#stone cutting and polishing tools | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spookyrea · 1 year ago

Text

Love at First Sight (or should I walk by again?)

Everyone keeps pointing out the fact that Loki can't keep his hands off of you - but that's just the kind of guy he is, right? Right...? (Or: the one where Loki keeps giving you mixed signals and you decide to take matters into your own hands. To mixed results.) Chapter 1 / 2 to read on AO3, click here

The office was empty and drearily dark; the sun had only barely crossed the horizon, bathing the 27th floor of the Avengers Tower in a deep purple haze. The early morning silence was tempered only by the sound of rain pattering against the window and the occasional rumble of the metro a couple blocks away. It was the kind of morning best enjoyed in bed under a mountain of blankets - not filling out cost-analysis reports.

Fury had had you out in the field for three weeks straight on consecutive missions, meaning you had returned home - bruised, exhausted, dreaming of clean sheets and hours of mindless television - to a veritable mountain of paperwork. Paperwork that you probably could have finished by now - or, at least, made way more progress on - if it weren’t for your resident distraction-on-legs.

Loki rearranged himself in the seat across from you; the toe of one of his meticulously polished shoes bumped against your sneaker, bullying its way between your feet to hook around your ankle. Your desk lamp cast a warm golden glow across his cheeks, accentuating the long line of his nose and the narrow cut of his jaw. His hair, usually so meticulously styled, was loose and curling wildly.

You signed off on the file in front of you, pointedly ignoring the warm flush that crept along the back of your neck, and added it to the mounting pile to your left.

Not twenty minutes after you’d settled in at your desk, Loki had strolled out of the elevators into the office. With all the magnificent theatrics he could muster, he’d thrown himself into the chair opposite yours - his chair - and plucked up the paperback he’d left dogeared a fortnight ago.

(Loki had a desk, kitty-corner to yours in the Avengers semi-circle. He seemed to prefer to sit at yours and complain about the lack of space.)

Not that it mattered where he sat. Your eyes seemed intrinsically magnetized to him; to the dark curls that brushed his jaw; to the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. You could spend hours watching the meticulous flick of his wrist when he crossed his t’ s, or the way his fingers deftly rolled his cufflinks free to turn his sleeves up.

Or, like you were doing right now; your pen hovered lamely over your paper while you admired him through the fan of your eyelashes, fixated on the way his index finger and thumb rolled the corner of one page as he read.

“Particularly interested in fourteenth-century extraterrestrial poetry, are we?” Loki intoned. Your eyes darted up to find that his were already on you, watching with a peculiar expression. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he wasn’t human, but up this close there was a preternatural edge in his eyes that pinned you in place.

“No,” You replied quickly. Flustered, you flipped a random dossier open and scanned it over, adding the appropriate signature on every other page. Loki’s eyes burned a hole in the side of your face - you could practically feel the patronizing arch of his brow. “Just tired. Zoning out. You know. What was the name of the knife you let me borrow?”

“Earthbreaker.”

“Right, thank you.” You jotted the name down under Resources Returned With. It was the only weapon you’d not lost in Shanghai; all your other daggers and close-combat tools had been dissolved by an alien gunk that ate through Earthly metals like sugar in water. Loki had sliced the offending creature’s head clean off its shoulders before flipping the knife around to you, hilt-first.

You did not, however, mention the pocketful of extra-terrestrial stones Loki had shared with you after the fact - but you knew from experience that Finance didn’t care about Loki’s magpie-like tendencies.

( These were very rare on Asgard. Courtiers sometimes sewed them into their sleeves as symbols of status.

They’re beautiful.

Yes, he’d agreed. But I think they’d look better against your arm, no?)

You finished off a comment on page seven and tucked your report into the Shanghai, Domestic (Earth) Threat folder. Despite Tony’s seemingly endless pockets, the Avengers finance department was meticulous about tracking your spending, which required an extreme detail when justifying any and all decisions made out in the field.

(It probably had something to do with the Berlin Incident, where a stray explosive arrow and a couple hundred tons of Hulk had cost Stark Enterprises a few hundred million dollars. Which, you would like to remind everyone, was not your fault. You were off a few blocks away wrestling mutant bat-dog-horses away from some celestial object intent on challenging Thor for his hammer.)

Loki materialized something out of thin air and slipped it between the pages of his book. “I think a break is in order, pet.”

“It’s only been forty-five minutes.”

He flicked an errant curl out of his eyes while leveling you with a truly magnificent pout. “Forty-five agonizing minutes.”

“You haven’t even done anything today.”

“I’ve been keeping you company. It’s exhausting work. Really - I have a sudden appreciation for the court jesters back home.”

“Well your jester routine could use some work.”

Loki gasped. “I’ll have you know I am a wonderful jester.”

With a syrupy petulance, Loki plucked the folder from your hands and handed it off to the little robot Tony had assigned to the bullpen - the Paperwork Assistant Lite, or PAL for short. PAL shot off with a chirp, zipping on his tiny treads, the security badge on his chassis swinging merrily behind him.

You tried to tug your foot away in retaliation but Loki was faster. His other foot slid along the side of your shoe until your ankle was trapped between both of his. You twisted in his grip but with a quick yank Loki had you teetering on the edge of your seat. He leaned across the desk and bracketed your forearms with his. “Yield.”

You blew out a breath and screwed your face up in mock defiance. “No.”

“Do not force my hand, mortal.” His eyes shone a brilliant green and a crackling bolt of seidr whispered across your wrists warningly. He plucked your pen from your hand and tossed it aside carelessly. “Yield.”

“You’ll run out of things to throw eventually.” You swatted ineffectually at his calf with your other foot.

“And when that happens, it will be you I put over my shoulder.”

He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You could hear the storm outside swelling; the rain was deafening, the wind rattling the glass in its frame. The desk groaned under his weight as he leaned in just a hair closer. Your breath caught in your chest as his mouth parted, lips shiny where he’d chewed them in contemplation. “You’ll yield one day, pet.”

The train rumbled along in the distance.

Twenty-seven stories below, a car horn blared.

Your pinky brushed the inside seam of Loki’s sleeve, and the whisper of skin on wool seemed deafening.

Loki fell back in his seat with a shove and loosened his grip. He slipped his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “What if I promise to leave you alone. On the condition that you let me buy you breakfast.”

You blinked at him. “Alone-alone? Or ‘alone for ten minutes before you blow up the coffee machine’ alone?”

He nodded grimly. “Alone-alone.”

You sank back in your chair. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes that the smarter, more sensible part of your brain cautioned you about. When you didn’t immediately respond, he offered his hand and wiggled his fingers enticingly.

“Fine.” As soon as you acquiesced, Loki unfolded from his chair and rounded the desk. He had already pulled your jacket off the back of your chair in the time it took you to locate your security badge and was holding it out for you. He helped you slip your arms in and straightened the collar so it lay flat across your shoulders. “But I fully intend on eating you out of house and home.”

He grinned. “Only the best for my little mortal.”

Loki stood at mock attention, his body ramrod straight but eyes slitted rebelliously, and offered you his arm. You rolled your eyes but did not deny yourself the luxury of folding your hands over his bicep.

Sleepy beams of sunlight filtered through the gaps between high-rises, drowned out by sheets of rain. The first few commuters were filtering along the sidewalk, heads bowed and shoulders up to block out the chill. Loki magiced an umbrella from nowhere and drew you in tightly. The cover it provided was cramped, giving you an excuse to tuck into his side.

The two of you made the three-block journey to your usual coffee shop in companionable silence. It wasn’t until he had deposited you safely under the store’s awning that he dropped your arm, only to usher you inside with a hand on your back.

The shop was a hole-in-the wall, the kind of place without any seating except for a few mismatched tables in the back. Narrow enough that you could almost touch either wall if you stretched hard enough. But the coffee was good and the food even better, and on freezing mornings like this it was a welcome distraction from the sharp cold outside.

Your usual barista, Yvonne, barely glanced up when you entered. Her dark eyes flickered knowingly between the two of you, lingering on the casual way Loki thumbed the seam of your coat sleeve.

“Morning,” She pulled open the pastry display and piled an assortment into a paper bag for you. “Coffee will be just a second. You want to try something new today?”

Loki was already nodding, sliding a stack of bills across the laminated countertop. To you, he said: “pick whatever you want, pet,” and then slipped to the end of the bar to wait for your drinks.

Yvonne dipped into the kitchen before returning with a little plastic container. “It’s a new recipe but we’re not sure if we’re going to sell it yet. Let me know what you think.”

You smiled and accepted the box, along with a paper bag containing your usual orders - a bagel for you and a couple of honeyed pastries for Loki. You and Loki were the only patrons in the shop, so you didn’t feel too bad lingering at the register. Yvonne leaned her forearms on the counter and poked your forearm. “So how’s it going with… you know.”

You took a forlorn bite of your bagel and cast your eyes to the end of the bar. Loki was chatting with the other barista, leaning over the counter to whisper something conspiratorially to her. She hung off of every word which, how could you blame her. He was, after all, charming and handsome and princely and a notorious flirt.

It was no secret that Loki thrived off of attention. When he had first arrived in his brother’s tow he’d been nothing but easy grins, sandwiched between Thor and Banner. It only took a week before Loki was grudgingly accepted after helping to stop the Bad Guy of the Week in a fishing town in New Brunswick, Canada and saving Natasha’s life, and it only took a year and another brush with near-death - which involved Loki using his seidr to literally hold Steve’s insides inside - for him to gain some leeway among the team.

Which he abused immediately.

He was a terror. He was unpredictable, constantly underfoot, and he and Thor spent just as much time brothers-in-arms as they did at eachothers’ throats. He flirted his way out of most scrapes and connived his way out of the rest. Meaning - he absolutely thrived.

You had all come to rely on having him in your back pocket for missions. He was a great strategist and an even better fighter - even if he gave Tony a run for his money in the obnoxiousness department.

And you liked him. You really liked him - liked his company, liked his dry sense of humor. You liked the way your stomach swooped every time you heard his voice from around the corner, and how your heart clenched whenever he shot you a private smile during briefings. He was a great sparring partner and he seemed to have a sixth sense for when you needed a pep talk. But his attention never settled on you the way it did on marks or pretty secretaries or baristas.

A larger-than-insignificant part of you understood that what Loki liked about you was how your focus never waned. He liked the attention - for his little mortal to fawn over him.

You’d thought he’d been interested at first, in the week after he’d saved Natasha.

The touching.

The pet names.

And then months went by and you watched him flirt with anything that breathed. And, on one occasion, something that didn’t.

“I still think he likes you,” Yvonne said. “He practically hangs off of you. Like one of those little baby sloths in a Dodo video.”

“That’s just Loki,” you said around a mouthful of bread. You’d confided in her a few weeks prior about your little crush in a moment of weakness and she, like Natasha, had taken to the cause like a dog to a bone. “He’s like that with everyone. I mean - look at him. He doesn’t really like me like that.”

The doorbell chimed, and Yvonne pushed away with a dramatic sigh. “He’s an ass then. Not worth it.”

“Who’s not worth what?” Loki sidled up beside you, coffee cups balanced in either hand. Yvonne shot you a look and waved the question away. You said a hurried goodbye and let Loki corral you into the deluge outside.

Heavy droplets of rain battered the pavement. Cars trudged along through broad trenches of water. Sliding his arm around your waist, Loki steered the two of you back the way you came. He held you tightly against his side to keep you both under the umbrella, so that your hips bumped with every other step and you could feel the heat coming off his coffee cup at your elbow. You took a sip of your own drink to distract yourself.

“Oh, I think you gave me your drink by mistake.” You pulled the cup away to check the label. Instead of an order, you found a ten-digit phone number scrawled in thick black marker.

“Terribly sorry, pet.” You didn’t miss how Loki’s grip tightened on your forearm when you strayed a little too far from the umbrella. He swapped your drinks, then made a disinterested noise. “I have to admire her bravery. I mean, it was clearly a stupid decision, but brave none the less.”

“Oh, be nice. The poor girl can’t help being charmed by your wiles.”

“I am devilishly charming, aren’t I?” Loki jostled you with his shoulder. You swallowed a sigh when he turned his nose into your cheek, his hot breath fanning over your jaw. “But I’m clearly not interested.”

“Loki,” you chided. “Your idea of clearly not interested is most peoples’ ‘oh god take me now’.”

“Preposterous. On Asgard we took courtship incredibly seriously. There were steps involved. A whole process. That,” he waved his hand, “was merely my enchanting nature.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jane told me that Thor offered her the head of a robot overlord he took down in Brazil.”

Loki pulled you to a stop to wait for the crosswalk sign to turn. “It likely would have been a stag on Asgard. Thor made do with what he could. Though I always imagined myself offering up a manticore, personally. Maybe a giant serpent.”

You hummed. “What a romantic.”

Loki shot you a curious look. “I spent much of my boyhood imagining how I might court my future mate. The gifts. The parties. I always imagined a woman at the edge of a dancefloor, how I might ask her to dance. She’d be dressed in my colours in a public declaration. Covered in gold. My sword at her hip…”

The crosswalk chirped. Loki drew you along, finishing lamely: “So no. That’s not ‘interested’.”

The rain was coming down harder, whipped up by the wind so it blew directly in your faces. A bead of water slid down your cheek; the umbrella only covered so much, and dark splotches were beginning to pepper the shoulders of your jackets and creep up the hem of your pants. A chill had settled over your skin unpleasantly… yet you couldn’t help but groan as you rounded the corner and the crisp steel contours of the Avengers tower melted into view.

Loki glanced over his shoulder, a boyish grin tilting his lips upwards. A few damp curls clung to the column of his throat. “Tell you what, pet. Why don’t I practice my court jester routine a little longer?”

Loki crowded you against the side of the Avengers tower, shielding you from the worst of the storm. He launched into regaling you about the book he was reading - a collection of alien poetry from sometime around Earth’s 14th century, found in one of Tony’s art collections gathering dust. ( We called them engagements on Asgard. Because suitors would often ‘forget’ them in their intendeds’ parlors as an excuse to return later. ) All the while, he drew the plastic container Yvonne had given you from your paper bag and pried the lid off. Inside was a collection of small pastries with cracked sugar shells on top - profiteroles, you thought. Loki plucked one and gestured with it wildly to emphasize his point, nearly upturning the entire box in his enthusiasm.

“Okay, that’s enough.” You took the container from him and held it securely in your free hand. “What were you saying?”

“I was quoting. I said ‘ If love was like an ocean, then mine was like a well.’”

“Deep and drinkable?”

“Hand-dug.” Loki popped the sweet in his mouth. His eyebrows rose comically. “That’s good. That’s very good,” he said around a mouthful.

You hummed and held out your coffee so you could try. Instead, Loki took another one out and held it up to your mouth.

You sputtered out a nervous laugh. “What? No, take my coffee.”

Loki tsked and prodded your lips with the dessert. He fixed you with a strange look, something coy but serious at the edges. A warm flush rose along the back of your neck under his scrutiny, growing so unbearable by the second that eventually you opened your mouth and let him place the treat between your teeth. Sweet cream burst out of crisp, flaky pastry and chips of hard sugar - he was right, it was delicious.

His narrowed eyes shone with mirth. “Good?”

Your breath stuttered when Loki pressed his lips to the pad of his thumb, licking away some sticky residue. His mouth pulled away with a wet peach sort of sound.

Your knuckles brushed the fabric of his shirt, warmed by his skin - a pleasant contrast to the cold, wet city air. You felt his muscles twitch under the barest touch.

His mouth tipped upwards; the back of your hand slid against his abdomen when he leaned his hand against the wall next to your head, dominating your personal space.

In a panic, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Do you have a date for the party tonight?”

“Oh sweetling,” he purred. “I thought you would never ask.”

You grimaced. “Very funny. I thought you would have already asked Emily from Accounting.”

Loki blinked down at you. “What?”

“Emily? Tall, big hair, legs for days?”

“Why would I ever ask her?”

You picked at the label printed on your coffee cup. “I don’t know. I just figured someone like you would…”

“Would…?”

You huffed out a sharp breath and glanced at him from the corner of your eye. A strange expression had crossed his face. You regretted asking at all; it wasn’t like you wanted to know the answer to that question anyway.

“Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’ll be fending people off left and right anyway.”

Silence settled over the two of you, decidedly less comfortable this time. His hand slipped from the brick wall and into his coat pocket roughly.

“Do you… Do you have a date tonight?”

“No! No, I…” You laughed uncomfortably. “No. No dates right now.”

Loki hummed. The furrow between his brows lessened but only slightly.

You pushed away from the wall a little awkwardly, still balancing the box of profiteroles in your hand. Loki followed a step behind, pulling the door open for you mechanically.

You rode the elevator up in silence.

