#that is hilarious to me. “ancient and crumbling” while working out. hilarious. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

klixxy · 4 years ago

Text

Genshin Fic Recs

so... i ventured into the vast world of Google looking for some good GI fic recs... only to find such a pitiful amount that i was promptly devastated. therefore, the solution is to make my own! :D

keep in mind most of these will be ChiLi or XingYun, and yes, i will try not to include smut unless it was one i really really liked. if anyone wants a separate list for just smut (though that will most likely be shorter) i can try to make one later.`

ft. my bookmark comments :)

CHILI

wrapped up in pure gold by beyondwinter

(chili; accidental marriage; chili/childe-centric; 22k words; ongoing)

"Do you understand its meaning, Childe?" He finally asks. There's a hard glint in his eyes, like he's trying to steel himself for his answer.

"Yeah." Loyalty and devotion, right? Between business partners? "I do. It's traditional, isn't it?"

Zhongli's eyes glow a warm amber in the near darkness, reflecting the soft shine of the lanterns. He studies his face with a strange intensity, as though Childe were a piece of high quality Nocticulous Jade being sold for suspiciously small sum and he's trying to find the blemishes that would explain the price. The weight of his gaze should be uncomfortable, boring into him like he can see into the very depths of his abyss-tainted soul, but Childe finds himself preening under the attention instead.

Childe accidentally proposes to Zhongli. Zhongli accepts.

The World is Water by Millereflets

(chili; smut; hurt/comfort; chili-centric; 7k words; oneshot)

Childe doesn't visit Zhongli until it's almost too late.

(my bookmarks: HOW DO YOU MAKE A SMUT SCENE SO POETIC HOLY SHITTTTT)

Set in Stone by seredemia

(chili; fake dating au; angst; some smut?; chili/chiilde-centric; 55k words; ongoing)

What do you do when you write about a certain six thousand year old consultant so much in your letters that it somehow convinces your entire family you're not only dating each other, but that you're also engaged?

In Childe's case, the answer is plain and simple: he goes along with it, of course. Absolutely nothing can go wrong if he makes a contract with the God of Contracts, vowing that the two of them will pretend to be lovers for the duration of his family's stay in Liyue. Afterwards, they'll return as normal and speak no more of this mess. No feelings or complications involved whatsoever.

Contract accepted. A fool-proof plan set in stone. Right?

Private Ledger of the Eleventh Harbinger by JuHuaTai

(chili; humor; getting together; chili/ekaterina-centric; 5k words; oneshot)

“So guess what I did next?”

Ekaterina contemplated not answering, but Harbinger Tartaglia was just… grinning and waiting. It’s honestly rather creepy the longer time passed.

In the end, she gave a long suffering sigh that seems lost on him, “You bought him the Erhu—“

“I bought him the antique, cor lapis based Erhu,”

When she first left her homeland for the unknown nation of Liyue, Ekaterina was ready to be many things: To be a soldier, to fell Tsaritsa’s enemies in her name, to bring glory to Snezhnaya and her leader.

Being a receptionist in a cozy bank wasn’t so bad in comparison, but she absolutely can do without the front row seat to Harbinger Tartaglia’s (expensive) love life.

i know i'm where i'm meant to go by paperclips (pastel_paperclips)

(chili; humor; fluff; chili-centric; 12k words; ongoing)

"Childe," Zhongli says suddenly. "I am enjoying myself greatly." Childe’s face breaks into a grin. "Then-" Zhongli gasps, grabbing his wrist and tugging him over to an unsuspecting peddler with a cart full of rocks. "Is that an intrusive igneous pegmatite formed in the Inazuma regions?" Childe’s grin smooths into a small, adoring smile. He has all the time in the world to figure the other man out.

OR: Finding the Geo Archon is on Childe's to-do list but hanging out with Zhongli is significantly more fun.

CHILIVEN

Crumbling Stone by avtorSola

(chiliven; ANGST; PAIN; mind control; zhongli-centric; 74k words; ongoing)

When Morax unleashes his plan to test the Liyue Qixing and his adepti, he does not take into account the stirring of the Abyss Order in the north and the corruption of Dvalin - for why would he fear an organization that works in such shadows? He is secure in his power, after all, unlike his flighty ex, the absentee archon of Mondstadt who rises only when his people are in danger.

But, somehow, the Abyss Order discovers his plan. Somehow, they capitalize on it. And he, the God of Stone who cannot sicken, is struck down - taken by an order bent on destroying all of humanity as Liyue crumbles around him. For even Archons aren't immune to Durin's blood, and Morax is no exception. But then the question becomes - if even Archons may fall to the agony of this corrupting burn - how is their traveling friend Aether immune?

The answer comes from beyond the stars - an ancient malice that knows no kindness or mercy. A malice whose legacy the Abyss Order now bears, seeking to topple all the Archons and their people into the void of utter destruction. And they have begun in Liyue.

Fortunately, it takes a long time to erode stone.

(my bookmarks: IM SCREAMING AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)

PLATONIC ZHONGVEN

left-behind city by trixstar

(platonic zhongven; angst; ANGST; venti-centric; 1k words; oneshot)

"An associate of mine has just informed me that Rex Lapis, the Geo Archon has been assassinated."

Venti blinks.

Or: Venti and how he copes with finding out he is all that remains.

i circle ten thousand years long; and i still do not know if i am a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song by birdsofpassage

(platonic zhongven; angst; hurt/comfort; zhongven-centric; 4k words; oneshot)

Venti and Zhongli, and the vignettes of a much-needed vacation around Mondstadt.

(my bookmarks: ; - ; ; - ; )

oh ye with little faith by air_fried_air

(platonic zhongven; angst; hurt/comfort; zhongven-centric; 2k words; oneshot)

Two former archons do a little tour around Mondstadt.

(my bookmarks: why are all genshin angst fics so melancholy.... i feel so empty)

the wind through the mountain tops by glassdrachma

(platonic zhongven; humor; hurt/comfort; zhongven-centric; 21k words; finished)

Boredom brings Barbatos of Mondstadt to bother a certain ex-Archon of the Earth.

(my bookmarks: venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship-)

XINGYUN

the art of exorcism by Agried

(xingyun; ghost au; hurt/comfort; chongyun-centric; 9k words; oneshot)

On the road back from one of his jobs, Chongyun runs into Xingqiu, the wandering swordsman. And then they keep meeting, over and over again. or, alternately; how a ghost and an exorcist learn how to love, one step at a time.

Bane of All Evil by tzitzimeme

(xingyun; humor; romance; chongyun-centric; 24k words; hiatus)

When Chongyun unintentionally offends Liyue's second most powerful adepti, he vows to mend the thorny relationship between Adeptus Xiao and human exorcists-- even though no one has succeeded in currying Xiao's favor for over a thousand years.

His best friend Xingqiu offers to come alone, mainly because he's worried about what kind of trouble Chongyun will run into. Along the way, they receive help from others: Xiangling packs them meals for their journeys, while Zhongli gives them advice on what demons to track.

Childe is just there because he thinks the whole thing is hilarious.

[On indefinite hiatus due to burnout; sorry!]

kiss me slowly (so i don't forget) by xiwangmu

(xingyun; humor; romance; light angst; xingqiu-centric; 8k words; oneshot)

Wangshu Inn Bulletin Board

Guest Message: My best friend whom I harbor affections for kissed me last night, but due to his special condition he does not recall a single moment of it. I am quite conflicted about whether to disclose these events to him or not, because that would most certainly require me to confess my feelings as well. If anyone has experience in romancing boys with excessive positive energy, this one humbly asks you to share some advice.

Reply: Our greatest apologies—although we would like to offer some words in response, we simply cannot decipher your handwriting. Perhaps you may return with a neater message next time?

time trials by idlestars

(xingyun/many ships; humor; modern au; xingyun-centric; 2k words; oneshot)

A modern social media AU.

Xingqiu Teases Demons. Chongyun Almost Cries. [The clip shows Xingqiu, lit by the sickly green of night vision, as he stares bored into a dark room. He’s alone - Chongyun left to see if Xingqiu could lure out the ghosts. Xingqiu glances at the camera, smirks, and then opens his mouth.

“Hey demons, it’s me, yah boy.”]

OTHER/GEN

woe be the wallet of the god of wealth by glassdrachma

(gen; humor; identity reveal; keqing/zhongli-centric; 12k words; finished)

Or, the story of how the Yuheng of the Qixing came to idolize, befriend, and discover the identity of the God of Geo, in that order.

(personal comments: hilarious, made me burst out into laughter multiple times, and was just a masterful piece of writing)

to dream of dust by miao_x

(guili/gen; ANGST; hurt/no comfort; zhongli-centric; 5k words; oneshot)

Some nights, Zhongli dreams.

He dreams of soft light, golden song, and a gentle breeze whispering tales of millennia past. It is warm, familiar, and comforting.

It feels like home.

And then he opens his eyes, and awakes to reality.

(my bookmarks: oh zhongli... made me cry)

To drown in your own tears by C_rin_nyan

(guili/gen; ANGST; TEARS; PAIN; zhongli-centric; 2k words; oneshot)

As Rex Lapis, he had never shed a tear, even as he slaughtered hundreds, destruction following his every step. As Zhongli, he had shed much more than he would like to admit, however.

Or, “Zhongli’s soul gave its last scream long ago, yet even now, the echo of said sound was still strong enough to reach Rex Lapis.”

