wasn’t just you that had to get used to living differently.
When you were finally able to get to sleep, Wanda crept out of the room as silently as possible in order not to wake you. There had been many a time you’d awoken before she’d so much as made it to the door, meaning she had to go through the process of lulling you off again. But alas, this instance seemed to be in her favour.
“She go down alright?” Before, the sudden voice of Natasha would have startled Wanda as she pulled your door ajar, but since you, the redhead was just as much in Wanda’s proximity as you were.
“Out like a light, today must have exhausted her”
“I can imagine. Recovering from trauma takes a toll on you. Especially a child”
“I just can’t look at her and not see myself, you know? I want to be strong for her, but it’s hard to see her struggle” tears threatened to fall from Wanda’s eyes as she spoke about the similarities between her life and yours.
“She’s going to be alright. She’s a fighter”
“Thanks, Nat” was all she needed to say to her friend. Natasha knew just as well as she did that it would take time. Patience is all they needed.
-
The following morning was much of the same as it had been for the last couple of weeks.
Wanda would sneak back into your room before you woke. Sit down on the edge of the bed, and wait patiently for you to stir.
She had learnt the hard way that if you regain consciousness without her in the room, your screams would permeate the walls and a panic attack would ensue. Not an ideal way to start the day.
After a while, the movement in Wanda’s peripheral told her you were waking up.
“Good morning, moya lyubov. Did you sleep okay?” Wanda chose a volume no louder than a whisper so as to not scare you. Another mistake she’d made before.
A nod was her response from you. Not a word had left your mouth since you’d been in her life. Wanda wasn’t surprised though. A child subject to beatings and experiments was not very likely to find the strength to speak. Not for a while at least. So the small, non verbal communications you rewarded her with were more than enough.
“Shall we get you washed before breakfast?”
Another nod. A bath it was.
-
As many times as Wanda had laid eyes upon your wounds, it never failed to make her heart ache.
The lashes across your back were now angry scars. Healed no less. But still a reminder of your terrible start in life.
The water trickled down your back with ease as Wanda washed you. It was if the droplets were ignoring the agony you once felt. Luckily for Wanda you were facing away from her so you couldn’t see the tears falling over her cheeks.
All Wanda needed to remember is that you don’t hiss at the water hitting your tender skin anymore. Another form of proof that things have moved forward. And she had no intention of letting things slip back. You were hers to look after now.
The gentle splash of water pulled Wanda from her deep rumination. She looked to see you had turned around to face her. Your way of telling her you’d had enough and wanted to get out.
Next came drying and dressing you. The next step in your new routine. A swift process was quickly learnt so you didn’t get cold. Your cell at the lab was nye on freezing, and Wanda didn’t want you to feel like the compound was anything like that ghastly place.
Your clothes had been laid out beforehand, to make the whole operation easier. You hadn’t got to the stage where you could pick out your own clothes. Not from lack of trying. Natasha had to go to the mall alone to purchase some clothes for you in the end. You’d refused to leave your room for the first week, and even now you still got overwhelmed with having to make a lot of choices. At this point it was best for Wanda to make certain decisions for you.
Opting for leggings and an oversized t-shirt, Wanda grabbed your hand and led you through the compound towards the kitchen.
It was quiet at this time of the day, making Wanda’s life easier, and your time out of your room more comfortable.
Breakfast was the same thing you have every morning. Scrambled eggs and a small carton of orange juice. All fed to you with the help of Wanda herself.
Being an experiment, you had nutrients given to you intravenously. Meaning you had no knowledge of how to use cutlery. At first it was uncomfortable, for both Wanda and you. Wanda had never had to feed anyone before, let alone a child. But now it wasn’t a problem. She liked bonding with you this way.
You finished your food with ease. Wanda was glad you had an appetite. She could no longer see your bones threatening to poke through your skin. These days it doesn't take you long to finish meals. It was the little things.
“What do you want to do today? We could maybe play outside or watch a movie?”
Your eyes lit up at the second option. Outside was fun, but movies with Wanda were better.
-
She should’ve known that in your mind, a movie meant time for a nap. She couldn’t blame you. You’ve had a long week.
Much to her dismay, Tony thought it would be beneficial to run more tests. Ones he swears are new. He wanted to try and cover all bases when it came to figuring out all the possible ways to help any and all trauma related matters.