When you reached the floor for the common office, you found PAL waiting dutifully outside the elevator. His little paper tray bobbed as he spun circles around your feet.

“You are entirely too kind to him,” Loki chided while you cooed down at his adorably square face.

“Maybe he’ll be my date tonight. What do you say, PAL? Want to dance the night away?”

PAL lead the two of you to your desk, where he waited for you to assign him another file. The city was shrouded in a thick grey haze behind the floor-to-ceiling windows and bright, early morning light had flooded the room - a far cry from the intimate room you’d left. You sighed and slunk heavily into your seat.

Loki loitered. He drew the tip of one long finger down the cover of one of your folders, flipping through a quilt of post-it notes. “Ok. I’ll keep my promise and let you work now.”

“Thank you.” Before he could leave you reached out and grabbed his sleeve. He startled, glancing down at your hand before his eyes flickered back up to yours. You rolled the seam of his coat sleeve between your thumb and forefinger, dropping his gaze when it grew too hot. “I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

Loki hummed. “I’ll be the one in black.”

You couldn’t help but feel like you’d said something wrong. His hand slipped from yours and into his pocket, his little book of poetry tucked under one arm. Your eyes lingered on the elevator doors long after he’d left.

—

You were in the process of deciding between two pairs of shoes when your front door slipped open. Never one for boisterous entrances, Natasha sashayed down your front hall into your living area, shoes and makeup bag clutched in one hand, and made a bee-line for your bathroom. You padded after her, adjusting your glittery skirt as you went.

It had become customary for you and Natasha to get ready together in your apartment, even outside of Official Team Events, so you didn’t bat an eye when she leant her hip against your counter and started pinning her hair out of her face. You hoisted yourself up onto the bathroom counter while she unpacked her tools, idly playing with a tube of toothpaste in companionable silence.

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad is the crisis you’re having?”

“How can you tell I’m having a crisis?”

Natasha waved her hand, as if to say international super spy, duh.

“Like a twelve,” you moaned. “I can’t do this anymore. I just get so… so awkward around him. And he gets off on it, I know he does. He amps it up to a hundred because he knows it makes me uncomfortable.”

Natasha leveled a look at you through the mirror.

“He called Lydia in the mail room ‘Enchantress’ for a week. He calls me his pet. ”

“Some guys are into that.”

You made a face. “He’s not a guy though. He’s a god. How could I ever live up to that.”

You heard the front door open. Wanda had promised to come by once she’d gotten dressed. You called out her name, then returned to your moping.

“He just- ugh - he makes me crazy, you know? I like him so much. I swear if he touches me one more time I’m going to burst into flames. Or cry. Or worse, say something embarrassing. Something needy like ‘I love you please oh please let me have your babies’.” You wailed and buried your face in your hands. “I just need to find a guy to fuck it out of me.”

“If you’re looking for sex, Loki would be more than happy to help you,” Natasha grumbled. “Even if he wasn’t doing the roll-over-and-show-my-belly routine for you - which he absolutely is - he’d jump at the chance to ‘fuck it out of you’ .”

“You are not being helpful at all.” You hopped off the counter and adjusted your skirt. You were beginning to regret your decision, but the dress was a beautiful shade of green that both Wanda and Natasha had cooed at over Facetime a week ago. “I’m serious. I just need some random guy to blow off some steam. Get my mind off of him.”

Natasha tossed her eyeliner pencil in her makeup bag and zipped it shut. “Maybe you’re selling yourself short. Maybe you’re way more of a catch than you think you are.”

“And maybe sleeping with someone who actually wants me will fix my ego problem. Maybe my problem is that I’ve been spending way too much time around super soldiers and GQ models. Someone in my league. Someone totally normal who won’t laugh in my face and pat my head like I’m a horny lap dog.”

Natasha tsked. “It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind. So, what’s the plan? You find some guy, take him home, ride him into the sunset and then… Go on pretending you’re not totally in love with-?”

“Don’t say his name! I’m serious, you’re going to jinx it or something.” You glared at her reflection. “The guy doesn’t matter. In fact, he shouldn’t matter. Someone I have absolutely no interest in, who I can spend one fun night with and then move on from. I just need to regain control over the situation.”

“Mhmm. I just don’t see why Loki’s not an option here. Plug this in for me.” You squawked indignantly while she handed over her curling iron. “Worst case scenario, he’s only ok and you never have to talk about it again. Maybe he has a tail or something. Horns.”

You tried to imagine her head exploding. Or stubbing her toe really hard. Tripping up the stairs. “It’s more complicated than that.”

Natasha hummed. She sorted through the belongings strewn across your bathroom counter mindlessly, straightening out your array of weapons leftover from when you stumbled home in the early morning. One of her manicured fingers traced the edge of an ornate gold knife. Earthbreaker . “Interesting choice for a telekinetic super spy. Abandoning quiet and calculated for something a bit more ostentatious, are we?”

“I’ve been meaning to return that.”

“Return what?” Wanda rounded the corner, a tote bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in another. “Cute dress.”

You smiled. “Thank you. What took you so long?”

“Oh,” Wanda sidled up next to Natasha and began pilfering through her makeup bag. “Nothing, really. I couldn’t decide between this dress or an old red one I found in the back of my closet. I came as fast as I could.”

“No, I mean, I heard the door-”

“She’s going to hook up with a stranger tonight,” Natasha interrupted.

“What? Shit-” Wanda dropped the kohl pencil she was using and licked her thumb, scrubbing at her eyelid. “Wait, why not Loki?”

“I never said I was certain,” you interjected.

“She’s worried he doesn’t feel the same way she does.”

Wanda pouted at her reflection, assessing the symmetry of her eyeliner. “Not to be dramatic but… does it matter? He’d say yes.”

“You don’t know that. Just this morning he turned down a barista when she gave him her phone number.”

“But with a little wine? A little dancing? He looks amazing, by the way, I passed him on my way here.” Wanda turned to face you, leaning her elbows on the counter. “He’ll say yes.”

“Speaking of wine, why don’t I-”

“Worst case scenario he’s only an okay lay. Loki will leap at the chance for a one-night stand. Why would you-”

“I don’t want to just fuck him, okay?” You cried. “I know he’d fuck me. But I want more. ”

You turned on your heel and fled to the kitchen. You had never gotten around to buying wine glasses - something Natasha loved to make fun of you for - so you pulled mugs down at random.

It was only your familiarity with Natasha that tipped you off to the fact that she’d joined you. You avoided her eyes while digging through your cutlery drawer for a corkscrew.

“Babe.” Natasha took you by the shoulders and tipped her head so you were eye level. “Hey. Tell me what the worst-case scenario is.”

You shrugged, a little pathetically. “I don’t know. He’s uncomfortable. Or- or he makes fun of me.”

“He already does that.”

“But not- not like this.” You scrubbed the heel of your palm over your eyes. “I really like him. And I don’t want to lose him as a friend.”

“I think you’re gonna lose him as a friend no matter what if this continues. And I think he likes you a lot more than you think. I- and you can never, ever repeat this - I think he’s a lot more empathetic than he lets on. Hell, his brother has tried to kill him multiple times and they live on the same floor.”

Her thumbs worked in small, soothing circles over your shoulders. You leaned forward to rest your forehead against her chest and sighed. “What if he says no?”

“Just ask him to dance tonight. If he says no then no harm, no foul.” She pushed you back by the shoulders and leveled you a look. “We’re master tacticians. We can seduce that stupid peacock. Now come on, come help me do Wanda’s hair. I curl, you pin.”

You took a deep breath in and held it. On the exhale, you pulled away. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You gathered up your glasses. Wine bottle in hand, you started to formulate a plan. A strategy. Something Peter might call Operation Get Laid if he didn’t blush every time a kissing scene came on TV.

You nodded. “Okay.”

part two!

#loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki x you #loki x y/n #loki x female reader #I will literally never get over the unbearable agony of tagging things #but 2024 is the year of cringe baby. the year of being free. the year of using a damn hashtag.

351 notes · View notes

rist-ix · 24 days ago

Text

Small Tbhtbh Snippet!

It's two weeks past the end of my internship and I still haven't gotten much done in the way of fanfic, so as compensation (and proof that im still writing!): Have A Snippet!

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

She walks through the Palace, past the portraits of past rulers and long-dead relatives, until she finds her sister.

The sculpture of her is half-crumbled. There must have been a window broken, in the walls of this tower, one that’s only recently been fixed, because wind and ice seem to have worn down the pale stone of the statue over time. Her face is unrecognizable, the edges of her mask reduced to jagged stumps. One side is worse than the other, like the wind came from her left.

But she knows it’s her. She’d know her anywhere.

“Talk to me,” Bloom says.

Her voice echoes in the room, small and alone. Bouncing off of glass cases and strange instruments, of paintings and smaller statues. It’s the only sound they’re introduced to – not even the howling of the wind can be heard from here.

“Talk to me,” she repeats. “Or am I boring you, when I’m not actively dying?”

It’s dark. No golden light weaving through the shadows, no otherworldly glow to disturb this artful mausoleum. The only light comes from behind her, through the doorframe she came through. Her shadow doesn’t even reach the podium Daphne’s sculpture was placed on, to loom over all else in the room.

“Is that what it takes to get your attention?” she asks into the darkness. “Tearing myself open? You used to haunt me day in and day out, once. Have you forgotten how?”

The worn down stone gives no answer; Daphne’s face remains blank. She looks away. At least some things stay the same.

“Or do you think it’s not worth it, anymore. Now that I know my powers, and am not bleeding to death.”

Her hands run over the dusty stone tables, past the mysterious utensils and metal instruments. She takes one up at random, but gets no closer to understanding its function. A strange assembly of metal plates and rings, with no discernible purpose. She runs her finger over the edge of it. It looks sharp enough to cut.

“You’re really unreliable, you know that?” she murmurs down at her own hands. The metal glints in the low light. Stray beams catching on its polished surface, travelling along its curves and edges. She places it back down.

“I guess it runs in the family.”

She breathes out, sinking to the floor. Her throat is sore and her nose is running, and the big woolen shirt she’s thrown on to ward off the cold looks ridiculous. Not that there’s anyone here who would mind. She leans back against the table, her head falling back against it with a thud. Her hand moves to cover the mark etched into her neck, always warm, no matter her surroundings.

“You’re mad at me,” she says. “Is that it? You threw your life away for me, and now I’m here.”

The silence doesn’t protest. It doesn’t accuse her, either. It ignores her, the way a good silence ought to. Stars. Her head hurts.

“No, you wouldn’t be,” she gives in, after a moment. It feels venomous, to blame someone who isn’t there to defend themselves. To accuse someone, when she knows better. “You never were.”

She sighs, and stares at her hand as if the red of Valtor’s Mark might have rubbed off on it, like blood. He’ll be looking for her soon.

“You should be,” she says. “I would be. In my place, you would have… I don’t know what you would have done. I can’t imagine you ever being in this position in the first place.”

Her hand curls into a fist. Nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm, one by one.

“I’m so angry at you,” she whispers.

There’s dust trailing through the air. Dancing through the feint light from the corridor. It’s candle light, buttery yellow, but to her it feels all wrong.

“You should have helped me. We were right there, at your doorstep. You should have stopped me. Known better.”

Her fist hits the side of the desk beside her, hard enough to make the wood crack and the metal tools clink, above her.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

Frustration burrows into her like a splinter into flesh, deeper and deeper the more she tries to worry at it. There’s a warbling kind of growl in her throat, and she buries her face in her hands so she doesn’t have to look up.

“It’s my fault,” she struggles, “I get it. My choices, my consequences. But you were there too!”

The dust on her hands feels like sand, for a moment; the desk she’s leaning against like that rock she’d once been tied to. Roccaluce’s empty lake bed towering around them like the walls of a canyon, witnessing the most disastrous decision she’d ever made.

“You’re supposed to be older, wiser than me,” she rasps out, tasting salt on her tongue. “Or does that only count when it’s about the Dragon Flame? Is my life — my friends’ lives — just not part of your job description? Are we not worth the hassle for you?”

There’s no answer. No explanation. She’s not there anymore, in that drained lake in Magix, she’s here. In another lonely tower, housing another lonely girl. Granted, this one’s made of stone. She sighs again.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her hands sink to the ground, before she decides to hide them in her sleeves instead. She glances up at Daphne’s non-existent face, and wonders what she hoped to see there.

“But I did,” she tells her softly. “I’m the one who has to live with it. I can’t keep worrying about what you’d think of me. I’ll go crazy.”

Daphne doesn’t answer. A regular occurrence for dead people, she’s been told. She coughs out a half-laugh, rubbing her temples.

“Maybe I already did.”

She pulls up her knees. Up towards her chest, until she can hide them underneath that big sweater of hers. The cold is starting to seep through the fabric, but she hugs her legs to her chest and tries to preserve all the warmth she has left.

“That’s what I wanted to say to you, I think,” she muses aloud. Tightens her grasp on her limbs, sets her chin down on her knees. “You’re not here. You didn’t help me. There’s nothing I can do anymore.”

She closes her eyes.

“So it’s my life now, okay? You don’t get to judge me. Please.”

The quiet settles like the dust around her, once her echo rings out. Slowly, softly. This silence is a heavy blanket. She wonders what this room used to be. It’s been fixed up, so Valtor or one of the Trix must have used it, at one point. What meaning could it have held in the past, for Daphne’s statue to be standing here so prominently? Did she ever stand here, to look at her own likeness? Did she ever bring her here, those precious few days they had both existed in the same realm? She stares at the sculpture, and frowns a little accusatory.

“You really could stand to give me a sign, or something,” she mutters. “Ghosts shouldn’t be this stingy. Especially not royal ones. I’ve seen your treasury.”

Maybe this had been just another study, where old artwork was being kept. Maybe her sister had spent no more time here than she had. She lets her head sink again. Hides her face in her soft woolen collar.

“I miss you,” she says to no one.

She doesn’t say anything, after that. There’s a tingling feeling in her neck, and then a shadow cutting through the rectangle of light cast onto the floor.

“Bloom,” Valtor sighs. “There you are. You should be resting. What are you doing here?”

She looks up at the doorframe and waves at him, too long sleeves still dangling over her hands.

“Catching up,” she shrugs. Then she coughs again, making Valtor curse and stalk towards her.

“Catching another cold, more likely.”

“Well, this one is definitely your fault,” she reminds him, swatting away his hand when he attempts to feel her temperature. “So if anyone’s chiding anyone here, it should be me.”

“Yes, yes,” Valtor waves her off, sounding very un-chided. “You can still do that in bed, can’t you?”

“Oh hey, guess what else we could have done in bed? Instead of a dark, freezing corridor?”

His lips twitch in a way that implies he’s entirely remorseless. Whether it’s because he doesn’t regret getting her naked as quickly as possible, that night, or because he enjoys getting to fuss over her, she doesn’t know. She’ll sneeze on him first chance she gets, she decides either way.

“I do hope you get better soon,” he kneels down next to her, brushing the dust from her hair. “Being sick makes you very prickly.”

“Pah! I don’t need to be sick to– Hey! What are you doing?”

In one smooth motion, he’s used her distraction to pull her into his arms and stand back up, her legs dangling uselessly from his arms.

“You’re ill,” he smiles innocently. “Sick people shouldn’t exert themselves. I’m carrying you back to your room.”

She struggles vehemently against his grip, something that is made infinitely more difficult by those oversized sleeves of hers.

“If I walked all the way up here, and can walk all the way back do— Hmmmmm. Actually, never mind. You’re very warm.”

He is. Unfairly so, really. That floor was very, very cold, and whatever sneeze-related revenge fantasies she’s been harboring are promptly put on the back burner so she can burrow her face into the silky layers of his shirt. Valtor doesn’t move for a full five seconds. Then he looks up and promptly begins to walk.

“I rescind what I said,” he says, sounding far too happy with himself.

“You should catch a cold more often.”

She refrains from snapping back this time. That would require her to pull her face out of the very soft, very warm ruffles of his collar, and she’s decided that that has priority, now. It’s only when he pauses at the entrance that she deigns to look up again.

“…something wrong?”

She can’t see his face clearly. Half of her vision is taken up by pale swirls of silk and lace trims, but she can see his jaw above her, his lips pressed together pensively.

“I thought I locked this door,” he says, facing the doorframe. She doesn’t remember breaking a lock to get in, so she doesn’t answer, instead opting to burrow back into his warmth. If he wants to accuse her of snooping where she shouldn’t, he can wait until she’s back to fighting form. After a moment, Valtor shakes his head and walks on, lips brushing over her forehead.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”

#fic: to be hunted to be haunted #sparxshipping #in my defense ive just started my bachelor #and. hoo boy #academia more like acaDAMN

45 notes · View notes

literaryvein-reblogs · 4 months ago

Note

Hi I'm currently writing for a Medusa Themed story, and want the lore for Medusa please

Writing Notes: Medusa

Medusa - (in Greek mythology) the most famous of the monster figures known as Gorgons.