#fic rec #fic recs #fanfic #fanfic recs #genshin #genshin impact #ao3 #chili #tartali #zhongchi #xingyun #childe #zhongli #xingqiu #chongyun #venti #zhongven #guili #guizhong #angst

303 notes · View notes

heli0s-writes · 6 years ago

Text

Flavor of the Day

Summary: You never know what’s going to rile you up next. Pairings: Bucky x Reader A/N: Word count 1.5k-- and apparently I’m into the intimate act of getting a haircut.

Bag of Tricks One Shot Masterlist

Some things just get you riled up.

Stupid things, mostly. Things that bubble out of the incomprehensible blue of your mind. Innocuous things, sometimes things that made most others unwell: Sam picking up the corner of the couch to grab the remote, Maria wiping lipstick off her teeth disdainfully, goddamn Smurfette talking Smurf gibberish to Papa Smurf.

It was always a mixed bag.

So, when the bomb explodes on a regular Wednesday afternoon recon mission in the flat ghost town prairie of Gun Barrel, Texas of all places, a sudden tickle travels up your spine.

Destruction, apparently, is the flavor of the day.

Bomb aside, Texas is the pits when you’re not in a major city. Hours and hours of driving, your thighs chafing in the back of the mini-van, stupid easy-listening crooning because Steve can’t stand any excitement. Grumpy old fuck.

There hadn’t even been any sights to see, other than cows of enormous sizes, dilapidated barns, flat, straight, endless pasture, and—

“Hey!” You had yelled, pointing.

“What?” Two voices replied, whipping around to see what your exclamation was meant for.

Bucky scoffed when he realized your smashed finger against the window had been pointing to the swirls of yellow flaxen threads piled atop each other: hay.

You thought it was hilarious. Steve, spitefully, turned up the warble of ancient, sizzling-static, sometimes accompanied by a shrill voice. Bucky leaned his seat back until it hit your knees.

“Grumpy old fucks.” You muttered, drowned out by terrible noise.

So, again, when the bomb explodes and levels the top floor, you are aching for something good. Rubble crashes from the ceiling, tearing cavernous holes in the current room while an alarm blares, dousing the entire place in abrupt and flashing red. Your blood is rushing, heart beating madly to the rhythm of the siren’s shriek.

Gunfire erupts from the next room where Steve is, but you either must make it to the stairwell and survive, or chance being crushed with him.

Risk, you realize with a ferocious grin, is the flavor of the day.

You barrel through the door, taking it completely off its hinges and sink your knife into the man scrambling to get Cap. It rips him neck to his goddamn tailbone and the eggshell-white notches of his vertebrae slip out to greet you.

“Hell!” Steve screams, “Is that fucking necessary!?”

He pushes you roughly out the collapsing room and nearly throws you down the stairwell. There’s some smart comment or another that gets lobbed at him, but Steve prudently ignores it and your voice ebbs away when you are launched down three flights of stairs. Bucky is stepping fast paced by the thirteenth story.

You gasp for breath and put one hand on his shoulder, “Race ya.”

Steve’s heavy boots land with a thud, breaking up the moment. An enormous piece of drywall crumbles and sprinkles dust and fire from above.

“Move!”

Your arms break out in goosebumps when Bucky grabs the back of your suit and takes you down.

Wednesday night in a shared hotel suite sheds too much light on your problem. An itch that can’t be scratched, sitting on a queen-sized bed while two others smush up on the pull out because of some old-fashioned boy-chivalry.

You take the last shower to relieve the frustration, feeling somewhat sated when you emerge bright pink from scrubbing. The robe is tied loosely, and you slip into the kitchenette to find a snack, tiptoeing through the dark shadows so neither of them will be bothered.

The mini fridge has tiny bottles of vodka and a chocolate bar and they all get tucked under your arm. When you turn around, Bucky is peeking over your shoulder.

“Goddamn, Barnes! I almost shit myself!”

He catches your pilfered treasures deftly in his hand and set them on the counter. The fridge door swings open limply, yellow light reflecting the lines of his face, confused and a little bewildered by the spread of alcohol and candy.

You quirk your head too, because one side of his mane is singed off. “From the fire?” Your wry smile tells him it’s as bad as he thinks it is, and Bucky frowns, running his hand through, clenching his fist around the frayed ends. "Do you want me to trim the rest?"

For the first time that you’ve known him, he looks like a little boy, almost petulantly so and a little flutter in your stomach gives you pause. Lingering behind him, your fingers reach up to grip his hair, catching the uneven strands between them. He still smells like smoke even after his shower. The ashy scent mingles with the hotel complimentaries—dusty cedar and pine notes accompanied by gunpowder. Clean sweat that is purely boy.

Because Bucky always keeps a knife on him, he wordlessly places one in your open palm and sits down on the floor silently.

“Where’s Cap?” You ask, surprised when your voice comes out unsteady.

The first handful slices through with a whistle and Bucky tenses under your touch. “Went out.” He replies. Another strip comes clean off and you work to even the edges, cutting in delicate motions. “Watch the ears.” Bucky warns as you crawl around him on your knees.

“What? You need ‘em?”

The long side is clipped to match the burned side, and your fingers slowly slide upwards, palm rubbing against his scalp, strands pinched. A few more cuts and then you begin to even out the back, smiling slightly at the softness of his dark locks.

Bucky leans into your hand with a slow hum, and you poke his neck with the handle of the knife to straighten him out—to give him distance from you. Or to give you distance from him.

He grumbles when you fist his hair again, tucking the knife into the front waistband of your underwear and shuffle around to look at the front. With two hands, you pinch the sides and fluff the top, moving tufts left and right to ascertain the correct way to part his hair. They all looked about the same.

“Well, it’s not bad—but I’d certainly get it redone later.”

He’s peering at you with half a frown and a furrowed brow, and you shrug in response, pushing your hand forward one last time nearly out of habit now. When Bucky suddenly sighs with your palm over his head, your eyes widen and you come to the third realization:

Bucky, apparently, is the flavor of the day.

The two of you stare at each other in the dim light of the kitchenette floor. It probably wasn’t a good idea to chop off all his hair in the dark, but all of that is out the window now as you blink at him. With it away from his cheeks, he looks changed.

Strikingly handsome.

The overhead light starts to flicker, showing you his face in half-second pulses. He blinks once. Twice. His mouth opens ever so gently.

Then the door swings open with a clatter and Steve announces his return with three grease-soaked bags of fast food plopped on the counter. “You two okay? Is that a knife in your—Jesus! Will ya cover up?”

You hadn’t noticed that the front of your robe has fallen open, revealing the sheer bralette and underwear with Bucky’s knife tucked in the front. As Steve sputters and turns around, pulling out his meal, Bucky reaches forward and takes his blade from your hip, bottom lip pinched between his teeth.

His eyes lock on yours as he moves forward onto his knees. You’re trapped in his gaze, unaware of his hands tugging on the front of your robe, pulling it shut. Steve’s body lands heavily onto the couch, and the crashing of its back against the wall rips you from the moment. Your eyes flutter, searching Bucky for answers.

He gives you nothing but a slow sweep of his tongue in the corner of his mouth. His lips purse, breath escaping in a tiny, hot, pant.

Then slowly, he lifts himself up to his feet.

“Hey, Stevie, where’d you park the car?”

Steve perks up from the couch, ��Just to the left, why?”

You follow the shape of Bucky’s legs as he steps out of the kitchenette, turning ever so slightly to look down at your crouched form still on the floor. He tucks his knife back into its sheath.

“We’re going out for a bit.”

You nearly plant face-first getting to your feet, toes slipping against the scattered dark strands of Bucky’s hair.

“You got a haircut!?” Steve hollers as Bucky yanks the door open. “Buck?” And then he sees you running after, damp cotton robe flapping against your thigh. “Wha—”

The door slams shut before Steve can get another word out and Bucky is pressing you up against its frame, hands underneath your breasts, holding you up. “We’re not goin’ anywhere,” he whispers before scraping his teeth against your collarbone, “I’m gonna fuck you in the car.”

Holy shit.

Bucky pulls you along by the band of your top, not giving a fuck if your tits fall out in the middle of the parking lot.

Apparently, you think, with a shudder as he looks back mischievously, you are Bucky’s flavor of the day.

#bucky barnes #bucky #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel #mcu #fanfiction #captain america #reader insert #one shot

1K notes · View notes

theskyexists · 5 years ago

Text

ive bought harrow the ninth and am now attempting to reread act 1 so that i may understand it better

ianthe clearly proposes that Harrow not get herself killed trying to bring Gideon back - reading it over again. instead to take the future and somehow?? be really powerful together and forget about their cavaliers. but harrow says no

im once again struck with how offhand this book introduces the concept that the empire goes out to deliberately kill planets over a couple of generations

now im not sure....there also seems to be an implication that there’s no aliens - because they say only humanity has a soul - but client planets were said to rebel - i guess the human colonisers rebel against central solar system command sometimes? but then what enemy does the Cohort fight? possibly it’s just bigotry that they think aliens dont have a soul

but like - they find LIVING PLANETS and then - kill them slowly. to the extent that they need to move the entire population. WHAT? why do they do that??? just so they can do some bone tricks???!

what the fuk

so how did the planets get murdered again? and which solar system planets could really have been said to have had enough life to have a soul?? cos like, only one of them is really known for that

why did God give Harrow the choice to go back home TWICE if he was never going to let her?

once again, why mess with the Hand candidates if God was always gonna come for Cytherea? just to mess with him more?

yeah - harrow keeps hearing and saying ortus ninegad but the rest of the world remembers gideon.