Wanda knew he wanted to help. But it was still hard seeing the fear flash through your eyes whenever you saw the lab equipment and sterile rooms.
She couldn’t blame you for wanting to get in some extra shuteye.
You’d chosen something light hearted. One you’d seen many a time since being here. But Wanda didn’t mind. At least it wasn’t some spaghetti western that Steve had a habit of choosing on movie nights.
At this point she didn’t need to look at the screen. The words had been etched in her memory. She used this time to watch your sleeping form and observe how the crease in your brow finally disappears when you rest. Things were getting better.
-
Lunch came after the movie.
Even though the two of you tried to mix up the activities your partook in through the week, it was best to keep to a routine of set times.
Lunchtime was one of those things. Served at 12pm on the dot.
“What should we have today? I was thinking a sandwich and carrot sticks. Or we could be naughty and have grilled cheeses? What do you think?”
Wanda held up a bag of carrots and a block of cheese to make your decision making process easier. Visuals helped.
Your small finger lifted and pointed towards the carrots. Two times you’ve made a decision on your own today and no hysteria. Things were looking up.
“Good choice” Wanda praised as she turned to the chopping block and started cutting the vegetable into bite sized sticks.
She’d read that positive reinforcement is a good way to motivate a child and boosts self confidence. It seems to be working for the two of you.
A few minutes later, when plates were on the table and you were in Wanda’s lap being fed your carrot sticks, it happened.
“Thank you, mama”, you said in between bites. Your words were quiet and shy. But they had left your mouth either way.
It took her off guard. The feeling of both pride and elation blooming in her chest at once.
“You’re very welcome, Y/N” she rushed out, not wanting you to be left hanging too long. She didn’t want you to take any negativity from her lack of response.
All you did was smile at her and carry on chewing. It was all Wanda needed anyway. She hugged and rocked you in her arms as another confirmation of her gratitude.
The air must’ve been heavy with joy, as when Natasha walked into the kitchen she noticed the shift instantly.
“What’s been going on in here then hm? I better not be missing out on all the fun”
“Auntie Nat”
Natasha’s movements from inside the fridge halted immediately at your words. Popping her head around the fridge door, finding Wanda wide eyed and smiling in her direction was all the verification she needed on what just happened.
“Hey Y/N, are you having fun with mama?”
A nod was your response to her question. It didn’t matter if your answer wasn’t spoken. Natasha knew what she heard and she’d remember this moment for the rest of her life.
Natasha raised a brow at Wanda as they shared a knowing look. No words needed to be exchanged in order to explain what had just transpired.
Things were definitely hard. But time was the answer. And the two of them were willing to give you as much of it as you needed.
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nothorses · 4 years ago
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TransTape: A Guide
I've gotten a lot of asks about TransTape, and noticed a lot of gaps in knowledge. I've been binding with it for over a year now, and I thought a little guide might be helpful!
What is TransTape?
TransTape is an alternative to using a compression binder (like gc2b sells) that does not use compression; instead, a body-safe cloth tape is used to pull your chest underneath your armpits and stick them there against your skin.
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Taken from the TransTape Instagram [IMAGES: Three shirtless people with rectangles of transtape pulling their chests flat and under their armpits, so they look more like pecs than breasts. /END]
TransTape was developed by trans people, for binding, from kinetic tape- which is used to treat physical injuries and disabilities in athletics. Though kinetic tape isn't proven to actually improve these problems, it is tested and safe to wear the way TransTape is worn.
Kinetic tape can be used as a cheaper alternative to TransTape, it just doesn't come in the sizes and nude colors generally preferable for binding.
Is It Safe?
Because TransTape doesn't use compression, it doesn't have an impact on your ribcage, lungs, or other internal organs like a compression binder does. It only interacts with your skin, which means short-term and long-term use will only impact your skin.
To the best of available knowledge, TransTape is safe as long as you apply it and remove it correctly. It can be worn while sleeping, exercising, showering/getting wet, and doing all of your other normal activities.
How long you can wear an application of TransTape depends on your lifestyle; the company recommends 3-5 days, with breaks of 1-2 days between applications.
Is It For Me?
Whether TransTape works for you depends on a lot of different factors, but the biggest deciding factor will likely be body type. Like any type of binding, larger chests are harder to flatten/masculinize, and the density of your chest can play a role as well. Skin sensitivity may also be a factor.