She was usually represented as a winged female creature having a head of hair consisting of snakes.

Unlike the Gorgons, she was sometimes represented as very beautiful.

She was the only Gorgon who was mortal; hence her slayer, Perseus, was able to kill her by cutting off her head.

From the blood that spurted from her neck sprang Chrysaor and Pegasus, her two sons by Poseidon.

The severed head, which had the power of turning into stone all who looked upon it, was given to Athena, who placed it in her shield; according to another account, Perseus buried it in the marketplace of Argos.

Heracles (Hercules) is said to have obtained a lock of Medusa’s hair (which possessed the same powers as the head) from Athena and given it to Sterope, the daughter of Cepheus, as a protection for the town of Tegea against attack; when exposed to view, the lock was supposed to bring on a storm, which put the enemy to flight.

From The Oxford Companion to World Mythology (2005):

Medusa - The only mortal member of the family of horrifying clawed and winged Gorgons, whose heads were covered in serpents.

Medusa began her life as a beautiful young woman.

But the Greek goddess Athena changed her hair into serpents as a punishment for her having defiled her temple by way of a relationship with Poseidon, a relationship that resulted in the birth of the winged horse Pegasus.

Anyone who looked at Medusa would be turned to stone.

This fact plays a role in the story of the hero Perseus.

According to Hesiod in his Theogony, Medusa and her sisters were the sisters of the Graeae and lived "beyond framed Oceanus at the world's hard edge by Night, where the clear-voiced Hesperides are" (Theogony, 270).

The three sisters are often mentioned together, but it is Medusa who is commonly depicted in both ancient Greek literature and art.

The name Gorgon comes from the ancient Greek word γοργός, meaning "grim," "fierce," and "terrible," and Medusa's name derives from the ancient Greek verb μέδω meaning "to guard" or "to protect," which is very fitting given the apotropaic quality of the face of the Gorgon, known as the Gorgoneion.

Medusa in Ancient Greek Art. Medusa is an instantly recognizable figure from ancient Greek art. Her face, whether fierce and grotesque or feminine and composed, appears in virtually all media in varying contexts.

The most common interpretation of Medusa suggests she is an apotropaic symbol used to protect from and ward off the negative, like the modern evil eye.

She represents a dangerous threat meant to deter other dangerous threats, an image of evil to repel evil.

A close look at her role in Greek mythology and art reveals a nuanced and complex character with multiple iterations and implications.

Medusa is best known for having hair made of snakes and for her ability to turn anyone she looked at to stone, literally to petrify.

Multiple works by ancient sources, such as Homer, the eighth-century B.C. poet Hesiod, and the fifth-century B.C. lyric poet Pindar, provide a wide-ranging and diverse picture of the fabled creature.

According to Hesiod’s Theogony, she was one of three Gorgon sisters born to Keto and Phorkys, primordial sea gods; Medusa was mortal, while the others, Stheno and Euryale, were immortal.

The best known myth recounts her fateful encounter with the Greek hero Perseus:

A dishonorable king demanded that he bring him an impossible gift:

the head of Medusa.

Perseus set out with the aid of the gods, who provided him with divine tools.

While the Gorgons slept, the hero attacked, using Athena’s polished shield to view the reflection of Medusa’s awful face and avoid her petrifying gaze while he beheaded her with a harpe, an adamantine sword.

Such a violent act resulted in the birth of Medusa’s children, the winged horse Pegasos and the giant Chrysaor, who sprung from her neck.

The two immortal sisters pursued Perseus with fury, but the hero escaped with his prize using Hermes’ winged boots and Hades’ helmet of invisibility.

Not even death, however, could quell Medusa’s power, and Perseus had to keep her decapitated head in a special sack strong enough to contain it, called a kybisis.

On his travels, he used the head to turn his enemies to stone and rescue the princess Andromeda from a sea monster (20.192.16), before giving it to Athena for her aegis.

Pindar’s Twelfth Pythian Ode recounts how Stheno and Euryale’s angry pursuit of their sister’s killer resulted in another chapter of the Medusa myth:

After hearing their anguished and furious cries, Athena was inspired to invent the flute to mimic them.

When the goddess played the flute, however, she discarded it after seeing her reflection; her face distended and became ugly as she played.

While she purposefully and successfully mimicked the wails of the Gorgons, she also unwittingly imitated their wide and dreadful features.

The snake-haired Medusa does not become widespread until the first century B.C. The Roman author Ovid describes the mortal Medusa as a beautiful maiden seduced by Poseidon in a temple of Athena.

Such a sacrilege attracted the goddess’ wrath, and she punished Medusa by turning her hair to snakes.

While these stories sound fantastical today, to the ancient Greeks they were quasi-historical.

Myths, as well as the stories recorded by Homer and Hesiod, were considered part of a lost heroic past when men and women interacted with heroes, gods, and the supernatural.

Tales from this period were repeated in every medium; the evidence from Greece presents a world saturated with heroes and monsters in poetry, prose, and art.

As such, Medusa was not just a fantastical beast, but part of a shared past and present in the minds of ancient viewers.

She signified a historical menace—the story of Perseus vanquishing and harnessing her energy was not just a story, but a chapter in the shared allegorical and historical record of the Greeks.

Just as Medusa exists in multiple types of stories in the mythological record, she is also portrayed in multiple ways in ancient art.

Her appearance changes drastically through the centuries, but she is always recognizable due to her striking frontality.

It is rare in Greek art for a figure to face directly out, but in almost all representations of Medusa, despite style and medium, she stares ahead and uncompromisingly confronts the viewer.

The term gorgoneion refers to the head and face of Medusa, which was used often as a decorative motif. It is a prolific symbol of her particular power that appears in architecture, vase painting, and metalwork.

Alterity is at the foundation of Medusa’s force, which was alive and present in the minds and memories of ancient viewers. Her very presence is foreign, dangerous, and potent, as are her specific characteristics.

In the Odyssey, her head was kept in Hades to drive the living from the world of the dead.

The Perseus myth provides us with the phenomenon that her face and gaze could turn men to stone. Pindar preserves the tale that the Gorgon’s cries were awesome and awful. Perseus and Athena were required to control such threatening forces and harness their power.

This harness was taken up by ancient Greek artists, who represented the Gorgon across all periods and in all media.

Medusa is a deadly and cryptic other, but she is also ubiquitous, with an undeniable energy that inspired artists to repeat her semblance and story in diverse ways across literature, lore, and art through ancient Greece, Rome, and beyond.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Excerpts from "The Library of Greek Mythology" by Apollodorus of Athens: 1 2 ⚜ Some Medusa-related art

You can also find more information in the sources linked above. Hope this helps with your story!

#medusa #greek mythology #writeblr #literature #writers on tumblr #writing reference #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #light academia #writing inspiration #writing ideas #writing resources

68 notes · View notes

iggyshippingcorner · 2 months ago

Text

2: alpha stone/omega robotnik (canon-compliant, s2) (word count: 2550)

[ here is my second drabble for the poll prompts featuring: reunions, the mean bean cafe, dubiously consensual bond-bites, talking around your feelings, and "it's not miscommunication if there's no communication to begin with". ]

this is dedicated to the lovely (-) anon in my inbox who has been absolutely DELIVERING with abo asks for the last few weeks. thank you so much for this idea!

The loneliness is the worst part, even after eight months of the doctor’s absence.

Stone brews coffee and serves customers and maintains the pop-up lab outside of business hours, while the loneliness aches like a bruise, nestled deep in his chest. There is a gaping abyss in his routine, in his life, a doctor-shaped hole in his every waking moment. Time doesn’t soothe it, just emphasises the raw edges of it. Sometimes, when the pain of it drives him to more traitorous thoughts, he supposes it would be easier if he knew the doctor was dead. If he knew there was no other recourse, at least he would know what to do.

But eight months without any evidence of his demise-- or his survival, his alpha brain whines, gutted-- means Stone can only follow the Robotnik Manifesto and wait by the door of the Mean Bean cafe for his doctor to come back home. Making too many cups of coffee for someone who hates the taste (he much prefers tea) and polishing the badniks until they gleam. Pressing his fingers into the slowly fading welt of a mark on his neck where the doctor claimed him-- has claimed him, over and over, refreshing the indents of his teeth every time they begin to heal.

Stone doesn’t know what he’ll do when the bite finally heals over. On the bad days, he considers going at the flesh of his neck with one of his trusty knives, to flay the marks of the doctor’s incisors open, begging them to scar more deeply. But he remembers how Robotnik feels about his tools, and knows the only thing he can do is wait patiently for the doctor’s return. Perhaps if he plays his cards right, the doctor will remedy the issue sooner rather than later. On the really bad days, he even fantasises about the doctor baring his throat, allowing Stone to claim him back-- though these thoughts feel even more traitorous than the others, to dream about the doctor being any kind of submissive. It doesn’t stop them from happening with higher frequency, the longer time goes on and the distance between him and his memories widens.

In a frantic effort to remedy this, he’s been thinking about the first time Robotnik bit him, turning the memory over and over in his mind like he might find something new. Replaying a cherished moment until he can see it every time he closes his eyes, seeking comfort from ghosts.

[ He’s only been working under Dr. Robotnik for a week, and it’s been one hazing test after another. Stone had been warned about this, the domineering and the posturing and the physical threats. But not one person had warned him about the proximity.

“Did I give you permission to think? In my lab?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so Stone keeps his mouth shut. Dr. Robotnik doesn’t seem to find this enough, as he clamps one gloved hand over Stone’s mouth and leans in even closer. “I asked you to do one simple thing, agent-- do not get your useless alpha stench on anything in my lab. None of this is yours. Hell, when you are working in my lab, you are mine. I decide where your scent goes.”

It violates at least three different HR mandates on physical engagement, five on hostile workplaces, and definitely qualifies for a designation harassment suit. Stone is honestly elated. The doctor has been searching for his scent. And the words themselves are halfway to an informal claim. Physical, non-sexual displays of domination are usually something a self-respecting alpha has to pay for, but all Stone has to do is breathe a little too loudly in the doctor’s direction and--

A sharp sting of teeth at his throat cuts through his introspection. It’s not an attempt to claim-- not anywhere close enough to be effective-- but it’s… it’s almost offensively brazen, to bite an unmarked alpha first. The doctor pulls back, self-satisfaction clear on his face. Stone isn’t sure what his own expression is, and isn’t that a treat? He tries not to breathe too heavily against the glove still covering his mouth.

It’s just another attempt to get him to quit. Stone ignores the heat rushing to his face and the growl of his alpha brain to get his own incisors on display in favour of raising one eyebrow, the closest to a challenge he can get without opening his mouth. Dr. Robotnik’s smug expression morphs into shock, then determined fury. He shoves Stone back against the wall he’d pinned himself against, one hand still clamped over his mouth, his other arm braced against Stone’s chest, forcing him against the lab wall. He narrowly avoids slamming his head back against the wall, his palms braced flat against it in an effort to keep from reaching out, from touching the doctor.

Another sharp bite, fangs sinking into the column of his throat, inches shy of the bonding gland. Canines savagely tear through flimsy skin, teeth just a tad sharper than any beta’s ought to be. Stone clenches his jaw, and makes no move to throw the other man off despite his capability to. The submission makes Dr. Robotnik growl, rumbling his displeasure right against Stone’s carotid. The position doesn’t let Stone move very much, but he still tilts his chin up and to the right as far as he can, bares his bonding site like a dare and the doctor--

Well, let it be said that Dr. Robotnik never backs down from a challenge. ]

The day the doctor comes back arrives without a whisper or inclination of difference. It’s a busy Tuesday morning that melts into a lazy Tuesday afternoon, pulling the last sheet of danishes from the oven in between an earl grey with lavender for Mrs. Mathers and a trio of frozen hot chocolates for some local teens. The text sends him into a flurry of activity, banishing his customers with a kind, disarming smile and a claim of “family emergency”. His scent must be doing something in his favour because several people pack up without him having to cajole them in the slightest, and wish him good luck. He has the entire cafe shuttered and cleaned in twenty minutes, and he retreats to make sure the pop-up lab is just as clean.

By the time the doctor gives him an ETA 5 text (gracious, lovely, merciful), he’s gotten the badniks spotless and the lab perfect and his ingredients measured out. The latte comes together like second nature, easy as breathing, but without any complexity to distract his whirling thoughts.The doctor is back. The doctor is back! If he had a tail, it would be wagging furiously. He carefully etches his foam art, willing his hands to stop trembling in excitement. His heart thumps loudly in his ears.

He gazes down at the foam and wonders if it’s a little over the top. His face and ears feel warm. His alpha brain crows eagerly for his… well. For his doctor. It may be humiliating to any other alpha to crave the presence of someone who you aren’t mated to, the way he does, but Stone cares little for the opinions of fools. His neck itches, tender bond gland throbbing under the skin. He wipes the back of his wrist across his cheek, letting out a quiet laugh as he gets a whiff of his own elated pheromones. Pull it together, Stone.

The bell above the doors chimes and breaks his moment of distraction. Stone straightens up, folds his hands in front of himself, tail wagging, ears perked. The doctor sweeps into the humble cafe with a manic grin on his face and a slightly surprising lack of hair, but it’s him. Fondness and relief swells within Stone’s chest. Robotnik draws closer, moustache wild and eyes shadowed by the dim lights overhead.

His hands reach out for the cup. Stone places it in his palms as delicately as he would a Badnik power core. Robotnik brings it up to his face, takes a long inhale of the dark roast, and then lifts the mug to his lips. Stone draws in a slow breath and--

The thick scent of honey and myrrh and something distinctly earthy fills his senses. And underneath it all, the immediately identifiable scent of an omega. The overload of information nearly causes him to miss the look of satisfaction that crosses the doctor’s face as he savours his first sip of the latte. The flashpoint surge of pride in his work is overshadowed quickly by a growing sense of envy. Eight months of absence and the doctor comes whirling back into his life smelling like some omega?

He forces himself back into the present as the strange red alien stalks closer, eyes wary and narrowed. He plays along as best he can, not having to fake his relief or his concern as the doctor gives a barebones explanation, but he seethes inside. He’s given a moment of reprieve when the doctor slips away to the bathroom and the alien exits the cafe to… Stone’s not actually sure what it’s doing. But the scent finally clears and allows him a moment of clarity, brain unclouded by the fog of jealousy. Stone assesses what he knows-- the doctor has been off-planet for eight months. The doctor smells strongly of an omega, an unbonded one at that. The doctor is extremely touch-averse, scent-sensitive, and difficult to get along with. The odds of him actually coming into contact with a foreign omega are, gratifyingly, next to nothing.

But then…. Where is the scent coming from? Stone sweeps the main lab floor to give himself something to do with his hands. He can hear the shower running in the other room. Robotnik smells like an omega. A particularly fragrant one. Stone has never encountered his unfettered scent before, usually buried beneath the lab’s scent dampeners and the smell of coffee and motor oil that clung to both of their clothes. His neck itches. The pieces come together slowly, puzzle unfolding

The door to the bathroom clanks open. Steam spills out, and Robotnik comes out, dressed in a loose, black tunic and some comfortable pants Stone had pulled from his own dresser upstairs. His moustache is still damp. That infuriatingly lovely scent fills the space between them rapidly, and something in it makes Stone’s mouth flood with saliva. The doctor sighs loudly, voice wonderfully familiar. “You would not believe how long I have been waiting for a hot shower, Stone. If I had the materials I would have-- why are you looking at me like that?”

Stone blinks several times. In his mind, a single lightbulb blinks on after several false starts. His hands tighten imperceptibly around the handle of the broom. If he blurts it, confronts the doctor, he might flee into the night and never look back. If he doesn’t confirm it right now, he might die on the spot. The itch beneath his skin intensifies.

It’s not his best idea, but it is… efficient.

Stone digs his fingers into the knot of his tie, loosening it. He works open the top few buttons of his shirt. Robotnik’s eyes zero in on the movement, and he draws closer, moth to flame, predator to prey. Stone has to swallow a few times before the words come out properly, slightly raspy, “I think we’re a little overdue, doctor.” Hook.

He bares the nearly-healed bruise of his bonding site, and he watches Robotnik’s pupils dilate in the familiar blue-tinged glow of the lab lights. He takes the next few steps into Stone’s personal space, that sweet, earthy fragrance washing over him like a thick fog. Each breath draws it deeper into his lungs, Robotnik’s true scent settling heavy on his tongue. A gloved hand comes up to grip his jaw tightly.