Harrow truly is totally mentally shattered AND time is totally fucked up

but sometimes in the fake-ish timeline Harrow remembers but doesn’t remember Gideon - like how she notes that there were two womb-bearing members of the Ninth who were the right age...but only elaborates on herself

for some reason - Harrowhark remembers Ianthe’s arm ripped from her by Cytherea - but now it’s whole. for some reason

that letter is still so what the fuck

‘like you did the last time’ - hm harrowhark sewed Ianthe’s lips shut? how did she come by the power?

is ianthe - calling Harrowhark God?

throughout the first act, they keep referring to time, having too much time, or not mastering time, or not having enough time, ‘this time’ etc.

the eggs you gave me all died - that’s DIRECTED at Harrow, is my theory

ok but the planet revenants come after Lyctors and also God (- God became God when? at the Resurrection) before the Lyctors happened - God was still at Canaan House - despite the Revenants already coming right...

is Teacher criticising god and lyctors for leaving Canaan House lol?

ok so yeah Canaan House WAS part of a ‘last sacrifice’

ok so - Harrowhark is a little resurrection miracle. This implies that God killed a lot to resurrect the Houses.

wow God is being a very dad to Harrow

Blood of Eden - BOE - they turned their back on the solar system. now they hate necromancy. in other words - when the solar system died, God resurrected it - but before that point some humans had fled - lived. and they can see what absolute fuckin horror necromancy is ACTUALLY

so what im getting is...maybe...god resurrected humanity by killing the planets...?

i just realised that Ianthe has taken Gideon’s place as the smartass in the room - the counterweight to Harrow’s portentousness

what the fuck do augustine’s comments to Mercy mean???? why is she unloveable? why would he say that God doesn’t need her? and why is it obscene that Augstine calls God John? What is the dangerous game she’s playing? What was the foul implication??

‘Then that is your downfall’ OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH Harrow BURN!!!

what i don’t get is - the Cohort is an army - when they land they die because they’re being killed by an enemy at the front - NOT in pure sacrifice for thanergy. so why does only the death of humans and planets produce thanergy. why is the death of the enemy not good enough? they don’t have fuckin souls?? they MUST be complex life. and doesn’t a planet produce a constant stream of thanergy? but i guess it’s not dying enough - generally its life maintains itself in ecosystems.....unless a fuckin lyctor ‘makes the juice flow’ i guess!

sometime in the next book there IS gonna be a ‘are we the baddies’ meme. muir loves memes and she stuck skulls on absolutely EVERYTHIGN. Like WHY THE FUCK would you colonise planets if you gotta kill them for it? LOL????

huh? augustine just said that they can’t use necromancy when in the river - but mercy mocked harrow for having hypothermia ? implying her fundamental failure was not being able to necro while in the river? Harrow’s inability was what was wrong partly right?? oh no ok it’s how Harrow tried to compensate for her body going lights out while in the river. alright. that was written confusingly

how and why is this a completely different story???

The Sleeper.......is Harrowhark? the suit is too close to what she was wearing killing the asteroid. and the sleeper is lying on ‘something’. oh they just straight up say it lololol

ortus got into trouble 19 years ago...hhmmmmm wasn’t Gideon 19??? huh? which is why Mercy started at Harrow’s peculiar YELLOW eyes that Harrow can’t see herself i think

‘i do things face to face’ ortus says after stabbing harrow. HUH? why go for a stab if decapitating would have done the job? just to give her a small chance to fight back? (face to face?)

why not tell God that ‘his’ attack dog is trying to kill you?

why does Ortus the First want me dead? ‘who?’ ---uh. has she forgotten him completely (time shit) or is she saying the wrong name? mercy wouldnt reply like that then right?

she told him and he’s like - oh well guess you gotta just get through repeated almost-successful attacks on your life. ???? THANKS GOD!!!

‘you, with your unfortunate memory for poetry’ HA! i love how we are reminded that she knew all the fuckin damn books nearly by heart which is insane!

Teacher suggests his dying at least three times a day?? hahaha what?.........................is this purely a meme reference. is that meme the mental image im supposed to have of Teacher??????????? is this trying to say that this meme was preserved in the amalgamation of human life that is Teacher?? oh my god....

no.....palamedus and camilla....did old Harrow really kill them.....

seems like all the murders were consensual maybe?

it’s probably too straightforward that Harrow created and alternate timeline and made for a Harrow Lyctor without Gideon dying and kicked her to the original? maybe she took Ianthe and Coronabeth with her bc she needed Ianthe’s help

is this Cytherea or Dulcinea? Pro seems real this time. why does Dulcie call Pal and Cam strands and cords?

did muir put in a fuckin secondary school S - muir’s just like - im gonna put in all the memes as a nod to ancient human culture

still no idea what the messages are that Harrow is getting

This Harrow is so goddamn sick. I mean she was sick before, but at least she had Gideon. Really do feel that that helped her. now she didn’t have that -- AND she’s getting slapped with trauma another five times

if ortus can undo the thanergy of her own bone then why not simply crumble HARROW into dust? cos there’s a core of thanergy fusion in her that he can’t undo?

FLKJDFKLJSDLFSD fucking IANTHE ‘Wow! Not how I imagined this happening, at all.’ FUCKIN HELL

Harrow with her fucking fucked up dramatic inner monologues about weakness and Ianthe comes in with this shit. she really is doing Gideon proud here.

Did love Harrow’s musings about how only a truly idiotically obedient Cavalier would be the only one to keep to a vow of silence. HAH! nice one muir

‘have you taken the time to rest lately?’ asks God, YOUR FUCKING SAINT IS TRYING TO KILL HER IN THE FUCKING BATH YOU IDIOT AHAHAHAHA

JEZUS FUCKING CHRIST - try and be normal Harrow! try and make some soup and read a book! Harrow: *does and then hyperventilates hidden under her bed after 86 hours of zero sleep*

she was trying to remember what cutlery did. why is this so goddamn funny hahahaa. this book has ONLY been Harrow being in extreme states of misery ALL THE TIME both mentally and physically to the point of death

GOD IS HAPPY THAT SHE MADE SOUP AND DOESNT EVEN FUCKIN NOTICE SHE’S NOT SLEPT FOR A WEEK SOMEHOW THIS IS THE MOST HILARIOUS SHIT

thats what you fucking GET you piece of shit god! you push a prodigy teen to the brink and she fuckin explodes your lyctor and feeds you her fuckin marrow. maybe you shouldn’t have ignored her goddamn fucking understandable distress

SHE FUCKIN HITS HIM WITH THE FUCKIN TRUTH what an IDIOT of a God. he truly doesn’t understand mortality anymore huh

I LOVE HOW MERCYMORN CONTINUES TO MAKE HARROW YOUNGER IN HER HEAD AHAHAHAHAHAHA she’s only nine years old!!!hahahaha

naturally God focuses on how - wait- actually harrow is truly an INSANE necromancer - INSANE

still no idea what the fuck is going on in the not-past

aww. ianthe’s scent soothes harrow now. begrudgingly of course.

i thought this was gonna be lovely angsty harrow/gideon but naturally that did not happen

harrow is comfortable! first time in the whole book! one moment of comfort!!!

‘love my twin, also murder’ tridentarius pffjlfjdljf

‘how i crave your honeyed words’ hah

wow this scene sure is weirdly sexual with these similes lol ‘as though she had shyly undressed for you’ ok there Harrow you about to chop her arm off calm it probably sex repulsed thirsty teen

i do love how....there is this theme again that’s everybody underestimating the main character - who is actually a prodigy. Gideon had that with the sword and Harrow also has it with being a Lyctor now

it’s so telling that these Saints would rather be shits to these babies than help Ianthe grow a new fuckin arm

i dont see why Ianthe can’t work off this bone construct which is her own stuff and put some flesh on it since SHES A FLESH NECRO?

Ianthe that’s super gay

wow muir really never delivers on full gay does she??? i dont mind but i think it’s so striking hahaa

how are Harrow and Ianthe still hung up on the Saint of Duty? i mean, if they dont have him against the RB they’re dead anyway

why is the First going through rain and ice?

Harrow haunted? naawwww

i cant help but like mercymorn though - she cares. it’s soured ages ago but she cares.

awww Harrow needs Ianthe to sleep

Ianthe constantly poking Harrow for her prudishness is so goddamn funny.

‘It’s the type of energy i wish to take into my future’ AHAHAHAHAHAAH IANTHE MY GOD

‘i always forget you were an honest to go nun ... and six years old to boot if you listen to mercymorn’ HAHAHAHAHAHA

‘you look good enough that im proud of my handiwork but not so good that i’ll be consumed with lust and ravish you over the nut bowl’ fpdfjsdfkjsd this is what harrow means with crude japery and yet....

mercymorn has started to call harrow three years old. i will NEVER tire of this gag

all of the blood of eden stuff happened in the past 25 years??? god was on the erebos, but he also remembers ortus kicking the commander out of an airlock? that was in the last 25 years??

Ianthe‘s carressing the nape of Harrow’s neck. hmmhm

its honestly super weird if you think about it for more than 10 seconds that theyre talking about their cavaliers whom they murdered (im still not sure if all consensually) ten thousand years ago (!) and how hot they were that just seems.....fucked up

Harrow is like WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!! basically all the time but especially now. yep well that was to be expected i guess lololol

Harrow being painfully frozenly fascinated by (god having) sex and deeply repulsed is very Harrow

oh nooooo well that was a perfect kiss between them really

the funny thing about Harrow is that though she is so completely fucked up - just like Gideon - she is fundamentally a helper.

why wouldn’t Harrow have thought of blood wards! she knew he could only bleed thanergy! it;s the first thing i thought - just use not bone wards then!

ortus thinks anastasia is in Harrow - which makes me think - why does he think that’s possible?

mercymorn now calls Harrow a two-year-old. i am waiting for embryonic genius

so did they use the river to get to the planets theyre killing?