My recommendation is to try one roll, start with a test strip to check skin sensitivity, and give it at least 2 or 3 applications to check compatibility. You can check out TransTape's Instagram for some examples of different body types and the different ways people apply it.
The Brand
TransTape itself is expensive, and they've made some weird choices about things like essential oils. That said, they have the best guides and the most information on safe, correct use of binding tape.
You do not need to buy their products. The healing salve and removal oil in particular are more expensive than necessary. I recommend using lip balm in your nipple covers, baby oil for removal, and regular body lotion after removal instead of their products.
Application
TransTape has made a very detailed and comprehensive guide to safe application, which I recommend following.
Every body is different, and the method of application that works best for you may be different from what works best for other people. Experiment! It'll take a few tries to figure out what works for you; I took eight months to fine-tune my method.
Here's how I bind:
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[IMAGE: A drawing of a torso with three strips of transtape: #1 is 3 sections long, starts 2 inches from the center of the chest, and the bottom edge of the tape runs over the bottom of the breast. #2 is 3 sections long, and overlapped on top of #1 where the nipple is. #3 is 3.5 sections long, placed directly over the middle of #1 and #2, and has one inch in front of and behind the ends of #1 and #2. The text says "Apply nipple covers, then strip 1, 2, then 3. Ensure ends of strip 3 both "anchor" on skin. /END]
I use a lot more tape than their method does, but this is easiest and flattest for me! It might be a good start for beginners.
Safety Tips
To ensure application is safe, remember to:
Apply nipple covers. Use 1/2 of a section of tape, with a square of toilet paper folded into thirds each way in the middle. Lip balm on your nipples and the toiler paper will keep your nipples hydrated.
Use a 1-2 inch "anchor" on both ends of the tape; this area of the tape should not be stretched. This prevents your skin from itching or getting shallow, surface-level abrasions while wearing.
Remove tape ASAP if you experience any amount of bleeding or pain. Itching is normal, especially with your first few applications, but shouldn't continue for more than a day or two of wear.
Never apply over wounds/scabs/abrasions. Scars are fine, but make sure your skin is healed before application.
Safe Removal
TransTape's how-to guide includes a section on safe application, which I recommend deferring to. Some basics:
Never remove tape dry. Always soak your tape thoroughly with oil before removal; removal oil and baby oil are preferable, and coconut oil is also safe, but will leave adhesive residue.
Rub tape off, don't peel. If you rub at the ends/edges of the tape while it's oiled, it'll start to come off on its own in about 2-5 minutes. This is the best way to ensure you don't damage your skin.
Removal should never hurt. Slow down if you're feeling more than, at most, a light sting here and there. It's okay if you get some redness or shallow abrasions, but you should go more slowly next time.
Let your skin rest! Give your skin a day or two of rest between wears, if possible. I usually wear a compression binder on those days, and the drastically reduced use of compression binders means I'm still avoiding the long-term risks they can come with.
Lotion & TLC: use lots of lotion on your chest between wears, and otherwise treat your skin nicely!
Removal is where the most damage to your skin can occur, so it's important that you follow safety instructions.
Managing Expectations
There is a learning curve with TransTape, and it takes a while to get the hang of it. A lot of people try it once and give up, but it will get easier and more effective with more attempts.
Here's some things to keep in mind:
Your first attempt will suck. Mine looked like I was just wearing a bra, and I felt incredibly dysphoric about it. The second attempt was a little better, and the third attempt was much better.
It takes a long time to get the hang of it. Like, months. You'll keep figuring out better methods and getting flatter over time.
You skin isn't used to this. Part of getting flatter is your skin learning to stretch a bit more over time.
Tightness. Your skin will feel tight in the center of your chest with your first few applications; this is normal, and it won't tear there.
Itching. Your skin will itch under the tape; I got it really badly around the second day of wear. This eases up and eventually stops after a couple of months of consistent use, as your skin adjusts.
Stretching. Your skin will stretch near the center of your chest, and you may notice a slight change in texture. This is normal, should be very subtle, and should go back to normal if you stop wearing tape for a long enough time.
"Masculinization" vs. Flattening: TransTape can get folks flat, but more often it's about re-shaping your chest to be more "masculine"/look like pecs rather than breasts. It just depends on your body type!
TransTape isn't for everyone, but it can be a really great alternative for a lot of folks, too. It might be worth a shot! Just be safe, manage your expectations, and try to give it a few applications before you give up on it.
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