“A bit presumptuous, agent,” he hisses, though there’s a faint dusting of pink to his cheeks that makes Stone’s heart skip a beat. Its existence makes him bolder than he would otherwise be: “No more presumptuous than half-bonding your subordinate.” Line.

Robotnik draws back a half-centimeter, surprised. Stone watches the realisation strike him, and eagerly bares his throat before the anger (or worse, the horror) can take root. He’s sure the doctor can see his pulse thrumming beneath the skin like this, can smell the honest desire and devotion as he leans back in to sniff blatantly at his throat. The fingers gripping his jaw flex ever-so-slightly, and he swallows.

“You didn’t know?” Robotnik asks, the softest secret pressed delicately into Stone’s waiting palms. His voice doesn’t tremble, but it comes far too close for comfort. Stone settles a gentle hand on his hip, heart stuttering at the physical reminder of him.

“I never suspected anything,” Stone says earnestly. He feels more than sees a measure of tension bleed out of the doctor at his reassurance, and oh if that isn't the headiest rush of satisfaction. Robotnik lets out a laugh that is just a touch too loud for how close they are. “Of course you didn’t. I didn’t synthesise my own blockers for nothing.”

The response wrings a laugh out of Stone despite the hammering of his heart. He missed this-- their easy banter, the suffocating proximity. To have it all back now, after so long is nearly unbelievable. He could fall to his knees and weep, if not for the vice-like hand gripping his jaw and keeping him upright.

The wicked sting of fangs in his neck snaps him out of his maudlin thoughts. He groans, a thoughtless little sound, and Robotnik laughs again. The noise is muffled by Stone’s flesh, but the vibration of it sends shivers from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. His teeth bite deeper, and Stone sighs as the itching under his skin finally abates and his bond gland settles in the wake of the doctor’s sharp canines, carving the evidence of devotion into Stone’s skin where it belongs.

When Robotnik finally pulls away, his teeth and lips are faintly stained with Stone’s blood. He looks… Stone blinks long and slow at him, feeling more than a little dizzy. After a moment of bated breath silence, Robotnik finally says, “I suppose it’s time we found a more permanent solution, mm?”

Stone’s mouth drops open. A dark red flush colours Robotnik’s cheeks. They stare at each other for a moment longer. The doctor shakes his head slightly with the hand still gripping his jaw. “Stone? Don’t tell me I killed what few brain cells remain bouncing around in your skull.”

A slow, uncontrollable smile threatens to split Stone’s face in half as the words sink in. A more permanent solution. The longer he stays silent, the darker the doctor blushes. As lovely as it is to watch, Stone would be remiss to leave him hanging.

“I would be honoured, maestro,” Stone murmurs, chest feeling fit to burst with the rush of fondness coursing through him. “To wear your mark for the rest of my life.”

It’s odd. Stone hasn’t gone anywhere the past eight months, but looking at the victorious, maniacal grin that spreads across Robotnik’s face, he feels an awful lot like he’s finally come home.

#stobotnik #iggy fic tag #abo #fic #(-)#this was SO much fun to write #i hope yall enjoy <3 #(-) you live rent free in my head with your abo ideas and i hope this is a suitable offering in return

43 notes · View notes

letmeinimafairy · 5 months ago

Note

Where did you learn to do these amazing carvings? I see your work come across my dash every couple of months and every time I see it I think "I want to learn how to do this" so I figure if I know where to start looking I can make it one of my resolutions for 2025.

Thank you so much! I'm self-taught (my art education starts and finishes with art school sadly, my dream is to become a jeweller but I can't afford the education), and honestly, I'm doing this by intuition through trial and error. At some point I just realised that for some ideas I need something different, not paintings, and decided to try. I started working with small engraver on river shells, cleaning and polishing them to make pendants for miniature paintings, then at some point I started carving wooden landscapes for resin pendants and dioramas. So I'm mostly learning about materials through small experiments - a ribcage carved from a shell for an idea I'm still working on, arks made from small wood chips to test the waters, a new rotating tool for stones. I love looking at shapes and "finishing" them, so all my current stone carvings are made out of river pebbles, I don't have the equipment to cut bigger stones. Honestly, I'm useless at instructions because I don't know shit about serious crafts, but to get a small rotating tool and an object that gives you an idea about what it could become would be a good start.

#ask

39 notes · View notes

whencyclopedia · 10 months ago

Photo

Jade in Ancient China

Jade (nephrite) was regarded as the most precious stone in ancient China, and it symbolised purity and moral integrity. Prized for its durability and magical qualities, the stone was laboriously carved and polished into all manner of objects from jewellery to desk ornaments. Jade was especially used for ritual objects such as the bi disc and zong (cong) tubes, both of which are of unknown function.

Mining & Working

Jade, in the case of China, refers to the mineral nephrite, the hardest and rarest hard stone. There is another mineral with that name, jadeite, but this was unknown to the Chinese prior to the 18th century CE when it was imported from Burma. Nephrite comes in various shades of green and other colours depending on the percentage of iron content in the stone and other trace elements. The principal source was in the Xinjiang region but it is likely others sources, once exhausted, have disappeared from the historical record. The Khotan region of Central Asia is another known source of the stone in antiquity. Jade was first used from c. 6000 BCE and green long remained the preferred colour, but during the 5th and 4th century BCE there was a fashion for white jade with a brown tinge and again in the 1st century BCE when a pure white jade became available from central Asia following expansion under the Han Dynasty (206 BCE - 220 CE).

Excavated from mountains and picked up in riverbeds - and so known as 'the essence of heaven and earth', the stones could not be cut by a metal knife, and so they were shaped using a cord and sand acting as an abrasive before being more precisely carved using a drill and then polished. Jade is a hard stone and working it with primitive tools would have required a great deal of time and effort, which, of course, only added to its value. Early pieces have engraved linear designs, but over the centuries a more sophisticated appearance was achieved by carving the jade so that the object had many contours, niches, and points which were highly polished.

#History #1111-221BCE #1766-1111BCE #1787CE #WHE #[#]

65 notes · View notes

lostinhistory · 2 months ago

Text

Heritage News of the Week

Discoveries!

One of the biggest and most important iron age hoards ever found in the UK has been revealed, potentially altering our understanding of life in Britain 2,000 years ago.

Lost manuscript of Merlin and King Arthur legend read for the first time after centuries hidden inside another book

An intriguing sequel to the tale of Merlin has sat unseen within the bindings of an Elizabethan deeds register for nearly 400 years. Researchers have finally been able to reveal it with cutting-edge techniques.

A 3,000-year-old settlement turns up in a business park in France

Archaeologists in northern France have discovered a vast Bronze and Iron Age settlement that may once have been a regional hub and gathering place.

Ancient Egyptian pyramids, thought to contain only the elite, may also hold laborers

At the site of Tombos, archaeologists have found that less-affluent laborers may be buried with upper-class people in pyramid tombs.

Sutton Hoo helmet may actually come from Denmark, archaeologist suggests

A discovery by a metal detectorist in Denmark has raised questions about the origins of the iconic Sutton Hoo helmet, thought for decades to have links to Sweden.

Over 70 archaeological sites identified in Canada’s Chilcotin region

In the first phase of the study, a total of 70 archaeological sites were identified, including 31 pre-contact Secwépemc villages and seven sites with sacred features.

2,200-year-old mysterious pyramid structure filled with coins and weapons found near Dead Sea

The purpose of a mysterious pyramidal structure in the Judaean Desert is unknown, but excavators are finding many well-preserved artifacts there.

3,000-year-old Bronze Age daggers discovered near Kutenholz

A pair of 3,000-year-old Bronze Age daggers have been discovered by archaeologists near Kutenholz, a municipality in the district of Stade, Lower Saxony, Germany.

Unique 6,000-year-old sacred hearths and Karaz pottery discovered at Tadım Mound in Elazığ

Archaeological excavations at Tadım Castle and Tadım Mound, located within the borders of Tadım Village in Elazığ, continue to uncover significant findings that illuminate the region’s history.

13,000-year-old Clovis stone tool found beneath Maryland churchyard

A team of volunteers and archaeologists from the Maryland Historical Trust unearthed a 13,000-year-old stone tool from a churchyard in Reisterstown.

Archaeologists may have finally discovered famous 'lost' canal built by Julius Caesar's uncle

Scientists in France may be hot on the trail of a long-lost canal that the Romans built over two millennia ago while battling the Celts.

A U.K. monolith turns out to be part of a prehistoric stone circle

For a while now, a standing stone tucked away in a Berkshire woodland was believed to be a lone monument. New findings, however, have revealed the artifact to be but one piece of an immense prehistoric complex.

Archaeological mission advances research in the “Bench of the Pharaoh”

A joint Polish-Egyptian archaeological mission has conducted further studies in the tomb of Shepseskaf, located in the Saqqara necropolis near Cairo.

Earliest known stone mold for coin production in Roman Hispania unearthed

Researchers from the University of Jaén have made a groundbreaking discovery at the archaeological site of Obulco, modern-day Porcuna, revealing the earliest known stone mold used for coin production in the Roman province of Hispania.

Human sacrifices found in a Bronze Age tomb in Turkey were mostly teenage girls

Five millennia ago, Bronze Age people in Mesopotamia built elaborate stone tombs full of spectacular grave goods and human sacrifices. Researchers are unsure of the meaning of this ritual, but a new study of the skeletons points to a clue: the age at which people were sacrificed and their biological sex.

110 megaliths discovered in Kerala and inscriptions revealing ancient pilgrimage center in Andhra Pradesh

The Archaeological Survey of India has unearthed a significant number of megalithic structures near the Malampuzha dam in Palakkad, Kerala.

A 'landmark finding': Homo naledi buried their dead 250,000 years ago, according to newly updated research

Controversial claim that Homo naledi buried its dead gets new proof from 2025 research study.

Archaeologists find traces of British rule in Florida

Archaeologists excavating in St. Augustine on the northeast coast of Florida have uncovered a rare remnant of British rule: a redoubt, a fortified military outpost constructed in 1781.

700-year-old Lord Vishnu sculpture washes ashore on Pedda Rushikonda beach

R. Phalguna Rao, the Assistant Director of the department, speculates that the sculpture may date back to the 13th or 14th century, although it is unlikely to have originated from North Andhra Pradesh.

Unraveling the mystery of the Nescot ritual shaft: dogs, sacrifice, and Roman Britain

In 2015, an archaeological excavation at the former Animal Husbandry Center of Nescot College in Ewell, Surrey, uncovered a remarkable and perplexing discovery. Beneath the ground lay an ancient Roman quarry pit, its layers holding a fascinating story of ritual, sacrifice, and cultural traditions in Roman Britain.

Museums

The Manhattan museum’s Gilded Age mansion reopens next month, bringing its world-famous collection of works by the likes of Vermeer and Rembrandt back on public view.

A glimpse of eternity at the Carnegie Museum’s Hall of Architecture

The assembling of these plaster casts of masterpieces more than a century ago must be understood as a work of art in its own right, a bizarre and beautiful triumph.

Los Angeles wildfires put museum-lender relationships in spotlight

As fires approached the Getty and Norton Simon Museum campuses in early January, those museums’ leaders called far-away lenders to reassure them that their art was safe

The Museum of English Rural Life, of "Look at this absolute unit" fame, now has a podcast, called (naturally) Absolute Units

Listen to this absolute unit

Repatriation

Among of the new trustees appointed to the British Museum is an academic expert opposed to the return of antiquities taken from their country of origin in colonial contexts, such as the museum’s most contested holding, the Parthenon Marbles.

Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nation repatriates more than 100 cultural items from New York museum

On Tuesday, a delegation from the Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nation in B.C. took back possession of culturally significant items from the American Museum of Natural History in New York. The items from the Whalers Washing House, or shrine, are expected to arrive back in the community, about 250 kilometres northwest of Victoria on Vancouver Island, Monday.

The 30-year quest to catch a national records thief

How did thousands of historical documents that belong in Scotland's national archives end up across the Atlantic Ocean in Canada? The answer is that they were stolen. By one man. With a particular interest in stamps.

Russia seizes hoard of ancient gold coins stolen from French museum

Russian authorities announced the seizure of a collection of ancient gold coins stolen from the Saint-Remi Museum in Reims, northeastern France, after an attempt to sell them on the Moscow antiquities market, according to Le Figaro. The discovery marks a development in a case that remained unsolved for several years since the coins went missing.

US authorities return two Khmer artefacts to Cambodia

The two statues were seized during investigations into international smuggling networks including that of notorious trafficker Subhash Kapoor

Heritage at risk

President Donald Trump on Thursday revealed his intention to force changes at the Smithsonian Institution with an executive order that targets funding for programs that advance “divisive narratives” and “improper ideology,” the latest step in a broadside against culture he deems too liberal. Trump claimed there has been a “concerted and widespread” effort over the past decade to rewrite American history by replacing “objective facts” with a “distorted narrative driven by ideology rather than truth,” adding that it casts the “founding principles” of the United States in a “negative light.” The order he signed behind closed doors puts Vice President JD Vance, who serves on the Smithsonian Institution’s Board of Regents, in charge of overseeing efforts to “remove improper ideology” from all areas of the institution, including its museums, education and research centers, and the National Zoo.

You can read the order here

So anyway, this is horrifying

What Is revisionist history?

If you read history or engage with historians on social media, you may have seen the phrase “revisionist history” in replies or comments. Much of the time, this is meant as a criticism of the history being presented and the historians and organizations presenting it. But what does it mean? And is it a problem?

‘Ravaging shared heritage’: South Korea wildfires destroy ancient temple and threaten Unesco site

The Unesco-listed Hahoe Folk Village in South Korea has been evacuated and a 1,300-year-old Buddhist temple burned to the ground after wildfires tore through southern parts of the country this week.

Alleged leader of Egyptian antiquities trafficking ring returns to Germany with French court summons

Serop Simonian, the alleged leader of an Egyptian antiquities trafficking ring, mysteriously left Paris for Hamburg during his jail sentence in January.

Sudan official accuses RSF of looting gold, destroying artifacts at national museum

The director of Sudan’s National Corporation for Antiquities and Museums (NCAM), Ghalia Garelnabi, said on Thursday that the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF) stole all archaeological gold from the National Museum in Khartoum amid widespread destruction.

There's a video on Bluesky showing the destruction and it's devastating

Odds and ends

Dozens of unique, centuries-old manuscripts have gone on display, showcasing medieval ideas of how to cure disease and live a healthy life. The cures include the use of crushed weasel testicles to help women conceive and mixing stewed apples with quicksilver (mercury) to rub on the body to destroy lice.

Dredging up the ghostly secrets of slave ships

A global network of maritime archaeologists is excavating slave shipwrecks - and reconnecting Black communities to the deep.

Rags-to-riches hero or villainous torturer? The truth about Henry VIII's scheming right-hand man Thomas Cromwell

With her award-winning Wolf Hall series of books, Hilary Mantel made Tudor bad guy Thomas Cromwell sympathetic. But as TV adaptation Wolf Hall: The Mirror and the Light premieres in the US, the question is: did she also 'sidestep crucial matters'?

Going underground: Experts clash over 'hidden city' beneath Egypt pyramids

A heated debate has erupted among Egyptologists after researchers claimed to have found an “underground city” beneath the Pyramids of Giza. Is the discovery, based on radar images, groundbreaking or exaggerated?

(it's viral poop)

John Malkovich is an ancient Roman philosopher with a death sentence in long-delayed new film

When considering who could play an ancient Roman philosopher, few great actors come to mind more quickly than John Malkovich. He has the ability to easily slide into regal, careful, sometimes pompous, sometimes painfully self-aware performances befitting of archaic geniuses. From the trailer and images, it looks like he's bringing all that to his portrayal of the eponymous stoic in the film Seneca

Window cleaner in quest to confirm priceless Shakespeare portrait

Window cleaner Steven Wadlow has spent more than a decade trying to prove he is in possession of a priceless, authentic Shakespeare portrait. His quest is now being told in a Netflix documentary. What is the story behind the find?

AAR honors pioneering women of Rome’s archaeological golden age through photographic exhibition

The American Academy in Rome, a recognized institution devoted to interdisciplinary collaboration among artists and scholars, will open an exciting exhibition. Women and Ruins: Archaeology, Photography, and Landscape, to be held from May 14 through November 9, celebrates pioneering women who, in the early 20th century, employed photography as a means to document and interpret ancient sites and landscapes.

'It didn't express the real horror': The true story of The Great Escape

On 24 March 1944, 76 allied officers broke out of a German prisoner-of-war camp, Stalag Luft III – a mission that was memorialised in a classic film, The Great Escape. In 1977, a key member of the escape team, Ley Kenyon, was interviewed on the BBC's Nationwide.