Harrow feels the peace and pleasure of a stroll through nature that she has come to kill

oh my god - Harrow somehow saved Cam and Pal is still attached to the mortal plane!!

Harrow helps Cam risking herself entirely just like that. yknow as she does

i wonder if Pal has realised that Harrow is not who he remembers

i think he realised once he realised haz mat suit was Harrow also...

ianthe xo’d harrow.....lol

im sad that original harrow is definitely dead.... :( loved her. guess gideon’s not coming back either. not sure how the second adept survived. she didn’t survive in the original timeline either. but she was ‘killed’ in the other - just like coronabeth..so that means soemthing

this whole ‘flashback’ stuff to Canaan House is Harrow being in the River the whole time. the cold temperatures, the blood, the creatures theyre fishing from the sea that apparently abominations

after all, we’ve just learned about river bubbles and a haz!harrow that can change their parameters.

all the people ‘dead’ she’d not spoken to much or at all beforehand. like they’re NOT real, in the River. the only one not like that is Dyas...

the fact that the narrative keeps calling Dulcie, Dulcie means she’s really Dulcie.

there’s giant organs falling from the ceiling. this is definitely the river

they talk about time AGAIN

the Body is the devil who let herself be used to complete the work of Teacher and the Lyctors in his mythology....hmm. and when they realised the price (AFTER? the work was done?) they wanted her dead but he buried her....SHE allowed them to become Lyctors?? I still don’t understand why the heck that was necessary

the king is dead, long live the king. hmmmm

Harrow comes onto a hallucination of the devil who was her first crush with the voice of her parental figures and the eyes of a love interest she can no longer remember - which is actually not precisely a hallucination probably - and gets summarily rejected lol OUCH (the Body didn’t mean it that way ofc)

Harrow is so repressed on every single front but definitely sexually

I love Mercy

so there is death beyond death. does everybody go into the river and become a mad horrid ghost? like - is that everybody’s fate? how awful

ok so God DID resurrect the planets also. ? but like. then why are there resurrection beasts?

what does resurrection mean? and who killed the planets in the first place?

BECOMING NONE HOUSE, LEFT GRIEF

oh.....my god.

ARE YOU AND IANTHE BEING SAFE!!?!?!?! HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA

HIS BODYGUARD IS THE DEVIL??

so the destruction of Earth somehow made God? as though it was something that simply followed from it

A.L. was destroyed in the first assault? Of an RB

so the RB’s were happily running off in the other direction until they decided to fuck around and kill their mates to become immortal and powerful - then the RB’s turned around and came towards them - which meant leaving the planets God had resurrected forever.

what the fuck god??? hahahahaa

God always seems so likeable goddamn.

Harrow is such a dramatic bitch. Affection??? JUST KILL ME!!! KILL ME!! LET ME SMASH THE GLASS SO I CAN KNEEL IN IT AND BLEED ALL OVER THE FLOOR!!!!

Harrow goes into her fun kid's game of not dying to traps.

But she instantly calls him father. OH MY GOD

HE DOESNT BELIEVE HER!!!

'then that will be your downfall' - is what Harrow said to Augustine AND IT WILL BECOME TRUE FOR THEM ALL

to be dismissed like that where it hurts most - to have God Dad dismiss her only slip of comfort her only pillar of truth in this crazy old world

'nobody had watched you leave'

SOMEBODY HAD - I love all the deliberate references to Gideon

Temporal lobe!!!! Again the temporal lobe!!!

So why was it again that Harrow refused to be locked in with the Emperor?

So isn't God gonna check out Harrow's temporal lobe? He's just gonna let that mystery go to its death?

WHAT THE FUCKKKKKKKKK

Muir what the fuck??!!!!!!!!

Oh it was.....a hallucination?

Always love how this dips into genuine horror sometimes

What's weird is that Lyctors seem made for the task of going into the river and killing Resurrection Beasts - instead of the other way around.

So say - that the sword somehow holds Gideon's soul (we've just learned that that's possible from Pal and also Ortus trying to get Pent to summon his grandma by his sword) - does it not make sense that Harrow 'for some reason' stabbing Cytherea's corpse with it transferred it to her? Or maybe it's SOMEHOW Anastasia if Ortus was macking on her. But Ortus thought HARROW had/was Anastasia.

IANTHE WANTS TO MARRY HARROW - HAHAHAHAAHAHAHA

Every fucking chapter doesn't make things any clearer. This is worse than Gideon the ninth

Hello???? Am I reading a canon alternate universe roleswap au??? What the FUCK is going on. This is like - if they hadn't gassed the 200 and her parents instead adopted Gideon for her clear necromantic gifts which nobody noticed somehow the other time round

I do love how Aiglamene was the sole source of slight comfort in Gideon's life. And Crux was Harrow's - apparently in any sequence of events.

Harrow is tumbling through timelines. But how can you do that just by messing with the lobe?

WHAT!! WHAT!!!

Is this...is this what I think it is??? Is thi

The fanfic roots are STRONG in this one. In fact I believe I've READ this fanfiction

Harrow's temporal fever dream (in the river?) HAD HER (Decidedly Not) VYING FOR 'HER DIVINE HIGHNESS' hand, which is either the Body or Gideon or both lololol. Seeing as the previous had Gideon as the main unnamed titled character - I bet it's Gideon ahahaaga

A fucking. COFFEESHOP AU. OH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDDD

We've had roleswap, 'ball' au, and coffee shop au populated by the ghosts of the dead LOLOL,

I knew it!! I knew that they were ghosts and that they were in the river!!

Ok so but when did Harrow shoddily create the bubble? When she adjusted her memories at the start? When is this. Ah Harrow has the same thought hahaa

So the stage is a - she was building her memories while sleeping?

Why is that she cannot access her lyctorhood like this...

I just realised that Harrow's mind made the party food taste like SALT based on Ianthe's cooking!!!! Hahahaha

THE NARRATOR IS GIDEON. But it doesn't sound like Gideon though

There's more to the work than simply preserving Gideon's soul though. There are next steps that Harrow prepared for that Harrow doesn't know about yet

Who was the sleeper and why was it in Harrows riverscape of memories that she ACCIDENTALLY??? made

Ok she sounds like Gideon NOW

Gideon no it's not because she didn't want you! It's because she wanted you to live!!!!!

And she succeeded....your soul is INTACT in her body!!!! You're protecting her with full consciousness!! How the fuck. And why didn't that happen before when she went to the bubble?

Are the ghosts of the contestants happy that they got pulled out of the River briefly? Or were they so briefly in there they couldn't remember?

She returned them to the RIVER???? is that really such a kind fate????

Something has gone wrong in the River - yeah because why r all these ghosts going insane and stoppering it up like slib

Do love how Muir has found a way to give these characters more screentime

I actually said 'oof' when Harrow screamed at Ortus - oof that really is embarrassing. GodDAMN Ortus you stepping up with the emotional support!

I've EVEN read the damn fanfic in which they switched bodies. My god.

A. L. apparently is thought to wander about still. I think she's the body....I do believe she's the body. That's why the Lyctors are scared of her

She thought - what. Mercy is talking about blood of Eden's commander. What is going onnnnn still!!!! Mercy is the traitor I guess. But how is blood of Eden connected to the ninth house and the body?

Why is Mercy awake on the mithraeum and not in the River anyways?

Gideon.... And the commander were in cahoots? So did A. L. and Anastasia an the body and the commander all have the same eyes?????

What the fuck is going on indeed.

Cytherea seems to have had a plan B for getting revenge on the Emperor. Or something had a plan B with her corpse as the main weapon.

If guns are so effective against people why aren't they still used.

The messages are from the commander. I.e. Gideon's mother. I.e. Anastasia? We never explicitly did learn how she met her end no? Gideon was convinced that Anastasia had taken the baby. It just seems incongruous how the Emperor spent like 80 years on the Erebos and the Lyctors were faffing about - meanwhile there was this drama going on in the last half century?

I love Abigail Pent. Love that I got to see more of her.

I'd honestly forgot that Judith was alive by the end of all of that shit

The sleeper is -the sleeper is Gideon's mother. Also. She's haunted by her mother. SOMEHOW. what the fuck? They couldn't drag her spirit back from the river they said!

'you wizards never learn' there's a whole modern regular sci fi world and culture out there! Or maybe it's just a. L.

Is it? Or is it Anastasia? Or is it the commander? Or are they the same thing?

The sleeper wants Harrow's body. Somehow invaded it - probably from the river? - which means its Anastasia or the commander. Which means that whatevers possessing Cytherea is someone else.

In retrospect - Harrow's coldness to Ianthe talking about - to what her - seemed nonsense at the time - in the very first part - doesn't quite fit.

Oh my fucking GOD Gideon is fighting Ianthe for messing around with her fucking girlfriend - who is HARROW, who actually, Ianthe wants to marry.

They just went from ramping up to a serious fight to Gideon dropping Corona's name and suddenly they're like - ah we got more important priorities actually.

Augustine's first thought at thinking a.l./the body (?) is in Harrow is John - and the Second is Joy!(mercy?)

'How I was gonna have to take showers with all your clothes on.' fuckin Gideon hahahaha

Wonder if Ianthe truly believes what she's saying - that Harrow was trying to rid hersel of Gideon. It's preposterous. It's just hurtful talk.

GIDEON REALLY THOUGHT THAT LOOK TO MEAN THAT HARROW DIDNT LOVE HER??? THIS IS A CONSTANT BARRAGE OF ALL THE ANGSTY DRAMATIC SHIT IVE BEEN YEARNING FOR

Oh my fucking god Gideon calling Ianthe out for being in love with Harrow in the most iconic way ufsojdjdodnd 'she wants the D - the D stands for dead'

Crazy brain-mutilated Harrow sure made it seem that way I can tell ya that!!