Decades-old CIA documents on Ark of the Covenant resurface amid classified group text spat

The CIA used experimental intelligence methods to attempt to locate the Ark of the Covenant, but the revelations are about 25 years old. In "recently resurfaced" documents, as reported by right-wing British outlet the Daily Mail, the CIA outlines how it used a "remote viewer" to mentally locate the site of the artifact, which has remained a mystery for centuries.

Why would you need to find it when you already know where it is?

Unique two-clawed dinosaur discovered

A rare new species of two-clawed dinosaur has been discovered by scientists in Mongolia's Gobi Desert. The species, named Duonychus tsogtbaatari, was unique within a group of dinosaurs called Therizinosaurs, which stood on their hind legs and usually had three claws. It was medium-sized, with an estimated weight of approximately 260kg.

'Inside-out, headless wonder' fossil discovered

A professor has published details of a rare "inside-out, legless, headless wonder" fossil from 444 million years ago, which belonged to a previously undiscovered species.

#they are going to remove 'improper ideology' from the *zoo*#I assume that means any reference to climate change #but I'm also imagining them deporting the pandas #one gets the sense this is mostly aimed at the African American Museum of History and Culture #but it's all very very bad #heritage news of the week #history #archaeology #museums #pseudoarchaeology #paleontology

13 notes · View notes

cantsayidont · 1 year ago

Text

ABSTRACT Wood artefacts rarely survive from the Early Stone Age since they require exceptional conditions for preservation; consequently, we have limited information about when and how hominins used this basic raw material1. We report here on the earliest evidence for structural use of wood in the archaeological record. Waterlogged deposits at the archaeological site of Kalambo Falls, Zambia, dated by luminescence to at least 476 ± 23 kyr ago (ka), preserved two interlocking logs joined transversely by an intentionally cut notch. This construction has no known parallels in the African or Eurasian Palaeolithic. The earliest known wood artefact is a fragment of polished plank from the Acheulean site of Gesher Benot Ya’aqov, Israel, more than 780 ka (refs. 2,3). Wooden tools for foraging and hunting appear 400 ka in Europe4,5,6,7,8, China9 and possibly Africa10. At Kalambo we also recovered four wood tools from 390 ka to 324 ka, including a wedge, digging stick, cut log and notched branch. The finds show an unexpected early diversity of forms and the capacity to shape tree trunks into large combined structures. These new data not only extend the age range of woodworking in Africa but expand our understanding of the technical cognition of early hominins11, forcing re-examination of the use of trees in the history of technology12,13.

Holy shit. If it's 476,000 years old, it was not made by humans, but by some of our pre-human hominid ancestors.

Citation:

Barham, L., Duller, G.A.T., Candy, I. et al. Evidence for the earliest structural use of wood at least 476,000 years ago. Nature 622, 107–111 (2023). doi:10.1038/s41586-023-06557-9

#science #nature #early hominins

68 notes · View notes

gortash-did-nothing-wrong · 7 months ago

Text

Enver Gortash Musings 11

Warnings: Mentions of virginity, mentions of wedding night sex, sexist ideas about virginity (not from Enver though he couldn't care less)

Minors do not read!!!

The second outing Enver took you to was at his own estate. Smaller than your parent's, but big enough to suit a minor Lord. Then again, if rumors were to be believed Enver would be much more than a lord soon. Typically, having an outing at the man's estate was improper, but the rules were changed due to it being arranged. Enver had already paid a bride price for your hand. The property outside of Baldur's Gate that was your dowry was already being sighed over to him soon. The farm, the mill, and the country estate your family used for vacations during the summer. All of them would soon belong to Enver, to one day pass down to your children. Ugh. You could barely wrap your head around it.

Enver gave you a tour around his estate as your parents stayed in the parlour. "I'm surprised you got the to agree to let us be so... Alone." You admit.

Enver chuckled, repositioning his cane a bit as you walked through the back door of his home out into his outdoor entertaining space. Or, at least it was intended to be an entertaining space. Stone flooring that was once solid and polished, intended to be a dining area beneath the woven overhang, had been ripped into with pickaxes so a forge could be installed. Three different anvils littered the area around it, along with racks upon racks of blacksmithing equipment.

"Noble parents safeguard their daughters chastity like hawks so that they can marry her off. Noblemen are quite odd about insisting their wife be a virgin. I never saw the appeal." Enver dismissed. "I've already agreed to marry you, the paperwork is complete, and I don't care if you've ever laid with another man or woman. It doesn't matter to me."

You felt your face grow hot, both due to his blunt words and the heat from the forge. "Regardless of your preference, I have my maidenhead, and I plan on having it at my wedding."

Enver chuckles, leading you to the forge and putting on a pair of thick leather gloves. "Whatever you prefer."

He grabs a pair of metal tongs, thrusting them into the fires of the forge and pulling out a cup of molten metal. "Grab that mold, and put it on top of the flat part of the largest anvil."

You panic, having never done any blacksmithing work in your life. You don't know what the mold is, but you grab what he was pointing to and put it on the biggest anvil you see.

You step back, watching him pour the molten metal into the opening of the mold, his hands steady as the metal comes out in a bright red and white stream. Soon the mold is filled, and he drops the stone cup into a bucket of sand, tossing the tongs back onto the rack. He grabs the mold, tearing it in half and brushing the sand inside of it away to reveal a smoking ingot of gold.

"What are you making?" You ask, curious. You knew Enver was an artificer, but hadn't seen any of his creations yet.

"Your wedding ring." He answers, taking the ingot and setting it on the anvil. He grabs a hammer, taking it and tapping the ingot a few times. The metal is still soft with heat, easy to vend to his will.

Of all the things you had expected, that wasn't one. "You- oh. I-I didn't know you made jewelry."

"I make plenty of things." He said dismissively, cutting into the ingot to get a piece of appropriate size. "Every artificer in the world has made rings before, so as to enchant them."

You smiled sheepishly, watching as he put the piece of gold onto a cone like tool and began shaping it into a ring. "I thought they just bought rings and carved runes on them."

Enver laughs, "If they want a broken ring, sure. You can never be sure of quality unless you make it yourself."

"You smelt all the metal for your creations?" He's got a complete ring now. It's rough, needing to be shaped and smooth, but it's a ring. He takes it away from the anvil, setting it on the table and grabbing a few smaller tools.

"No, not all the time. I have employees who do the bulk of such things. But I've always got something I'm working on around my personal forge. I make all my own prototypes, then pass the blueprints and instructions along to them."

You watch over the next hour as Enver turns the chunk of gold into a beautiful golden ring. He asks basic questions, the type of ring you'd prefer, the size of your finger, embellishments you enjoy. And you talk about many other things as well. His other hobbies, yours too.

"Do you want children?" You ask when you feel brave enough.

"Yes." He says, "At least two."

"An heir and a spare?" You guessed, a sullen tone to your voice. You had hoped he would care about the concept of children just for the sake of children. Apparently not.

"Partly." He admits, no shame in his voice. "Also because I think a child needs friends. A sibling would help."

You chuckled, "You were an only child, weren't you?"

Enver looks up at you, a lopsided grin on his face. "Is it that obvious?"

"I have a lot of siblings." You said.

"I'm aware, your mother went through my list of options." He joked.

You bristled, "Your list?"

He smiles at you in a way you think is meant to calm you. It doesn't. "I knew I wanted to marry one of your mother's brood. Her terms were too good to pass up. A fellow Banite, a strong family name, deep coffers, everything I could have hoped for. She showed me each of her children's portraits, and said I was of course allowed to choose whoever I preferred, but she was quite insistent that you were the best pick."

You hesitated, "And... How soon did you make your choice?"

"About five minutes later." He says, reaching a hand over to take your chin in his hand, lifting your gaze up to meet his. "She was quite convincing."

He lingers on your face for a few moments, letting you blush under his gaze before releasing your chin. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small leather bag, and opening it to dump its contents on the table. "Pick your favorite."

It's gemstones, over a dozen of them, and scattered over the table. Different colors of each precious stone you can name. Your eyes sweep over all of them, but you ultimately land on one of the largest stones, a deep green emerald.

You pluck it up with your fingers, offering it to Enver shyly. "... This one reminds me of you."

Enver's mouth twitches slightly, a grin slipping onto his lips. "Green, hm?"

You shrug. "It just does."

He takes the emerald, adjusts the setting on the ring, and drops it into its place. A pair of pliers tightens the setting, securing the beautiful stone into the ring forever.

He polishes it with a few brushes, cleans it with a bit of cheesecloth, and then turns to you. "It will suit you, I think."

"I can't try it on?" You tease.

He smirks, "For someone so traditional about her virginity, I'd think you'd want to wait until the ceremony to put on your ring."

You huff, "Fine. I can be patient."

His hands are suddenly on your waist, his body pressed against yours as he leans down and whispers into your ear. "Mind your tone, sweet thing."

You can't help but shudder at his voice. "I- sorry!"

He chuckles, his grip on your waist squeezing slightly. "I'm only teasing. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

Enver sighed, "There are... Traditions with Banite marriage."

You go serious quickly. "... That's what this is going to be, isn't it? It's not going to be normal."

Enver shakes his head. "I had hoped your mother would warn you."

"She doesn't talk about that with me." You admitted. "She never even told me what being a Banite is like."

Enver sighs. "Lovely. It's getting late. We can discuss it another time."

You frown, "Why not now?"

"It will be a long conversation." He explains, his voice taking that gentle and persuasive tone again. Was this how he sweet talked politicians? It was no wonder all the women at court were backing him. "It's best saved for a day with many more hours left in it. Come back this weekend, I'll have afternoon tea served, and we'll speak on it more."

You smiled softly up at him. "I prefer Earl Grey."

#enver gortash #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 enver gortash #enver gortash headcanon #enver gortash x reader #enver gortash imagine

33 notes · View notes

bungostraydogs-atsinh · 14 days ago

Text

Chapter Nine: Salt on the Graves

In the sweltering stillness of a Yokohama summer, the Port Mafia begins investigating a string of unsettling incidents tied to their hidden past. When Mori Ōgai assigns two young executives—Dazai and Chūya—to quietly unravel the truth behind a series of mysterious domestic tragedies, they descend into a world of symbols, salt, and silence. As the two navigate grim apartment scenes and conflicting emotions, a disturbing pattern begins to emerge—one that tests the boundaries of loyalty, legacy, and the fragile line between order and chaos.

Word Count: About 7,894.

The sky above Yokohama lay bleached and breathless beneath the weight of summer, the sun casting its pale judgment through a gauze of high haze. Heat shimmered on the horizon like a fevered dream, softening the edges of the bay and blurring the skyline into a mirage of steel and smoke. From the highest floor of the Mori Corporation tower—its windows black and seamless as obsidian—the city stretched beneath like a body on an operating table, veins of traffic twitching through its limbs, breath rising in the form of steam and exhaust. Here, in this cold sanctum of power, the Port Mafia watched. Or perhaps not watched—loomed. Like a surgeon standing over a sedated patient, tools gleaming on the tray, fingers not yet poised to heal or to cut. Yokohama was alive. And under Mori’s hand, it would remain so—until he decided otherwise.

Mori Ōgai stood with the calculated stillness of a man who had long ago perfected the art of waiting. Framed by floor-to-ceiling glass, his reflection hovered like a specter—transparent, poised, faintly unreal—superimposed upon the vast, heat-hazed skyline of Yokohama. His white medical coat was pristine, not a wrinkle or speck upon it, the collar pressed as sharply as his silences. Hands clasped behind his back, he gazed down at the city with the calm detachment of a man studying a patient on an operating table: observing the breath, the pulse, the subtle tremors that hinted at illness—or opportunity.

Tall and slender, he cut a precise silhouette against the sterile geometry of the Port Mafia’s highest office, every line of his attire sharp enough to draw blood. His black hair hung straight, immaculate, parted to reveal a narrow brow and a gaze that held neither warmth nor haste—only quiet calculation. The fringe of his bangs framed eyes that read people like patient files: thoroughly, clinically, and without sympathy.

He wore a black suit tailored to perfection, its seams vanishing into the shadows like secrets he did not need to speak aloud. Beneath it, a crisp white button-up gleamed with the soft sheen of antiseptic sterility, the kind worn by surgeons and undertakers alike. A muted purple tie lay knotted at his throat, subdued yet unsettling in its contrast. A maroon scarf—rich in hue, almost bloodlike in dim lighting—often coiled around his neck like an afterthought, or perhaps a final flourish on a portrait of restraint. White gloves covered his hands. Always. Hands that had held scalpels and lives with equal steadiness. Hands that touched nothing unless it was to take control. And over it all, a long black trench coat settled across his shoulders like a shadow stitched to flesh—quiet, elegant, and unmistakably dangerous. Mori did not need to raise his voice. He did not need to draw a weapon. Authority radiated from him the way cold radiates from stone: slowly, irresistibly, and with the promise that no matter how close you stood to him, you would never be warm again.

Behind Mori, on a desk so polished it mirrored the ceiling lights in perfect, sterile squares, Elise hummed to herself. The sound was without rhythm or purpose—a tuneless drift that coiled lazily through the silence like smoke from an unseen fire. She sat with her legs swinging gently over the edge, white shoes tapping the air in a rhythm known only to her. Each movement sent her golden ringlets bouncing, framing her pale, doll-like face in a halo of perfect curls. Her blue eyes, wide and bright as cracked porcelain, flicked downward to the object in her arms: a porcelain doll, head severed clean at the neck, its dress rumpled, its vacant glassy stare fixed upward in eternal surprise.

Elise cradled the doll with unsettling tenderness, whispering to it in a saccharine murmur. The voice was high and childlike—but only in pitch. It was not the voice of a child, but the mimicry of one. Too precise. Too practiced. Sweet as syrup and just as cloying. She gently undressed the doll with clinical care, small fingers working at the fastenings as if prepping it for an invisible surgery. Each click of a button was quiet but deliberate, measured.

Her red dress flared like spilled wine across the dark lacquer of the desk, frilled hems swaying with every shift of her legs. A white collar framed her neck, a pink ribbon knotted sweetly at her throat, and her pale hands moved with eerie precision—delicate, composed, and far too calm. She looked every bit the child from a forgotten storybook, drawn in bright ink and soft lace. And yet, she did not fidget. She did not blink without cause. There was nothing natural in the stillness that wrapped itself around her frame.

To see Elise was to understand that she had not been born, but made. Not a girl, but the memory of one, reanimated by something older and colder than time. Her presence was not merely strange—it was spectral, a haunting dressed in ribbons and red velvet. And in this bloodless, antiseptic room, she was the only color.

The room around them was unnaturally quiet. Not the quiet of peace, but of something held under tension, like the breath before a scalpel touches flesh. Only the delicate click of buttons broke the stillness as Elise slowly undressed her doll, her fingers precise, almost reverent. One by one, the fastenings came undone, tiny garments peeled away with surgical care.

The office itself felt drained of warmth, more mausoleum than meeting place. The walls were smooth and pale, untouched by artwork or personal clutter. The light overhead was too white, casting no shadows, granting no softness. Every edge gleamed. Every surface dared to be touched and found wanting. It did not resemble an executive’s suite, nor a ruler’s throne room. No—this was something colder. A sterile theater of incisions and decisions. And at its center stood Mori Ōgai, the doctor who had no need for anesthesia.

Just beyond the sterile hush of Mori’s office, the spell of silence cracked.

“I’m going in first.”

“Over my dead body, midget.”

“You volunteering?”

The voices—sharp, familiar, friction-charged—collided in the hallway like flint against steel. A muted thud followed, the sound of shoulders slamming together with the stubbornness of neither willing to give an inch. A curse hissed through clenched teeth. One pair of boots stumbled, rubber soles scuffing the polished floor, and then—shhhk—the sleek black doors slid open with mechanical grace, as if unimpressed by the chaos at their threshold.

Chūya Nakahara entered first, a flicker of irritation already smoldering in his eyes, his steps clipped and sharp with leftover heat from the hallway scuffle. He didn’t glance back. He didn’t need to. His presence preceded him like the snap of ozone before a storm, announcing itself in the tension of his shoulders and the restless way the long black coat fluttered at his back. Worn like a cape, the coat moved as if catching the aftershock of a fight that had only ended physically—his temper, it seemed, had yet to be convinced.

His black hat sat askew atop his copper-red hair, the brim jostled during the exchange with Dazai. Strands of hair had slipped loose, brushing against his cheekbones and falling into his narrowed eyes. Beneath the hat’s brown band and gleaming silver chain, his expression burned—blue eyes cold and hot all at once, like a flame that hadn’t yet chosen what to consume.