Hahahahahaha Ianthe remembering Harrows prudish Ortus/Cytherea shit. Amazing

Aw Gideon really went and fell right into the cavalier/bone mistress shit huh. And trying to shield Harrow - well as noted before - very necessary because harrow has been having a godawful miserable time - mostly because of herself.

Gideon appreciating Ianthe's pun xD

Love how neither of them position themselves as the love of Harrows life but instead as inexorably attached to her by the sheer role they play in her life - they don't dare aspire to what they think they can't get.

Muir realises this is gonna end up as a Gideon/Harrow(/theBody)/Ianthe ship right?

Oh WOW THIS IS AMAZING. nonius the legendary nonius!!! Come to protect Harrow!!!

For some reason the Sleeper can manipulate the rules of this River bubble and doesn't seem surprised about it

If all her cavaliers were this excited for death, she was definitely the problem.lololol. somehow Harrow, you inspired undying loyalty in even a person that you treated abominably

Yeah Harrow you slowpoke. If the Sleeper can adjust the rules - so can you

If the sleeper was not Harrow's invention - but planted itself - then they're very lucky it got to the ghosts that weren't actually there - first.

So it was the commander....a portrait in a shuttle of blood of eden - can only be the commander. And redhaired? There are too many red haired people in this book!!

It's nice how all these ghosts got to have lasting impact from beyond the grave

NONIUS KNEW ORTUS/GIDEON?

Ok so ....there's the bed of the River with stoma. But there might also be the other side.

Did Harrow really not account for steps beyond her plan to mutilate her brain?

Is this book really gonna go: fuck you Gideon will die anyway ?????

But.wait. the sleeper had a two-hander. Where did that go???

I don't get it. If they go into the river - won't they also go insane?

SO NYAH!!!!!???

Ok but - what? The Commander ALSO -somehow - took over Cytherea's body?

'did the ten billion give you that too' I KNEW CANAAN HOUSE HELD EVEN GRUESOMER EXPERIMENTS AND SACRIFICES THAN LYCTORHOOD. God is made of ten billion souls. I think they killed humanity on earth to spare it 'slow inexorable apocalypse' and used the power to make the Empire from the resurrected. There was an extremely vague implication by Teacher to the amount of souls violated in Canaan house in the first book.

So God knows the commander went for the ninth house? Firstly, how. I don't understand how Anastasia fits in here!!! It would explain though how the commander

So the commander found the ninth house - and she died right? They tried to call her spirit but couldn't. But she became a revenant?

Ah. God THREW the bomb.

A fuckin wake me up inside joke jskdjskdnd

So Mercy and Augustine ( not Gideon ?) had all turned against God? And they were working with the commander to -... Make a baby????? And then evacuate the houses???? (For when God dies - there being a risk that Dominicus would go out I guess)

Make a baby/body to lever the one who lies in the tomb into....?

Love how the book foreshadowed Mercy and Augustine manipulating and lying to God - and turns out they did that on much bigger scale

They....meant to kill the baby to break the blood ward?

'The woman who I was pretty sure was my mother, wearing the body of the woman I'd had a crush on, who in turn had been wearing the identity of a woman she'd murdered -' KSNFKDJDKFJJFC

So why did they want this consistently characterised as kindly and humane god dead?

GIDEON THOUGHT IT WAS HIS!!!! But he called Wake Anastasia then????

They really are the same???

Oh my god I know what they're gonna say. Gideon is the daughter of God. WHICH HARROWS FUCKIN ROYALTY AU FEVER RIVER DREAM FUCKING FORESHADOWED HAAHAHAHAHHAA

Isn't it fucking ironic that God told Harrow that - HE WANTED HER TO BE HIS??? WHILE GIDEON HIS ACTUAL DAUGHTER WAS SPINNING INSIDE HER CHEST LIKE A LITTLE NUCLEAR FUSION REACTOR

They've been trying to kill him for more than 500 years???? Did mercymorn actually genuinely learn the extremely fine knowledge of the body for THIS purpose? How many thousands of years ago did they decide to kill god?

A fucking DAD JOKE

GIDEON REMEMBERING HOW SHE USED TO TELL HARROW HOW HER OTHER PARENT MIGHT BE THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IN THE WORLD SO STOP PICKING ON HER

I am fucking DELIGHTED I AM SO GODDAMN OVERJOYED

It segues into a reminder of how shit their childhoods were and how their suffering had them lash out at each other endlessly and how it made Harrow suicidal and shit though - which is great

ALECTO'S EYES. THE A. FOR A. L.

A. L. The cavalier of God....but she walked. She had a body.

Ohhhhh. That's why they betrayed him. That age-old hurt. Ten thousand years old but still the bane of their existence, the seed of their madnesses. The loss of their cavaliers. Oh how did they manage to keep that from him?

I honestly thought - is Mercy saying she knows he killed humanity? But that's not what she couldn't have forgiven?

But why did he hide it? Why did he hide the perfect way? ('it would be easier' why???)

Ah. Yes. The expansion, why would the Emperor do that?

Uhhhhh. Couldn't Mercy have done that all along??????????????????????? Couldn't Mercy have killed God all along? That was both a trick and utterly sincere.

Augustine and Mercy were trying to do the right thing..... Mercy.... :'( Augustine was right. God is much less sentimental than he seems.

'im not even mad that you failed to either fix or put down Harrow' hm guess the constant kill quest HAD come from God after all. What a goddamn bitch of a man

What was the original plan? Unleash a. L. ? And then what? How would that help with the whole Dominicus going out problem?

Had God ever really thought to make up for all the bullshit he put his Lyctors through. He seems so affable and human but he's caused so much suffering. He's as good at manipulation at them - better!

The resurrection beast can't kill him, but he let his Lyctors die to them one by one anyway. So why??

Why are they punching each other in the River? They can use theorems right? God could blast Augustine to pieces same he did mercy?

Yes! It's true! Pyrrha and Gideon both exist in the same body - foreshadowed by his cavaliers build. There was something so fishy about it.

I love how Gideon has exactly the same response as me: what the fuck. Pyrrha??? Gideon??? What the fuck??? Why did they BOTH have an affair with their enemy??? So ok. Pyrrha stayed underground from Everybody for the thousand years. SOMEHOW their compartmentalisation let her pop up in his body regularly and not just when Gideon remembered her - because the hadn't fucked up his brain. But then how did THEY do that.

This absolutely galactic balsiness

The stoma thinks John is a resurrection beast. Might it be.....because he's..... A revenant. A 10 billion souled kinda- revenant ? A bit like.....Harrow is? Which is why he felt kin to her? Which is why he compared her creation to Resurrection?????I've really gotta reread those messages from commander wake.

A fucking jail for mother meme. Jail for one thousand years. Gideon how do you know this one????

I KNEW Ianthe would do that. Knew it. She doesn't want the system to die. Coronabeth is still out there. Well guess what - she's on the opposite side babe. Ok I realised that Gideon's mum apparently stuck to Gideon and then the sword? But also did Harrow manage to break the blood ward because of of her proximity to Gideon? Did Harrow uhhhh get put into a pocket in the river? But the emperor wasn't murdered!!! Fuckin chapters kept lying. They're on a hold planet. Finally - we meet the people. Alecto and Camilla and Corona? And Judith.? Did Alecto somehow do a time twisty around to come save Gideon at that moment in the river? Once again nothing much more is clear.

#my stuff #harrow the ninth #gtn #ninth

16 notes · View notes

misscrawfords · 6 years ago

Text

So you want to read something like Jane Austen?

I see lots of posts where people answer this question with recommendations for classic historical romance authors like Georgette Heyer or more modern bodice-rippers like Julia Quinn or Tessa Dare. But to me that’s never quite the appropriate answer. Sure, if what you want is romance with country dancing and breeches, that’s fine, but surely if you want to read more things similar to Jane Austen, the best way to do that is to delve into her lesser known contemporaries. People Austen admired and people who admired her. People writing on similar themes and using similar language.

So this is my list of 10 novels from the 18th and early 19th century that you might like to try if you’ve read Austen and want to branch out more. These are just personal recommendations and based off what I’ve read; I’m very happy to hear other suggestions!

Worth noting as well that all of these are available online or free for kindle download. :)

1. Evelina, or the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World by Fanny Burney (1778) Summary: Evelina Anville is a shy, innocent country girl who is invited to London by friends. Here, she attempts to navigate the complicated social mores of the season while keeping her integrity. She encounters handsome men, vulgar relations and gets into numerous alarming and hilarious scrapes along the way to discovering her true noble heritage and winning the love and hand of the charming Lord Orville. Why you should read it: A great first novel for Austen fans to get into who aren’t otherwise familiar with literature of the period. Burney’s first novel is sparkling, witty, filled with dialogue and not very long. The humour is more robust than Austen’s - it’s definitely Georgian rather than Regency - but a lot of the scenarios will be familiar to Austen readers. Particularly recommended for fans of Northanger Abbey, Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice and readers who like historical romances set during the London season.

2. Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress by Fanny Burney (1782) Summary: Cecilia Beverley is an orphaned heiress who will only inherit her fortune on the very specific condition that her husband takes her name. Until she turns 21 she is left with three very different guardians - the profligate Mr. Harrell, the proud Mr. Delvile, and the vulgar Mr. Briggs. Cecilia must protect herself from the advances of the unscrupulous fortune hunters she meets and deal with her feelings for young Mortimer Delvile, whose family is excessively proud of its ancient name. Why you should read it: IMO Cecilia is a masterpiece. It’s a much longer and complex novel than Evelina but it contains fierce social satire and commentary of a world where women are horribly vulnerable and money rules all interactions pointing forwards to authors like Dickens and Eliot. Burney is a little more moralistic and less witty here but it’s a fascinating portrayal of a highly intelligent and capable, independent woman in a world where she is constrained by the men around her, in the kind of plot that romance novelists can only dream of. It’s also worth noting that Pride and Prejudice was arguably written as a response to Cecilia and it is very interesting to spot and consider the ways in which Austen was explicitly influenced by this novel and what she changed in writing Pride and Prejudice. Particularly recommended for fans of Pride and Prejudice and Emma. Please note that this novel contains a suicide and (period appropriate) mental illness.

3. Belinda by Maria Edgeworth (1801) Summary: Belinda Portman is sent to live with the fashionable Lady Delacour in London with whom she develops a strong friendship. Part of the plot deals with Lady Delacour’s fear that she has breast cancer and part with the customary romantic entanglements of a young girl out in the London season. Why you should read it: Maria Edgeworth was one of the most popular novelists of Austen’s day - and was far more commercially successful. Belinda is her second novel and has been compared to Austen for its natural portrayal of character. Lady Delacour is the most interesting character - a slightly older woman, independent, strong-minded and fearless. Particularly recommended for fans of Persuasion, Lady Susan, Sanditon and of potentially queer subtext, intriguing references to interracial marriages (look it up!) and 18th century surgery.

4. Patronage by Maria Edgeworth (1814) Summary: A magnum opus almost Dickensian in scale charting the rises and falls of two neighbouring families, the hard-working and virtuous Percy family and the ambitious, scheming Falconers. The daughters need marriages, the sons need careers and the paterfamilias of each family must make tough decisions about what he wants his family to stand for. Why you should read it: This novel is admittedly a brick and tough to get through at times but it really is worth it. You are plunged into Regency society in a way no other contemporary novel succeeds in with a large and varied cast of characters. The novel also takes you into the world of men and their professions in a way that Austen never does. Particularly recommended for fans of Mansfield Park (which was published in the same year) and people who want to learn more about Regency society in all its forms.

5. Rob Roy by Walter Scott (1817) Summary: Romantic Frank Osbaldistone leaves his father’s business in London to visit his cousins in north England where he meets and falls in love with the beautiful and charming Diana Vernon, gets caught up in a Jacobite plot and the scheming of his wicked cousin, Rashleigh, and meets the famous Scottish outlaw, Rob Roy. Why you should read it: There were several Scott novels that could be included here but I picked Rob Roy for its attractive portrayal of Diana, since Scott is not always great at writing 3D heroines Austen fans will like. Scott was the most successful novelist at the time, bursting onto the novel scene writing novels with a male protagonist at a time when most novels were by, for and about women. Scott and Austen admired each other a great deal despite writing in very different genres, with Scott writing historical romances rather than contemporary social satires. Particularly recommended for fans of Persuasion, Northanger Abbey and Pride and Prejudice.

6. The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe (1794) Summary: Set vaguely in the 16th century, this most famous gothic novel follows the adventures of Emily St Aubert from her father’s French estate to Venice with her aunt, Madame Cheron after he dies and then, when her aunt marries the sinister Montoni, to his castle in the Italian Apennines. Why you should read it: C’mon, it’s Udolpho! Don’t you want to know what’s behind the infamous black veil? Northanger Abbey will be 10 times better once you’ve read Udolpho and despite the excessive amount of fainting, overuse of the word “sublime” and far too many spontaneous reciting of poetry, it’s a genuinely engaging adventure novel with larger-than-life characters, daring adventures, and some really beautiful descriptions of France and Italy. Particularly recommended for fans of Northanger Abbey, obviously.

7. Nightmare Abbey by Thomas Love Peacock (1818) Summary: Utterly ridiculous gothic satire with a tenuous plot about a morose widower who lives with his son, Scythrop, in a crumbling mansion in Lincolnshire, but you’re not reading this for the plot. Why you should read it: I read it for university, having never heard of it before, and found it hilarious. Published in the same year as Northanger Abbey, it is similar in poking fun at gothic conventions. It depends on a reasonable knowledge of gothic novels and contemporary literature and philosophy so not a novel for beginners to undertake unless you have an edition with a commentary, but it’s very short and absolutely absurd. Particularly recommended for fans of Northanger Abbey and the Juvenilia.

8. Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson (1740) Summary: Pamela is a maid in Mr. B’s house and must use all her ingenuity to fend off her employer’s advances and convert his many and increasingly desperate attempts to seduce her into a marriage proposal. Why you should read it: Pamela was a sensation when it was first published. Written in the form of letters, it was arguably the first novel to really get into the brain of a young woman and was quite radical in its treatment of the relationship between the sexes, consequently being highly influential on subsequent novels. Any of Richardson’s novels could deserve a place here - Clarissa is arguably his best but it’s ridiculously long and I haven’t read it, and Sir Charles Grandison was apparently Austen’s favourite novel but I also haven’t read it. Pamela is probably the most approachable but please note, in case the summary didn’t set off enough alarm bells, its depiction of consent is very much of its time. Particularly recommended for fans of the literary culture into which Austen was born.

9. Marriage by Susan Ferrier (1813) Summary: Lady Juliana rather foolishly elopes with an impoverished Scot and must adapt to living in his rundown estate in the Highlands. The first half of the novel deals with Juliana’s comic attempts to deal with this rough kind of living while the second half, set 17 years later, follows Juliana’s daughter, Mary, a virtuous girl, who goes to live in Bath with her cousins, including the “naughty” Adelaide. Why you should read it: Ferrier was another author much more popular than Austen at the time. Marriage is similar to Burney and Edgeworth in its plots and scopes and there are moments when she almost reaches Austen’s wit. It is, however, rather more heavy-handed in its obvious morality and in the way it contrasts its good heroine and bad (but far more appealing) anti-heroine. Very typical of women’s novels of the time. Particularly recommended for fans of Sense and Sensibility and Mansfield Park.

10. St Ronan’s Well by Walter Scott (1824) Summary: This novel follows Francis Tyrell and his attempts to marry his former love, Clara Mowbray, and fend off his rival, the engaging but sinister Lord Etherington. All of this is set under a backdrop of the gossip and scandal-mongering of a fictional Scottish spa town. Why you should read it: This is a self-indulgent inclusion - I wrote my dissertation on it, Scott’s least known and least loved novel. It’s Scott’s only attempt to write a contemporary novel and it is obvious that he is influenced by Austen and trying in many ways to emulate her. It’s not entirely successful and the novel is an uneasy mix of sparkling dialogue and social satire with melodrama and romantic tragedy. The characters are really great, however, particularly Scott’s portrayal of Clara’s deep unhappiness, and the plot quite shocking- make sure you get hold of a first edition or at least read up on it, as Scott was later forced to remove his earlier references to pre-marital sex, which is really key for the plot. Particularly recommended for fans of Emma, Mansfield Park and Persuasion.

3K notes · View notes

pantstomatch · 6 years ago

Text

untitled winterhawk mess for lissa!

SO HERE’S THE THING. It’s creeping up on midnight (my time) and I promised @lissadiane I would write her whatever she wanted for her birthday (today) because she’s amazing and, listen, I’ve been extremely dependent on her, she’s all I’ve ever wanted in a writing buddy and just, like, A FRIEND, and it doesn’t matter that we live so far apart, I feel like I get to see her every single day. She is literally the only reason I ever write and share anything. So anyway, BECAUSE IT IS HER BIRTHDAY, and because she asked me to write Winterhawk on SGA, I have... done this. I have no actual idea how to write anyone in the marvel universe, so this is just... you know... hopefully not terrible. (the second half is rushed for time, shhhhh, just pretend this is balanced and maybe someday it’ll be magically fixed). HAPPY BIRTHDAY LISSA!! I HOPE YOU HAD AN AMAZING DAY DESPITE THE CAR THING.

The only reason Bucky tolerates diplomatic missions is because Steve's simultaneously the best at them and the worst. It's both a Steve thing and a Stark thing. Steve's got a sixty percent probability of becoming indignant on someone's behalf, and Stark's got a much higher likelihood of blowing things up. And that's only if he hasn't already accidentally insulted someone important on purpose. When things go well, they go great—one planet has a god damn statue of Steve, which Bucky finds hilarious and Steve hates with passion—which is the only reason they're still getting sent on these milk runs.

Bucky's got his palm along the outside of his P-90, pointed at the ground as he stands fifteen paces behind Steve, Stark, and Wilson.

The planet's delegation consists of two old pale guys in robes—par for the course—and a haggard nutbar that Bucky's pretty sure they're trying to sell as a wizard.

He notes Wilson watching all their hands, and scans the perimeter for threats.

The settlement is mostly a tent city built on the ruins of a more prosperous time. Half-crumbled brick and mortar, dull canvas tarps staked down over top.

For all the technology of the Ancients, the Pegasus Galaxy has basically been beaten back into the dark ages. He fucking hates the Wraith.

He's got his eyes on the sparse woods to their left when he hears a soft scraping sound. He barely tenses, forces a natural sweep of the tree line, back over the other three members of his team, and then lazily focuses on a narrow, dirt alley that snakes down behind a line of crumbling buildings. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches a thick stone slowly lift and shift. Grubby fingers appear, palms wrapped in worn cloth, gripping the edge.

Bucky forces himself to keep still, stance open.

A tuft of matted, brown-blonde hair pokes up, Bucky catches a fast look of blue eyes, busted nose and a split lip.