Chūya’s build was compact, but never slight. There was weight in his frame, a muscle-bound balance between speed and force, the kind of body built not for intimidation, but for impact. He wore his clothes with a kind of rough elegance—tailored layers that looked pristine in theory but bore the wrinkles of motion. A white button-up clung to his torso, the top buttons undone beneath a black ribbon bolo tie, loose and uneven from movement. Over that, a snug gray vest stretched across his chest, framed by the cropped black jacket that hung open at his sides. Around his neck, the thin line of a black choker caught the light, a silent reminder of something he didn’t care to explain.

Black gloves sheathed his hands—hands meant to strike. His slacks bore the creases of movement rather than starch, and his shoes, though simple, echoed across the polished floor like punctuation marks. Every inch of him was contradiction: precision and fury, refinement and raw nerve. His long coat, lined with pale silver, shifted behind him like smoke refusing to settle, a constant, fluttering reminder that Chūya Nakahara did not enter a space—he disrupted it. Sixteen, and already a weapon forged by anger and purpose. Already fire with nowhere safe to burn.

Dazai Osamu followed a breath behind Chūya, composed as ever, his presence sliding into the room like a shadow that had merely waited for permission. He moved with the fluid smugness of someone who hadn’t necessarily won the scuffle outside—but had certainly enjoyed it more. One hand lifted to adjust the collar of his long black trench coat in a motion almost too casual, the other slipped easily into his pocket, fingers coiled in practiced idleness. The faintest smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, already shaping itself into the opening line of a sarcastic remark—likely something about Chūya’s crooked hat or bruised pride.

Yet beneath the lazy charm, Dazai looked carved from sharper material.

Tall and lean, he wore his black suit with theatrical nonchalance, the fabric folding just so at his shoulders, as if the cut had been chosen not for elegance but for irony. His white shirt was crisp, clean, barely visible beneath the sweep of his coat—only enough to highlight the gauze wrapped tight across his right eye and the curve of his left cheek. The bandages were not fresh, not red—but they marked him like the scars of a man who had tested the edge of the abyss and returned with no need to explain why. They did not ask for sympathy. They declared endurance.

His dark brown hair fell in careless strands across his forehead, grazing high cheekbones and drawing the eye to what most preferred not to meet: his gaze. Dark brown, nearly black, and far too deep for a boy of sixteen, his eyes held none of the bravado his smile suggested. They were watchful, bottomless, half-lidded but never dull—like a well of ink poised to swallow the page.

He did not fidget. He did not rush. Dazai didn’t walk into rooms—he slipped between their seams, as though reality itself bent slightly to accommodate him. And though he said nothing, there was a quiet knowing in the way he scanned the space—an unspoken certainty that he was already several steps ahead. That whatever horrors had brought them here, he was less interested in their cause than in what might be made of them. He was sixteen. He looked older. And somehow—stranger still—he looked younger too. Like something still being shaped, still learning what shape to take when no one was watching.

Then both men stopped.

It wasn’t anything said that halted them. It was the shift. That subtle, bone-deep drop in the atmosphere, like the pressure in the room had changed. As if someone had opened a window in winter. Cold not in temperature but in tone—an instinctive chill that reminded them whose presence they’d just stepped into. The lights hummed overhead. Elise hummed back, still toying with her doll’s limp limbs. Mori turned from the window. His eyes, pale and unreadable, swept over them without expression.

“You’re late.”

The words cut cleanly through the air—not raised, not sharp, but scalpel precise. Mori Ōgai didn’t turn as he said them. He didn’t need to. His voice held the kind of authority that didn’t ask for obedience—it assumed it.

Dazai opened his mouth, a retort already half-shaped on his tongue, lazy and barbed.

But Mori raised a single gloved hand.

That was all it took.

Silence fell like a dropped sheet. Not heavy, but absolute. The kind that muffled even thought. Chūya, who had still been bristling with hallway heat, stilled beside him, tension freezing in his spine like a wire pulled taut. Dazai’s smirk faltered—just a flicker—and he allowed the words to dissolve unspoken.

Mori turned with deliberate grace, every movement calibrated, a surgeon stepping between life and death. He approached the desk where Elise sat, her red dress spilling around her like a sanguine tide. She looked up at him with a smile too symmetrical to be anything but unsettling. Teeth small and gleaming like porcelain keys, her expression stretched into something halfway between affection and performance. Without a word, she lifted the doll from her lap—handled with a gentleness so precise it became grotesque—and placed it on the glass surface of the desk. The head, still severed, rolled ever so slightly before coming to rest. Its empty sockets faced Dazai. Gleaming. Watching. Waiting.

“Five incidents,” Mori began, his voice as smooth and bloodless as the office around him. “Five former female operatives of the Port Mafia—now either dead or institutionalized following abrupt, violent breaks in behavior.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The words hung in the sterile air like chloroform, numbing and sharp.

From the desk, Mori lifted a single black folder—its edges crisp, its weight silent and absolute. He opened it with the ease of a man unsealing a patient’s chart before surgery. One by one, the photographs inside slid across the desk toward his audience. The paper was thick, glossy, and clean. Too clean. The sound they made—each image skating across glass—was sharp, surgical. A whisper of a scalpel across tile.

“All retired,” he continued. “All with daughters under the age of ten. All residing within Yokohama proper.” Chūya took a step forward. His boots barely made a sound, but there was weight in the movement—something tense, coiled. His brow furrowed as his gaze dropped to the photos, taking in the silent faces, the disjointed domestic scenes now inked with blood and madness. Beside him, Dazai’s smile didn’t quite fade—it shifted. Subtle, a fraction less curved, like a mask tilting to get a better view. Not shock. Not concern. Just curiosity—quiet, clinical, and detached. The kind that watched a building burn not to save it, but to see how it fell.

“These weren’t random acts,” Mori said, tapping a gloved finger once against the last photo before flipping it over with measured care. “They were precise. Calculated. Someone is targeting our history—cleaning up loose ends. Perhaps testing the limits of our silence.” The final photo he turned was older than the others—grainier, the ink just a touch faded around the edges. A woman stared out from it with a sharp, intelligent gaze. Her dark hair was cropped short, a practical cut, and the curve of a tattoo bloomed just beneath the collar of her shirt—a mark from another life, another war.

“Noriko Hayashi,” Mori said. “You may recognize her.”

Chūya did not speak. But his face stilled in the way glass stills just before it cracks.

“She was one of ours,” Mori said, voice steady as a pulse under a scalpel. “Operative class. Seven confirmed kills. Retired around five years ago after giving birth. We allowed it—her file was sealed, her name struck from active record.”

His gaze lifted then, sharper than before. Focused. Cutting.

“Now she has nearly killed her own child.” A beat of silence followed. Elise tilted her head, curls bouncing with the weightless curiosity of something that did not fully understand violence—or understood it too well. Mori’s voice softened—not with compassion, but with a reverence far more unnerving. It was the hush of a man addressing something delicate and divine, like a collector speaking to a rare, breakable doll. Not mourning. Not pity. Worship.

“Children,” Mori murmured, and the word lingered on his breath like incense—slow, savoring, steeped in meaning far deeper than the syllables alone. “They are the purest vessels. Untouched. Unspoiled. To harm one is not merely a crime. It is an aesthetic offense. A vulgar disruption of symmetry. An act that stains the sacred geometry of power.”

He turned slightly, and his gaze drifted to Elise—not as one might look upon a child, but as a collector appraises a flawless artifact. His gloved hand lifted with careful deliberation and brushed a single golden curl from her face, the motion almost ceremonial. There was no warmth in it. No affection. Only awe. Reverence. Elise did not flinch. She never did. She sat very still, like a creature sculpted for his gaze alone. To Mori, she was more than a child. She was design. A curated stillness. The precise embodiment of a principle he worshipped: beauty as control, innocence as obedience. In Elise’s silence, in her perfect stillness, he saw not weakness—but dominion. Untouched by age, unsullied by will, her presence was his personal proof that power, in its most elegant form, did not scream or bleed.

It smiled.

“Whatever is behind this,” Mori continued, gaze drifting back to the photos, then fixing again on the two men before him, “whoever—has trespassed. Not only against us, but against the order I have inherited.” The air in the office, already cold, dropped further—less in temperature than in pressure. Something tightened in the silence.

Then Mori turned fully toward them at last.

“You will find them,” he said.

His voice was no longer soft.

“You will make it stop. Decisively. No names. No rumors. No trail.”

He stepped closer, and the glass beneath the photos seemed to darken under his shadow.

“But make sure,” he added, “that it is implied—you do not cross the Port Mafia.”

Mori’s voice, already honed to a scalpel’s edge, grew sharper still.

“Make it disappear,” he said. “Both the man… and the message. And make it bloody.”

The final word landed with surgical precision, not as instruction but decree.

Chūya nodded, short and solid. “Understood.” But beside him, Dazai tilted his head—too slow to be casual, too smooth to be idle. His eyes glinted with something unreadable beneath half-lowered lashes.

“And if it’s not a man?” he asked, voice light, but never weightless.

A breath passed. Then Mori smiled.

Not warmly. Not cruelly.

But like a man who’d already seen the outcome.

“Then make it art.”

Silence followed—not the awkward pause of conversation, but the absolute quiet that falls in theaters after the final line. The kind of silence that lingers just long enough for the weight of what’s been said to settle. Outside, beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the summer haze stirred slightly, as if the city itself had taken a breath. For a fleeting second, a shard of sunlight broke through the overcast veil, glinting against the glass like the edge of a blade.

At Mori’s desk, Elise giggled. Without looking, she reached for the porcelain doll’s head and twisted it gently until it clicked into place. The severed smile aligned once more with its body, eyes still blank, still shining. And in that soundless moment, everything felt disturbingly whole.

They were dismissed with a wave. No ceremony. No parting word. Just the slow drift of Mori’s pale eyes back to the haze-veiled city and the soft, tuneless hum of Elise, who had taken to combing the severed head of her doll with a toy brush. Its body sat beside her on the glass desk—still, headless, patient. A single strand of golden hair caught the light as the doors whispered shut behind them. The hallway outside was long and sterile, lit by the steady flicker of fluorescent lights that hummed like trapped insects. The quiet here felt thinner, colder, like something waiting to echo.

Dazai was already walking, his black coat swaying behind him, the folder Mori had given him open in one hand. The pages inside were thick, matte, clinical. No stains. No creases. Just crisp photographs and clean notes penned in Mori’s exacting script. Victim one: exsanguination from a neck wound. Victim two: ruptured liver, collapsed lung. Victim three: cranial trauma, probable drowning. Each line read like a case file prepared not for court, but for autopsy.

He walked without pause, scanning the photos with a slight tilt of his head. His face betrayed nothing. No horror. No pity. Just that faint, inward-turning curiosity—the kind he reserved for particularly well-executed suicides or the first bloom of blood on white pavement.

“This one strangled her daughter with a hair ribbon,” he murmured, almost idly. “Used to work explosives. Funny how gentleness turns cruel in the end.”

Chūya stopped walking. Just—stopped.

“She used to handle explosives,” he continued, calm as weather. “Some part of her probably thought that would be less cruel. But strangulation—it’s personal. All that time to change your mind. Maybe that’s why she cried. The indecision. The distance between intent and result.”

He turned, eyes sharp. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Dazai didn’t glance up.

“She was crying in every picture,” he continued, thumbing to the next page, voice as calm as if he were reading a weather report. “The mother, I mean. Afterward. Real tears. You can tell by the swelling. I wonder if that means she regretted it… or if it just hurt more than she expected.” The file snapped shut with a crack. Chūya had yanked it from his hands, holding it like something flammable.

“They’re not puzzles, Dazai,” he snapped. “They’re people.” Dazai blinked once, slow and owl-like, then met his gaze with something that almost resembled confusion.

“Aren’t they?” he asked, and there was no irony in the question. Only a deep, open void of inquiry. As if, genuinely, he hadn’t decided yet.

“No,” Chūya said, voice lower now, ragged around the edges with something darker than anger. “They were ours. People who got out. Who earned peace. Had kids. And now they’re gone, and their daughters—” He stopped. His jaw tightened. “This isn’t a case to dissect. It’s blood on our doorstep.” Silence fell between them again—an echo chamber of unresolved violence. Then Dazai, with a faint shrug, slid his hands into his coat pockets.

“You’re right,” he said, as if indulging a child. “It’s not abstract.”

He paused. His gaze drifted to the folder.

“It’s intimate. That’s what makes it interesting.” For a second, Chūya looked at him like he might hit him after all. Not because he wanted to. Because he had to—because something in him needed to fight whatever sickness sat behind that calm, amused mask. But in the end, he didn’t. He just turned away.

“You’re sick,” he muttered, more to himself than to Dazai, and stalked toward the elevator without looking back. Dazai lingered, standing in the corridor’s too-white light, the closed folder now gently tapping against the wall. He watched Chūya go until his footsteps faded—then smiled. Small. Private. Not kind.

“Intimate,” he said again, as if trying the word on his tongue.

And then, with a kick to the back of Chuuya’s knee, he followed. The redhead shouting expletives.

------

They didn’t speak much on the way to the first apartment.

The car sliced through Yokohama’s thick summer haze, its tires whispering over asphalt still sweating from the midday heat. Outside the windshield, the city stretched in long, muted tones of gray and bleached concrete—no sharp lines, no color, just the slow exhale of a place too tired to pretend it wasn’t watching. The windows fogged faintly at the corners, trapping the warmth inside like a breath held too long.

Chūya drove with both hands locked to the wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. He leaned forward just slightly—not in impatience, but in resistance, like his body was bracing for impact that hadn’t come yet. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, unblinking, hard. Not unfocused. He wasn’t just driving. He was preparing—for blood, for stillness, for the quiet ruin waiting on the other side of a locked door.

Beside him, Dazai lounged in the passenger seat with all the reverence of a cat on a windowsill. One leg tucked beneath him, his black coat bunched awkwardly across the seat, wrinkled like he’d collapsed into it rather than sat. A juice box—half-crushed, straw bent at an unnatural angle—sat forgotten in the cupholder. He twirled a stick of candied plum between two fingers with idle disinterest, the glossy red catching flashes of light each time it rotated. His head lolled against the window, face angled toward the city as it blurred past, his eyes half-lidded and dull. He hadn’t said a word since they left Mori’s office. Not because he was mourning. Not because he was stewing in thought. Just because silence suited his boredom better than speech. Then, without looking away from the window, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and muttered,

“Hope there’s not too much brain matter this time. I just had lunch.”

Chūya didn’t answer. Not with words. His grip on the wheel just tightened—barely, but enough to make the leather creak beneath his gloves.

A long silence followed, dense as fog.

Then Dazai spoke again, voice light and strange in the humming quiet.

“Do you think,” he mused, “if we gathered all the daughters in one place, like in a gymnasium or a playground or something, we could bait the killer? Like a fishing net made of children.” It wasn’t a joke. Not really. It wasn’t a plan, either. It was something in between. That liminal place Dazai lived in—where thought and cruelty blurred until neither mattered.

“You’re disgusting,” Chūya muttered. Dazai smiled faintly. Not at him—at the window. His reflection in the glass was pale, half-faded, like something already on its way out of the world. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. But then, it never did.

Outside, the world moved on.

Buses rolled by, their windows fogged with breath and bright with the laughter of schoolchildren, oblivious and loud. An old man walked a stiff-legged dog down the sidewalk, his pace unhurried, the leash slack between them like an afterthought. Overhead, a woman hung pale bedsheets from her balcony rail, and they fluttered like ghosts above the bubbling scent of soy and broth from a ramen stall below. Chūya watched it all pass by through the windshield, his gaze fixed and unmoving. Ordinary lives. Clean. Untouched. Unaware.

He thought of the photos back in Mori’s folder—the blood pooling on linoleum, the contorted bodies of women who had once worn black gloves like his, held guns like his, spoken in codenames and cleaned their knives with the same practiced care. He thought of the tiny shoes. One red. One missing. Of hands too small to fight back. Of silence in a home that should’ve smelled like miso and safety. And he thought of how none of it mattered to the people walking past. For most of Yokohama, the sun still rose, lunch still steamed, and children still laughed without knowing how fast a mother’s love could sour into something fatal.

That pissed him off more than anything.

Not the murders. Not the mess. But the indifference. The ease with which the world turned its head.

Inside the car, the silence returned—but it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t companionable. It wasn’t even tolerable. It hung between them like fog over seawater: cold, clinging, dense with the weight of all the things that couldn’t be said. In the driver’s seat sat a boy who felt everything and couldn’t stop it from crawling beneath his skin. In the passenger seat sat one who felt nothing and had taught himself to wear that emptiness like armor.

Neither of them spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

The victim’s home sat at the fraying edge of Yokohama’s port district, tucked between rust-stained warehouses and the slow rot of forgotten apartment blocks. The complex itself sagged inward, bleached by salt wind and time, its balconies threaded with laundry lines that fluttered like prayer flags for gods that had long since stopped listening. Rust bled down the railings like old wounds. The walls peeled in layers. The air smelled of seawater, engine grease, and the lingering ghost of fried oil.

It was the kind of place no one noticed unless they lived there. The kind of place the Port Mafia rarely remembered unless someone bled loudly enough to be worth cleaning up. Crime scene tape crisscrossed the apartment door, loose at the edges like it knew no one would stop them. The officers had been paid off, bribed or silenced—it didn’t matter which. No one had touched the scene. No one wanted to. It had been left like a shrine. Or a warning.

Chūya stepped inside first.

The smell hit him the moment the door opened—metallic, cloying, thick. Old blood and stagnant air, soaked deep into the heat-warped floorboards and threadbare curtains. The summer humidity had preserved it like a crime in amber. It curled into his lungs, into his teeth.

Everything inside was still.

A child’s drawing clung to the wall—crayon lines of blue sky and uneven houses. A pair of small slippers rested beside the entryway, the soles facing neatly toward the door. On the kitchen table, an ashtray sat with a half-smoked cigarette still propped against the rim, its ash long since cold. The mundanity of it all—the quiet domestic order—made it worse. As if the violence had come not with rage, but routine.

Dazai followed behind, silent. He didn’t speak. Just pulled on a pair of thin gloves, snapping them into place with the practiced ease of someone who had walked through far too many rooms like this. He moved like smoke, light on his feet, slipping between shadows without disturbing them. He didn’t touch anything. He didn’t need to. His eyes did the work—dark, half-lidded, cataloguing. They passed through the living space slowly, each step muffled by old carpet and dread.

Then Dazai stopped.

He crouched beside the threshold to a back room, gaze fixed on the floorboards just beyond the doorframe. The wallpaper there was scorched—faint but deliberate—a perfect ring of singed edges marking the border between hallway and unknown.

“There’s salt,” he said after a moment, voice low and steady. “Burned into the floor. Carved.” His gloved fingers hovered above the mark, careful not to touch it. Chuuya walked over. He crouched too, frowning at the faint white outline that had been scorched into the linoleum like a brand. It wasn’t a pentagram, not a sigil he recognized. But it had shape. Intent.

Etched into the scorched floorboards, just beyond the ring of salt, was a symbol—precise, deliberate, and wrong. What had once resembled a butterfly now lay twisted into something unrecognizable. Its wings curled inward like horns or talons, symmetrical yet unnerving, and where the delicate thorax should have been, a sickle had been carved—its blade curving downward in place of life. Beneath it, an inverted torch had been burned into the wood, its handle blackened, the flame turned toward the ground like light swallowed by the earth.

Chūya stared at it for a long moment.

“Ritualistic?” he asked, voice low, uncertain. Dazai crouched lower, studying the shape as if it were a language he nearly understood. His lips pursed, thoughtful.

“Religious,” he said finally. “But not local.”

Chūya raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” Dazai’s gaze flicked upward, meeting his without the usual smirk. Just cool certainty.

“There’s no Buddhist or Shinto tradition that uses this combination. The salt ring, maybe. That could be borrowed—protection, purification. But this—” he gestured at the sickle, the torch, the wings curled in on themselves—“this is something else.” He straightened slowly, brushing his gloves together as he stood.

“This is foreign.” Chūya looked down at the symbol again, jaw tightening. The shape felt older than the room around it. Like it had been waiting—long before this apartment ever existed—for someone to draw it again. Chuuya looked around the apartment again. His gaze lingered on a stuffed animal by the hallway closet, abandoned, one ear torn. Then back to the table, where a plate still sat with dried rice stuck to the edges. No sign of struggle. No forced entry.

“She let them in,” Chūya muttered, voice rough, like gravel in his throat. He stood just inside the door of the second apartment, eyes scanning the cluttered hallway with a soldier’s stillness. A child’s shoe lay sideways beneath the coat rack. One sandal missing its strap. “She knew them. Or thought she did.” Dazai’s voice came from deeper in the room, quieter but darker.

“Or they were already inside.” Chūya looked over. Dazai was crouched again, his silhouette half-shadowed in the dim light, eyes fixed on something just out of view.

“Waiting.”

They saw two more apartments before the sun dipped into the sea, and the long, ugly shadows of twilight began to cut across the city like scars. And everywhere—the pattern held. Former Port Mafia operatives. Women who had walked away. Mothers. Children under ten. Homes that bore the echo of laughter even as they reeked of blood. Always salt, in some shape or gesture. Burned into floorboards, scattered in bathtub drains, clumped in bowls of half-eaten rice. And always the symbol—the sickle, the inverted torch, the butterfly wings curling in on themselves. It wasn’t always complete. But it was always there. Inked on the back of family photographs. Carved into the undersides of cribs. Scrawled in rust on closet walls. By the time they reached the third scene—a nursery with cracked pastel walls and a broken mobile swinging overhead—Chūya’s temper had begun to fray at the edges.

“I don’t get it,” he growled, pacing tight circles near a ruined bookshelf. His boots crushed bits of plastic toys beneath them. “What’s the point of all this? Salt, symbols, purification—what the hell does any of this have to do with the Mafia?” He wasn’t asking Dazai. He was asking the air, the walls, the sick joke of a universe that kept dealing him corpses and symbols and children in body bags. Dazai didn’t answer right away. He was crouched again, fingers gloved, unmoving, holding a single photograph that had been left on the windowsill—tilted just so, as if someone had intended for it to be found. A woman and her daughter. Mid-laugh. Frozen in a blur of summer light. The kind of photo you frame. Keep forever. Only now, the woman’s eyes had been carefully scratched out. Not in anger. Not in haste. But with precision.

“I don’t think it’s about the Mafia,” Dazai said.

Chūya turned toward him, frowning. “What?”

Dazai held the photo up, letting the dying sunlight catch the torn edges. His eyes flicked to the scratched-out face, then to the room around them—walls faded with time, a crib collapsed in one corner, and the symbol again, burned faintly beneath a child’s bed.

“Not entirely,” he murmured. “I think we’re just the setting. The stage.”

He gestured to the photo.

“They’re not cleaning up loose ends. They’re sending a message.”

Chūya folded his arms, tension coiled in every line of his body. “Then who the hell is it for?” Dazai smiled. It was a small thing. Crooked. Precise. There was no warmth in it.

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

--------

The next building was quiet. Too quiet.

No cicadas shrieked from the trees. No dogs barked in the alley below. No trains murmured across distant tracks. The usual sounds of Yokohama—its living breath, its machinery and murmurs—were absent here, as if sound itself had chosen not to cross the threshold. Even the air felt heavy, not just with heat but with shame. Like the building had seen too much and was trying, in vain, to forget.

They climbed to the fourth floor in silence, footsteps echoing off concrete and rusted railings. At the end of a narrow corridor waited unit 4C. The door looked tired. Paint peeled in long, curling strips from the wood, like old skin. Rust ringed the lock, which hung askew in its warped frame, barely holding on. It had the look of something opened too often and closed without care. A door no longer trusted to keep anything in—or out.

There was no sound from the other side. No voices. No movement. Just the press of what had happened here, still clinging like smoke behind the walls. The weight of grief that hadn’t left. Might never leave.

Chūya inserted the key. Turned it slowly. The latch clicked, and the door creaked open a few inches—enough to let the air rush out like breath exhaled after too long held in.

The smell met them like a wall. Even without the body, the blood remained. It clung to the heat-thickened air and seeped into the fibers of everything. Into the floorboards, warped and dark. Into the mattress, sagging with invisible weight. Into the child-sized slippers that lay tipped over near the closet, one turned on its side as if she had tripped while running. This wasn’t just a room that had seen violence. It had absorbed it. Carried it. Remembered it. This wasn’t just blood—it was silence. The kind that saturates. The kind that doesn’t wash out.

Dazai stepped in first. The soles of his boots crunched faintly on dried gore, where the carpet had grown stiff and brittle beneath the heat. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even blink. His coat brushed softly against the doorframe as he crossed the threshold, slipping into the space like a shadow that had been here before. He stepped directly over the spot where the child’s body had been found. The outline was still faintly visible—chalk lines smeared, scrubbed half-heartedly, but never fully erased. As if the room itself refused to let go.

Behind him, Chūya stood frozen in the doorway. He stared into the room, breath low in his chest, hat casting a shadow over his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached up and removed it. He didn’t usually do that. Not for corpses. Not for tragedy. Not even for guilt.

But this—this was a child’s room. A girl’s room. And for a moment, all the rage, all the bluster, all the steel that made Chūya Nakahara the Mafia’s gravity-bound blade—none of it mattered. None of it belonged here. Not in a room painted in soft pastel hues. Not among broken toys and a bow-shaped hairclip lying in the dust. He held his hat against his chest and stood still. As if silence, here, was the only thing that deserved to speak.

Dolls lined the walls.

Dozens of them—propped on shelves, slumped in corners, arranged like an audience frozen mid-sentence. Their glass eyes gleamed dully in the low light, wide and unblinking, reflecting the room as though they, too, had witnessed what had happened here and chosen to say nothing. Most sat untouched, too perfect, too still. But one—just one—had been torn in half. Stuffing spilled from its belly like burst cotton organs, crusted with blood. Its limbs dangled from the shelf, limp and twisted, as if reaching for something it had failed to protect.

And then there was the wall.

God—the wall.

Chūya’s breath hitched before he could stop it. Handprints. Tiny ones. Stamped in blood and streaked across the pale wallpaper in arcs and loops—some whole, some smeared, some dragged. A grotesque mural. Painted not in rage, but in panic. Not abstract. Not accidental. Desperate. Like a child trying to write something only their body could say. Chūya stared, throat tight.

“Holy shit…” he whispered, the words barely more than breath. His voice was raw, hoarse. As if even speaking aloud felt like a trespass. His eyes swept the space again—slow, disbelieving, caught somewhere between fury and something much heavier. Something he didn’t want to name. Couldn’t name. It filled his lungs with lead, rooted him to the floor. His teeth clenched. His fingers curled tighter around the hat still in his hand, holding it now not in reverence, but in restraint. Like it was the only thing keeping him from snapping.

Across the room, Dazai crouched by the desk, his coat pooling quietly around him. He didn’t speak. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t recoil. His gloved hand hovered just above a sheet of paper—a child’s drawing, crumpled at the corner and smeared in something dry and flaking. It had been left there deliberately, face up. A house, drawn in shaky crayon. Two stick figures. A sun, smiling in the corner. Innocent. Hopeful. Oblivious. He tilted his head, considering. No revulsion, no hesitation, just calculation. Like he was staring not at a tragedy, but at a cipher that had not yet solved itself.

“There’s too much blood,” Dazai murmured, almost absently, as though he were thinking aloud rather than speaking to anyone in particular. His eyes moved slowly over the room, cataloguing the handprints, the broken doll, the smeared drawing. “If it were just the mother’s doing… there’d be hesitation. Messier. Disorganized. But this—” he gestured with a single gloved hand, the movement slow, almost thoughtful “—this was ritual. Not impulse. Intent. She didn’t just snap.” He rose to his feet, stepping lightly over a dark pool of dried fluid that had congealed near the desk. The soles of his boots didn’t even whisper.

“She followed a process,” he said, voice calm as a scalpel.

“She was guided,” he added. Chūya’s jaw locked hard, the muscles twitching beneath the skin.

“She was used,” he snapped. Dazai turned then, face unreadable, his expression carved from something colder than indifference.

“Same difference.” Chūya looked away sharply, shoulders tight, breath flaring through his nose. He didn’t respond—not with words. Not yet. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, hat still clutched in one hand, spine held too straight for comfort. There was a tremble in his jaw—small, almost invisible—but Dazai saw it.

Of course he did.

He always noticed the cracks first.

“This wasn’t just murder,” Chūya said finally, his voice low, quiet in a way that felt reverent. As if anything louder might disturb the ghosts in the room. “This was a message.”

Dazai nodded once.

“Yes,” he said. “But not to us.” That made Chūya look at him—really look. His eyes narrowed.

“Then who?” For a moment, Dazai didn’t answer. The quiet held. Then, so soft it almost sounded like thought:

“Someone who believes the Mafia’s children… are its weakest link.” He didn’t mean it like Mori meant it. Not about bloodlines or legacy. He meant it structurally. Tactically. Whoever did this wasn’t trying to hurt the women.They were trying to test the system—to see how long it would take before someone noticed the pattern. Before the Mafia would care about the ghosts it left behind.

Chūya ran a hand through his hair, fingers dragging roughly through sweat-damp strands. The gesture was small, but in it, something gave. Just for a breath. He looked older in that moment—not in the lines of his face, but in the weight behind his eyes. Less like the soldier everyone saw, all sharp edges and short fuse, and more like the boy who had grown up in an underworld that never once pretended to love him. The boy who learned to fight before he learned to trust. Who survived because there was no other option.

He put his hat back on. Tight. Low. Like a shield.

“We’re not letting this go unanswered,” he said, voice steady now. Not loud. Not defiant. Just certain. A promise made to no one and everyone. Dazai didn’t reply. Not yet. His eyes swept the room one final time, tracing its edges like the final contours of a wound. Then they drifted to the far wall—just past the dolls, just above the child’s bed.

The symbol again.

Faint this time, drawn in what looked like soot—fragile as ash and just as deliberate. A butterfly, wings curling inward. A sickle where the body should have been. And beneath it, the black torch. Inverted. Smudged at the tip like something burned there and kept burning. Salt lined the baseboards, barely visible, tucked into the cracks like some invisible ward.

Dazai stared at it.

He didn’t speak his thought aloud. Not yet.

But already, the pieces were moving. Unfurling. Coalescing in the quiet of his mind like the first outline of a name whispered through a locked door.

Something Greek.

-------

They stood outside the apartment building now, the sun low and red behind the haze, painting the rooftops in rust. The breeze carried in the scent of the docks—salt, smoke, and something older, something metallic. Dazai leaned against a rusting lamppost with his usual indifference, arms crossed, face tilted skyward like he was bored with gravity itself.

“I want you to check with our contacts near the dockside complexes,” he said casually, as if he were assigning someone to pick up groceries instead of chase down a possible killer. “Apartments near Pier Three. Maybe Pier Five if you're feeling thorough.”

Chūya narrowed his eyes. “The hell for?”

“I’ve got a feeling.” Dazai’s voice was too light for the weight of what he was implying. “If whoever’s behind this has been watching these women… stalking the families… they’d need proximity. Time. Familiarity with the patterns. Someone’s been loitering. Maybe living nearby. Maybe foreign.” Chūya groaned, dragging a gloved hand down his face.

“So I get to chase rumors through half-rotted tenements while you… what? Take a nap in an air-conditioned archive?”

Dazai smiled like a cat with cream. “Actually, I was thinking of throwing myself off the pier. Very poetic, don’t you think? Body found floating in the harbor, salt in my hair, mystery in my smile—”

Chūya didn’t even answer. He just kicked at Dazai’s head.

Dazai ducked with fluid ease, the motion so lazy it almost looked like he bent with the wind. “You really need to work on your emotional regulation,” he muttered, straightening and brushing nonexistent dust off his coat.

Chūya scowled, hand twitching at his side like he might try again. “You’re gonna get me arrested for public violence one day.”

Dazai grinned. “You say that like it’d be your first time.”

Chūya’s glare could have curdled concrete.

Dazai waved it off, suddenly a bit more serious—though his posture remained as insufferably relaxed as ever. “Relax. I’ll check the cyber side. Traffic cams, backdoor security feeds. If he’s been walking the alleys, someone’s lens caught it.”

“And if they didn’t?”

“Then I’ll do what I do best,” Dazai said, turning away, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. “Lie. Steal. Dig. You know. Fun things.”

Chūya rolled his eyes. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Dazai didn’t look back.

“Mm,” he said, already walking. “But I’m your piece of work.”

“PISS OFF.”

#bsd fanfic #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd dark era #bsd dragon head conflict #bsd #armed detective agency #all the sins i could not hate #atsicnh #port mafia #dazai osamu #bungou stray dogs dazai #bsd dazai #chuuya nakahara #nakahara chuuya #dazai and chuuya #mori ougai

13 notes · View notes

useless-catalanfacts · 11 months ago

Photo

Prehistoric necklace made of cut and polished seashells. Dated between 4500 and 4000 BC (Neolithic), it measures 284 cm. It was found in the Neolithic necropolis of Mas de Seròs II (Terres de l’Ebre, Catalonia).

Seashells and snails have been used since Prehistory to create personal ornaments, as well as for food. They were very common in seaside sites, but also in inland ones thanks to trading networks.