Graceful and quick, the kid—youngish, slim, rag-covered, barefoot—gracefully climbs out of the hole, and then promptly trips over his own feet. He catches himself on nothing, arms spread out with an almost silent whoosh of air.

Bucky spots what looks like a quiver of arrows on his back and a motherfucking bow, and rolls onto the balls of his feet, wondering if this is some kind of ambush. He slips his fingers down to lightly cover the trigger of his gun.

The kid just crouches down to heft the stone cover back over the hole, though, and when he lifts his head again, their eyes catch.

Panic moves fast over the kid's face before disappearing into a cocky quirk of lips. He winks at Bucky, lifts his finger in a 'keep quiet' gesture, and then flees around the turn of a tent before Bucky can even snap his mouth shut.

Huh.

"Buck?"

Bucky blinks once and says, "Yeah, Stevie," without looking away from the alley.

"Everything okay?"

A hand lands on his arm, the one attached to the hand still caressing his P-90, and Bucky looks up to see Steve's face schooled into Earnest Concern.

"Peachy," Bucky says. "Hey," he gestures to the hole the goddamn street urchin just popped out of, "where do you think those stone covers lead to?"

Steve shrugs. "Old sewer? Sophisticated Ancient underground bunker? Weapons store?"

Bucky feels his lips twist into a frown. Steve's eyes are twinkling.

"I know you're joking, Rogers," Stark says, swanning over, "but just because there hasn't been another Genii infestation, doesn't mean there won't be."

"I think calling them an infestation is offensive," Steve says.

"Are we done here?" Bucky asks. His skin is crawling. They're being watched.

"Nope." Stark claps Bucky on the arm and Bucky growls at him.

Stark tells him to, "Chill out, tiger," because he's a raging asshole, and the only reason Bucky doesn't punch him in the face is because Steve ducks his head to hide a smile.

Jesus.

Wilson moseys over, thumbs looped into his belt and gun draped across his back, even though he must notice Bucky's still on high fucking alert. "I don't know about you guys," he says, "but I can't wait to get off this weird-ass planet. I am not letting that grand high poopah dude read my chakra or whatever the hell he was twitching about."

Stark's face is practically plastered to a tablet but he waves a hand and says, "I believe the appropriate term, Wilson, is probe."

Over Steve's shoulder, Bucky sees the kid again, this time rapidly skirting the edge of the woods. He rolls his lips and doesn’t say anything and hopes it isn't a mistake.

Two days later, Bucky's cursing at the general motherfucking shittyness of their luck with his hands tied behind his back.

The 'jail' is one of the few buildings mostly still standing; dim light filters in from the single high window, and also weakly beams through the gaps in the stone walls. A solid push would probably take them down, Bucky's got enough rage to really put his back into it, but he'd prefer to have his hands free.

Fucking diplomats.

"How's it going, Stark?" Bucky asks through gritted teeth. He's hot, he's sweaty, his hair's all over his face and all he can do is scrape at the ends with his shoulder.

The only good thing is that Steve and Wilson weren't served the same fate. Steve's probably still in the 'talking them around' stage of negotiations, where he tries to explain that Stark didn't really mean it, and Bucky wasn't trying to assassinate anyone by accident, and it's sweet the way Steve always alwaysthinks that's going to work, even when it never does.

"It's going," Stark says absently. "Can't you bludgeon your way free with your robo-arm?"

"It's off," Bucky says.

At that, Stark lifts his head and an eyebrow, gaze slipping down the metal of his arm twisted behind his back.

"No," Bucky says, manfully resisting rolling his eyes. "They fucking turned it off. Nutbar wizard has the ATA gene."

"You mean old Turkey Face? Yeah, that guy's a treat," Stark says, and then his arms loosen and drop with a sigh and tiny robot with a saw climbs up over his shoulder to say hi.

Just as the little gizmo starts in on the ropes binding Bucky, the door slams open and street urchin kid gets tossed in with a yelp, and a shouted, "Sure! Be that way! See if he doesn't eat you, now!"

A guard kicks him in the leg, but he bounces up almost immediately and clings to the small slotted hole in the wood. He says, "Kidding! I'm kidding, please don't hurt him," and curses under his breath.

"Hello," Stark says, like he's real interested.

The kid's tall, but probably not as tall as he will be. He swings his arms when he turns and then leans up against the door, watching them warily. His mouth quirks up in a smile, though, and he says, "Hi. What are you in for?"

"Treason, apparently," Stark says dryly. "And failure to acknowledge the royal 'we.'"

Street urchin nods a lot, says, "Sure, sure," and paces to the small window and back to the door again. His lip's crusted over and his busted nose has radiated out into a black eye.

The tiny robot finishes Bucky's ties and he shakes out his hand in relief while the street urchin keeps one eye on him, and the other on the door. He's backed himself into a corner, arms crossed.

Bucky silently moves toward Stark and shifts so he can still see the kid.

Stark says, "Did you forget how to use your words, Barnes?" but reaches out for the latch underneath his arm, the Ancient tech lighting up in response to his own ATA gene.

Bucky doesn’t have one, the synthetic never stuck, and he's never considered it a liability before.

Stark, frowning, says, "We need to get you better non-Ancient tech attached to this thing. Give me a week after we get back. You can be a little lopsided in between missions."

"Gee, thanks," Bucky says.

His arm powers up with a whirl and a few clicks of the plates shifting. He's highly aware of the kid gawking at him as he lifts his arm and folds his fingers into a fist.

Stark waves him forward and says, "After you."

Bucky grins at him, feral around the edges, and punches straight through the wall.

Shouting from the guards kicks up as soon as they crawl through the rubble.

The kid says, "What the fuck was that?" blue eyes big.

Bucky only feels a little guilty when the awe and hesitation are what get the kid caught.

"Aw, man, no," he hears faintly as he takes off down the dirt path, conscious of Stark keeping pace beside him, because that's his job. Not saving some raggedy teenager who doesn't even have enough sense to wear shoes.

He's gonna see those big blue eyes in his nightmares. Jesus Christ.

He slows to a jog and then skids to a stop.

This sucks.

Stark says, "Hustle up, Barnes," and Bucky shakes his head.

"I'm going back."

"You want me to tell Rogers I lost his best friend to a sad-eyed alien that looks like a half-grown man-child?"

"Steve would go back," Bucky says, because it's true. Mostly true. He's pretty sure if it were between Bucky and a stranger, Steve would unhesitatingly go for him.

But Bucky's always been the only exception that feeds his martyr complex, so whatever.

Stark sighs like Bucky's a heavy burden. He says, "You don't have any weapons."

Bucky wiggles his metal fingers.

Stark pinches the bridge of his nose and says, "Take Tiny with you."

Tiny shoots tiny missiles. Tiny is Bucky's new best friend. Stark is never getting Tiny back.

Bucky goes for mass chaos over finesse, and has just enough time to grab the kid by the scruff of his neck and haul him backward before a wall falls on two of the three guards that were holding him down.

The shouts and explosions have brought out half the town and most of the diplomatic delegation, and Bucky sees Steve book it sideways in all the confusion, Wilson bringing up his rear.

This mission is officially fubar, unsalvageable, and Bucky just wants to get back to his tiny bunk in his tiny room with his own private tiny bath. Halfway down the street, he lets the kid go and hopes he just keeps running. It's not his problem anymore.

The Stargate is in an open field almost two clicks out of town. Bucky and Steve are the only ones not panting by the time they reach the dial.

"You came through the ring," the kid says, staring up at it with his mouth hanging open. "You came through the ring."

"Yep," Stark says, rapidly dialing out, sending his ID code through as it whooshes open. "What's your name, kid?"

"Clint." He rubs a hand over his mouth, staring at the rippling portal like he's never seen it open before.

"You going to be okay, son?" Steve says. He drops a meaty palm on join of his neck, squeezing once and then letting go.

"Oh yeah, sure," Clint nods, "but, uh," he drags his gaze away from the 'gate and up at Steve, "this planet is really small, and they were gonna cut my hand off, so, you know, anyway you can see yourselves letting me tag along?"

Steve's face goes dark. "What." Oh no.

"And Lucky and me don't take up much room, swear, except for the fact that Lucky actually does, but, uh—what?" Clint seems to finally notice how Steve's gone expressionless.

Stark whistles through his teeth and says, "Are we in Aladdin?" and Wilson snorts a laugh even though he says, "Not funny, man."

Steve says, "They're going to what?"

"Uh." Clint darts his gaze from Bucky to Steve and back again, like Bucky can somehow stop this clusterfuck of a situation.

Luckily, Bucky speaks fluent Steve. He hitches a shoulder and says, "He means you're coming with us."

"Oh, but. I mean, that's great," Clint says, but he doesn't look like he thinks that's great. He looks wary. He looks like a kid who was hoping for the best but clearly expecting the worst, and doesn't trust an inch of it—or them. "Don't you want to know why?"

"It doesn't matter why," Steve says—it totally matters why, Bucky thinks darkly, but keeps his mouth shut—and claps Clint on the shoulder, urging him forward.

Clint staggers and stops, digging his bare heels into the dirt, and blurts out, "I was stealing food."

Steve's eyes go soft. "That's okay, Clint."

"No, but. I was stealing food for him." He jerks his chin to something behind them, and Bucky whirls around to see….

It looks like how a dog would look like, if no one had ever seen a dog. If someone had just said describe a dog to me, and then drew it with their eyes closed. It's… an approximation of a dog. Floppy ears, lolling tongue, tail that wags like a flag. Big, four-footed, furry all over, but with too many teeth for its mouth and eyes too wide-set on its pointed skull.