In the burial sites of the early sedentary communities found in the territory of modern-day Catalonia, it’s very common to find the bodies of men, women, and children are buried with grave goods, usually consisting on ceramic vases, cut flint-stone tools or polished stone tools, and body ornaments. Necklaces, pendants, and bracelets made of seashells are interpreted as status symbols, that during their lives were used as prestigious objects, presents, and as trading tokens (equivalent to what coins will be some millennia later). For this reason, ornaments made of seashells and sea corals have been found in inland areas very far away from the sea.

Source: Museu d’Història de Catalunya.

51 notes · View notes

nestadevries · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter 1 | Whispers of Power

The grand hall of the White Tower was a place of quiet power, its towering columns and intricate tapestries whispering of centuries of history. The air hummed faintly with the presence of saidar, the female half of the One Power, as a constant reminder of the Aes Sedai’s influence. Nesta stood in the center of the hall, her blonde hair loose and slightly disheveled, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. She paced back and forth, her boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor.

Her mind was a storm of frustration. Another failed training session. Another reminder that her power, as immense as it was, remained just out of her control. She muttered to herself, replaying the moment her weave had spiraled out of control, scorching the training yard and earning her a sharp reprimand from her instructor.

“Relax.” she whispered under her breath, her jaw tightening as she tried to steady her racing thoughts. “Just relax.”

But relaxing was easier said than done when the weight of her potential and her failures felt like a stone pressing down on her chest. She stopped pacing and stared at her hands, as if they might betray her again at any moment.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall, pulling her from her thoughts. Nesta looked up, her blue eyes narrowing as she saw the figure approaching.

Liandrin Guirale.

The Red Sister moved with a grace that was almost unnerving, her red robes flowing like liquid fire around her. Her golden hair was perfectly styled, her piercing blue eyes scanning the hall with an air of detached superiority. Nesta’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe altogether.

She straightened her posture, her hands falling to her sides as she schooled her expression into one of cool indifference. She wouldn’t let Liandrin see her frustration.

Liandrin stopped a few feet away, her gaze settling on Nesta. There was a flicker of something in her eyes. Nesta couldn’t tell if it was curiosity or amusement.

“You seem troubled, girl.” Liandrin said, her voice smooth but with an edge that made Nesta’s skin prickle.

Nesta’s jaw tightened, but she kept her face neutral. “I’m fine.” she said, her tone clipped.

Liandrin raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Fine? You’re pacing like a caged animal.”

Nesta’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, but she forced herself to stay calm. “What do you care, Liandrin Sedai?” she asked, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her.

The Red Aes Sedai didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she took a step forward, closing the distance between them. Nesta instinctively took a step back, her heart skipping a beat. Liandrin’s smile widened as she took another step, and another, until Nesta felt the cool stone of the wall against her back.

Liandrin leaned in, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I don’t. But I do care about wasted potential. And you, pet, are wasting yours.” she said, her breath brushing against Nesta’s skin.

The word pet hung in the air between them, sharp and unexpected. Nesta’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she masked her reaction, but the word had already struck a nerve. It annoyed her, the way Liandrin said it as if she was a stray cat to be pitied or a tool to be used. And yet, deep down, there was something about the way Liandrin looked at her, that made her pulse quicken and her stomach twist in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

“I’m not your pet.” Nesta said, her voice low and firm.

The older woman tilted her head, her smile turning almost predatory. “Aren’t you? You’re pacing this hall like you’ve already given up. If you’re not looking for a master, then what are you doing here?”

Nesta’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Liandrin’s words cut too close to the truth, and the realization made her chest ache.

Liandrin leaned in closer, her gaze never leaving Nesta’s. “You have power.” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “More than most of the fools in this Tower. But power without control is useless. You know that, don’t you?”

Nesta’s hands trembled at her sides, but she refused to look away. “I know.” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Good. Then perhaps it’s time you stopped wasting your potential and started using it.” Liandrin’s smile softened, but there was still a sharpness in her eyes.

She wanted to argue, to tell Liandrin that she didn’t need her help, that she could figure this out on her own. But the words wouldn’t come. Deep down, she knew Liandrin was right. She was wasting her potential. And if Liandrin was offering her a way out, could she really afford to say no?

“Why would you help me?” Nesta asked, her voice cautious.

Liandrin’s smile widened, but it still didn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s just say I have an interest in seeing you reach your full potential. Whether you do so is up to you.”

Nesta hesitated, her mind racing. She didn’t trust Liandrin, not entirely. But she also couldn’t deny the pull she felt, the curiosity that made her want to know more.

“Fine, but I’m not going to be your puppet.” she said finally, her voice steady.

Liandrin’s smile turned almost predatory. “We’ll see about that.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Nesta could feel Liandrin’s breath on her skin, sending shivers down her spine. The air between them crackled with tension, a silent battle of wills that left Nesta’s heart racing.

Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, Liandrin stepped back, her expression once again cool and composed. “Tomorrow, then.” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Don’t be late.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, her red robes flowing behind her like a trail of fire.

As Liandrin walked away from the hall, her mind was already working, piecing together the possibilities. Nesta was exactly what she had expected, strong, stubborn, and desperate to prove herself. A dangerous combination, but one that could be useful if handled correctly.

She had seen the way Nesta’s eyes had flashed with defiance, the way her hands had trembled with barely contained power. There was potential there, yes, but more than that, there was something else. Something raw and untamed that reminded Liandrin of herself, all those years ago.

It was almost intriguing. But intrigue was a luxury Liandrin couldn’t afford. Nesta was a tool, nothing more. A means to an end. And if the girl was foolish enough to trust her, then so be it. Liandrin would use her, just as she had used so many others.

And yet, as she walked down the corridor, she couldn’t shake the image of Nesta’s face. The way her blue eyes had burned with determination, the way her jaw had tightened as she tried to hide her frustration.

For a moment, just a moment, Liandrin allowed herself to wonder what it might be like to see that determination turned toward her, rather than against her.

But the moment passed, and she pushed the thought aside. Sentimentality was a weakness, and Liandrin Guirale had no use for weakness.

#liandrin guirale #wheel of time #liandrin sedai #liandrin guirale x reader #wot #kate fleetwood #lesbian #wlw #fanfiction

17 notes · View notes

datapacks · 1 year ago

Text

Valley of Plenty

So. Lets talk about my upcoming minecraft mod, Valley of Plenty! Originally, it was going to be a datapack release for all my worldgen I had done for my server (RIP). The majority ov the changes coming with the mod are things I've already posted about. However, with this mod, I'll be able to expand greatly on the things I was unable to do on the server due to datapack limitations- as an example, we had ill stone & cobbled ill stone, but these blocks weren't able to be crafted into slabs & stairs.

All this is just for the initial release, I do have plans for updates going in the future, many ov which I've already made substantial progress on! Many features for the first big update, the desert update, will have kinda a ghost drop with 1.0- the blocks may be in the creative inventory, but not spawn in-world, things like that. Again, all ov this was, largely, stuff I had planned for the server.

I had also been working on another mod, WhIM (What Is Missing), that will baaaasically be consumed into Valley of Plenty! This mod sought to bridge some gaps in block groups, like adding the oft-requested Soulstone (Soul Sandstone).

I'll dump some more info under the cut ov the bigger features that are already Pretty Much Done.

First off, Breathing Freely is being implemented into the mod! Breathing Freely is an ambience pack that adds in the same polish to all other biomes that the nether got in its update; ambient sounds, loops, sky colours, the works. You can see the trailer for it here.

Next off, Lillie's Better Wild Update. It's a datapack I had released that added a lot of small, aesthetic changes to the overworld. One change coming with the mod that I was unable to do in datapack form is Wild Crops! They're effectively just... crops that grow in nature, without requiring tilled soil underneath them.

Another huge change with Lillie's Better Wild Update is Combo Cave Biomes! For every cave biome, there are new decorative features placed within them based on the surface cave. This ensures that a Lush Jungle Cave will feel fundamentally different from a Lush Desert Cave, which will feel different from a Dripstone Desert Cave, which will feel different from a Dripstone Dark Forest Cave.

The biggest change for blocks is that andesite, diorite, granite, sandstone, and new underground stone blocks will generate as base cave materials. These blocks can be crafted into furnaces & stone tools, as well as tons ov new decorative blocks. Andesite, Diorite, and Granite are "secondary" stone types, and will have the same options as Tuff as ov 1.21. However, other new stone types, such as Slate and Ill Stone and such will come with the full suite.

The last big changes for v1.0 are the mob reworks I've been posting, and the ability to stack all flowers similar to Pink Petals.

#minecraft #mc #mod development #valley of plenty

55 notes · View notes

outofgloom · 1 year ago

Text

EYES

The first thing you noticed was that the sand of Karda was not like the sand from Outside, beyond the gate. It was all grains of pulverized crystal. It crunched beneath your feet and the feet of your companions as you marched along the track which wove between the many dunes.

Ahead, the fore-Matoran stopped beside a stone marker and signaled a halt. The fore shaded his eyes against the diffuse light in the sky ahead and looked further down the track into the great shallow bowl of Karda.

“We are near,” he said, moving back up the path now and opening his pack. “Align yourselves and remove your masks.”

Everyone complied, bracing against the wave of weakness which followed mask-removal. The fore-Matoran went down the line and placed a semi-transparent object into the visor of each mask, indicating to replace the mask afterward.

When he reached you, you asked: “What is its purpose?”

“Unknown,” the fore said. “Replace your mask.”

You complied. It was a lens of some kind, covering your eyes. Perhaps a dust-shield. You got used to it quickly, like it wasn’t even there.

∵∴∵∴∵∴∵

The Central Construct was vast: a shimmering shape at the heart of the desert. Protometal ribs rose into a sphere-like form, joined by horizontal crossbeams at regular intervals. The lower two-thirds of the sphere were already complete, and a web-like scaffold ringed the Construct, allowing access to the upper levels.

Sparks showered from the welding points around the scaffold, and there was a sound of tramping feet as pallets of newly wrought protodermis were marched up the circular ramps. Cranes lifted and distributed other materials for the workers to use in the construction.

You were stationed on the north hextant of the scaffold, one of the many welders who worked tirelessly to build up the Construct’s outer shell. A grid of metal lines filled the space above you, feeding out the safety-line that attached to your own harness. Below, the inner shell was visible, mostly complete at this point: a dense weave of struts and metal plates which concealed the interior of the Construct. Very soon, the inner shell would be entirely enclosed by the outer. Perhaps another ten cycles, you estimated.

The tone rang in the air, signaling the rotation of workers. You leaned back from your welding and looked it over. The new beam was fixed in place, ready to hold another set of shell-plates. You secured your tools, checked the safety line, and stepped across the gap, back onto the scaffold beside you. The next shift was already on its way up the ramp. Your group would now return back through the gate in order to rest.

Too late you saw the flaw in the protometal beam beneath the one you had just added. It bent suddenly under the strain of the newly-added structure, and its hard edge cut clean through the scaffold you were standing on. A cascade of snapping pins and rods followed, and you were falling down, down through crisscrossing metal into the dark space below.

Your safety-line went taut, as it was designed to do, and decelerated you abruptly a bio before you hit the ground inside the Construct. Tools and other debris clattered and rang on the hard surface below, and your mask came off with a pop as the air was forced from your lungs. Then you were just hanging, suspended, and your heartlight was beating very fast.

Voices echoed down, and there was a commotion as additional braces were pounded into place and spot-welded. You were the only one that had fallen. They would reel you up any second now.

Your mask lay on the ground below you, out of reach. The floor was polished silver, running up in a smooth arc to meet the wall just in front of you. The wall had a mirror-finish; you could see your reflection in it. And behind you, the rest of the space opened up into

The rest of the space opened up into

The space opened up into

Opened up

Opened up into

Eyes

∵∴∵∴∵∴∵

Ahead, the fore-Matoran stopped beside a stone marker and signaled a halt. The fore shaded his...eyes...against the diffuse light in the sky ahead and looked further down the track into the great shallow bowl of Karda. Then he looked at you.

“We are near,” he said, moving back up the path now and opening his pack. “Align yourselves and remove your masks.”

Everyone complied, bracing against the wave of weakness which followed mask-removal. Except you. Your mask was already off, for some reason. The fore-Matoran went down the line and placed a semi-transparent object into the visor of each mask, indicating to replace the mask afterward.

When he reached you, you asked: “What is its purpose?”

“Look at me,” the fore said. “Look at me.”

You didn't want to. You grabbed at the lens in his hand.

“I need that,” you said. “Give it to me.”

“Look at me,” he said.

You managed to snatch the lens away from him at last. You placed it into the visor of your mask, and slapped the mask back on your face.

“Look at me,” he said.

The lens wasn't fitting right. You pressed the mask harder. It was too...reflective. Not transparent. It reflected your eyes back into...into your eyes. Into your eyes.

And behind the reflection of your eyes there was something else, off to each side. It was moving and moving and looking at you. It was trying to pry its way around the sides of your face, around your eyes.

Look at me.

You pushed harder.

Look at me.

You pressed your face against the mirrored surface, but you couldn't shut it out.

It moved and moved and looked at you with eyes and eyes and eyes and

∵∴∵∴∵∴∵

The cable-reel whirred to life, and the line coiled up bio on bio, loop on loop. The damaged scaffold had been reinforced, and a medic-Matoran had already been summoned. Work had ceased all around the Construct, and the faces of many workers looked on as the operation proceeded.

Bio on bio, loop on loop the line came back. Slow but steady, the cable piled up on the reel, and at last, you appeared. Straight up out of the inner shell you came, still wrapped in your harness, up to where the pulley was affixed above the scaffold, and many hands reached to haul you in.

The medic set to work immediately, checking limbs and joints and heartlight. Another Matoran stepped forward quickly. It was the fore-Matoran. He stopped in front of you, and his eyes widened.

“Your mask?” he asked.

There was a moment of silence.

“Your mask,” he repeated, gesturing. “Is it still below?” He pointed down toward the inner shell.

I nodded slowly.

“And your tools, did they cause any damage to the interior?”

I shook my head.

“Very well.” He turned to the medic. “Injuries?” The medic indicated no damage. “Good,” he continued. “You will not need to be replaced.”

“Thank you,” I thought, then realized:

“Thank you,” I said with my mouth.

The harness was still tight around my waist. I realized this when they loosened it, and the sensations I had been feeling–pain, pressure–began to lessen. They helped me down the ramps, down to the ground. The fore was there ahead of me, along with the rest of my work group. He had retrieved a new mask for me. He immediately placed it on my face. The rush of energy felt...good.

The next shift was already starting at the top of the scaffold again, repairing the damage and moving forward. Simple as that. We would return to relieve them on the next cycle, apparently. For now, it was back into the desert, back to the gate.

I looked forward to it.

∵∴∵∴∵∴∵

The first thing I noticed was that the sand of Karda was not like the sand from the Outside–the real Outside, where I had been born, before They stuffed me in here with these Matoran to mindlessly regulate Their dials. It was all grains of pulverized crystal. It crunched nicely beneath our feet as we marched through the dunes. The other Matoran didn’t really appreciate it like I did though.

Ahead, the fore-Matoran stopped beside a stone marker and signaled a halt, then he looked further up the track out of the great shallow bowl of Karda, as always.

“We are near,” he said like clockwork, moving back down the path now. “Align yourselves and remove your masks.”

Everyone complied. Even me, though I didn't like the weakness that followed. The fore went down the line and carefully removed the semi-transparent objects that had been fixed in the visor of each mask, placing them back in his pack.

When he reached me, I asked: “What was its purpose?”

The fore stopped and squinted at me. “...Unknown,” he said slowly.

“Would you like to know?”

“Replace your mask,” he said after a confused moment, “and avoid redundant questions.”

I complied. Wearing a mask was new to me. All of this was, really, but I was getting used to it. I was malleable like that. I was made that way.

The gate was ahead. Soon I’d be out. Very soon, and then…

My mind flicked back for a moment, back over the crystal-sand, back into the metal shell, the metal prison that They had built for me, back into the wet writhing thing there that was Me, and I heard the thoughts of the other mind I’d left in my place while I was away.

Obviously you were not made for this. You were trying feebly to move your too many limbs, trying to look out through your too many eyes.

But in the polished silver space, there was nothing to see. It was mirror all around, reflecting and refracting, so that all you could see was you…me…you. All you could see was–

“Eyes,” you were saying, or thinking rather. “Eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes.” You had…I had…You had no mouth, after all.

Just eyes. Eyes everywhere, all around.

“Eyes eyes eyes eyes,” you were thinking.

You are thinking it right now.

Don’t worry. I just need to stretch my…legs, yes. See the scenery. I won’t be long. They’ll find me out sooner or later, and then They will send me back, I expect. To tend the dials again.

“Eyes eyes eyes eyes.”

I know, I know.

You’ll get used to them.

#bionicle #art #writing #fanfiction #outofgloom #works #tren krom

65 notes · View notes