It is, quite frankly, disturbing as hell to someone who emphatically knows what a dog should and should not look like.

Clint's shoulders slump. They're ridiculously sharp under his threadbare shirt, and he's woefully underfed. This beast looks sort of fat.

"It's okay," Clint says. He's sad. Hell, Bucky's sad. But, like, that thing can't come to Atlantis. It might eat everyone.

Which is why he's actually too stunned to protest when Steve says with deliberate, forceful calm that Bucky knows is absolute bullshit, "He can come too."

Wilson squawks. He says, "Steve."

Bucky tries to murder Steve with a glare, but Steve doesn't take an order he doesn't believe in, and doesn't offer anything he isn't prepared to back up with his whole soul. It's one of the things Bucky both loves and hates about him.

"Sheppard's gonna have a field day," Stark says gleefully, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "C'mon, blue eyes, the first step's a doozy."

Clint throws up all over the 'gate room to absolutely no one's surprise.

Also to no one's surprise, a bunch of guns get immediately pointed in the not-dog's direction until it bounds over and licks Bucky in the back of the neck. Christ.

"I have to go debrief," Steve says. "Buck, can you take Clint and, uh…"

"Lucky," Clint says, swiping at his mouth while gazing narrowed-eyed around them. Bucky doesn’t want to say he's casing the place, but he's a self-admitted thief.

"Can you take Clint and Lucky down to medical?" Steve gives him puppy eyes behind Clint's back, which is the only reason Bucky says yes.

Stark says, "I'll be in my lab." He jabs a finger at Bucky. "Barnes, arm. Tomorrow or Wednesday, whenever you're feeling it."

Bucky's tempted to not feel it at all, but on the other hand it's his arm, and he'd like it to work better.

Wilson mutters something about taking a, "Goddamn bubble bath."

Steve lifts his fingers like a boy scout but says, "Two hours. Full reports or I'll make you go talk to Sheppard. He'll hate it just as much as you will."

Clint follows Bucky out of the 'gate room, and Lucky follows Clint until they're stopped by an over-excited scientist from the xenobiologist lab. Bucky has no idea what her name is, but she's really insistent on quarantine and scans and people not accidentally dying, so he lets them herd Lucky down a split in the hallway.

Clint says, "What are they—" before cutting himself off with a sharp clack of teeth.

"He's going to the animal med bay," Bucky says. "We're going to the people-shaped one." Can't say human, he guesses, but Bucky actually knows fuck-all about the genetics of the Pegasus Galaxy. Supposedly they were all cut from the same Ancient cloth, so who the fuck knows.

In the infirmary, Dr. Biro tuts over Clint's clothes, his dirty hands, his crud-encrusted feet, and shoves a pair of scrubs in his hands before flipping the curtain around him closed.

She says, "Well," to Bucky with her hands on her hips.

"I guess… call Captain Rogers when he's done?" Bucky says.

Her eyebrows deepen into a V. "You don't want to wait."

Did he want to? Kind of. He's just not sure he should. He didn't make the decision to bring Clint back to Atlantis. He's definitely not his responsibility. At all.

Bucky sits down on the edge of an empty bed with a sigh. He needs a shower, and he needs to write up his report, and apparently he needs to make sure a too-thin alien street urchin isn’t going to die on them, too.

A half hour later, Bucky's half asleep sitting up. But Clint's got a mostly clean bill of health—dehydrated, half-starved, lacking nutrients, but in great spirits!—and is eighty percent dirt-free. He needs a shower, but his nose is taped, a butterfly bandage on his lip that definitely won't last, and the scrubs show-off his lean build and the bruises on the back of his arms, like fingerprints. He looks older and taller, even though Biro says, "He's eighteen or nineteen, he can't remember, and age in years is an Earth construct I still haven't figured out how to apply to multiple planets outside our solar system."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Clint wiggles his toes in the fuzzy socks Biro had given him. He grins, "Hey, look."

"Real fancy, Clint," Bucky says. He quirks an eyebrow at Biro. "So he's good?"

"For certain definitions of good, sure," Biro says. "I want him hooked up to a IV for an hour and then someone can come collect him."

"What's an IV?" Clint asks, watching curiously as Biro takes hold of his arm and starts tapping along the veins.

Bucky wants no parts of that. He nods at Biro, says, "Good luck," and then slips out the door.

Bucky has a routine in between off-world missions. Breakfast at 530AM, followed by a two hour sparring session, followed by a second breakfast of whatever fruit they have on hand, preferably sitting on the highest balcony he has access to.

After that, it's a toss-up between a nap and a run around the serpentine corridors on third floor. Lunch, usually with Steve, and then he reports for duty wherever he's being rotated in for the day—control desk, lab security, clearing out and constructions. He winds up the time before dinner swimming laps off the southeast pier, if it isn't crowded. Very infrequently, he's bullied into team movie nights by Wilson. It's nice. Structured, but not too structured.

His first job after the bullshit mission where they found Clint is to… find Clint.

"What do you mean he's gone?" Bucky asks Steve, falling in step next to him as they walk down the corridors toward the living quarters. "Can't you just have Atlantis pinpoint his vitals?"

Steve's mouth tightens. "Apparently his biometrics haven't been entered into her systems yet. No one's seen him since I dropped him off after medical."

Bucky stops. "That was two days ago, Steve."

"Yeah, I know." Steve swings on him, visibly irritated. "But Corporal Jamison didn't see him leave his room, and when he finally went in to check—"

"Finally?" Jesus, did they not think Clint was eating? Or his... not-dog thing?

"Yeah." Steve looks real pissed about that, and it's only slightly mollifying. And then he looks hangdog and guilty, because of course Clint's their—Steve's—responsibility, and the thing Steve's gonna focus on most is that Clint hasn't been coddled enough to his satisfaction, and not the fact that he's a unknown variable in what is, technically, a hybrid civilian-military war zone.

Frankly, Bucky's more worried about that too. Not that he'd eversay anything about that out loud.

Steve says, "When he finally went in to check, there was zero signs of Clint anywhere. So that's where we're going to check first."

"The place where he isn’t," Bucky says, but follows Steve when he starts moving again anyhow.

"The place Clint somehow got out of without using the door."

Clint's assigned room is small, located on a less used corridor in the living section. It's sparsely furnished. There's a narrow bed, and round table with two chairs, and a postage stamp bathroom. The bed doesn't even look slept in. There's a pair of boots shoved into a corner. A folded pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt on a chair.

Bucky idly picks up the gray Air Force shirt and says, "So he's in sock-feet and the scrubs Biro gave him," hopefully, "and no one has fucking seen this guy for two days?"

One of the chairs is at a weird angle, spun around from the table and halfway into the cramped 'living space' that boasts a skinny tower bookshelf.

Steve places his hands on his hips and goes, "Huh."

Bucky skims fingers over a light dusting of debris on the shelf and then glances up at a roughly 12x24 vent in the ceiling. "D'you think his collarbones unhinge like a cat's?"

Steve says, "Well. Shit."

Clint could basically be anywhere on Atlantis. The main problem, though, as Bucky sees it, is that so could Lucky.

"So how can he hide a hundred and fifty pound… dog," Bucky generously allows, "in our recycled air system?”

The duct work threads all over the city, spilling out into every room, and god knows he's probably sleeping in there too.

Steve says, "Good question," and radios Colonel Sheppard, who lets out the longest, loudest sigh Bucky has ever heard in his life.

Steve and Bucky are unsuccessful in their mission that day, because a) the damn not-dog is still quarantined in the xenobiology lab, and b) Bucky almost punches Colonel Jamison in the face when he says he told Clint no when he asked for him.

"Now we know why he bolted," Steve says, looking like he wants to punch Jamison, too, "and we know where he was going. But we don't know why he didn't get there."

"Well," Dr. Simmons pushes her glasses up her nose. "The xeno labs are routed through a different ventilation system, since everyone was complaining about the smell."

Lucky is licking at the glass partition, staring longingly at Bucky, and he still looks like half a horror. An incomplete sketch. What comes for you in the dark and lives under your bed. Christ.

"So he's lost," Bucky says, which is why they had to end up gathering all two hundred and fifty three inhabitants of Atlantis in the 'gate room and commissary and then run a full scale vitals search on the rest of the compound.

No one is happy about it, even when Sheppard says everyone can get an extra jello.

Lost for two fucking days stuck in the vents without anyone knowing, and, god, Bucky just really hopes he got to sneak out to go to the bathroom.

An hour in, Bucky's lounging along the wall of the commissary, dreaming about all the ways he's gonna take Jamison apart in the gym, when Stark shouts, "Got 'em. Unless another bird got stuck in the tower again." He looks up at Steve. "The spire overlooking the west end."

Bucky swears under his breath. He's out on his Second Breakfast balcony. "Let me go," he says without really meaning to.

Steve looks as surprised as he feels. "You sure?"

Bucky nods. "Hold everyone from another twenty minutes, just in case he disappears."

"I'll let you know if he moves," Stark says, tapping at the tablet. He flicks his fingers over the screen and then spins it to show Bucky. "The transporter at the end of the hall only goes up to three, but it'll still be faster than going all the way around to the 'gate room. You might want to take the stairs the rest of the way."

If he thought he had the time for it, he'd stop and bring Lucky, too. He's only a little relieved that he doesn't.

He doesn't bother with stealth. He figures if Clint hasn't moved in the ten minutes it's taken Bucky to advance on his position, making noise isn't going to make a difference. When the door whooshes open, the high winds hit Bucky like a smack in the face. A storm must be heading in.

Clint's sitting on the ground with his legs dangling out under the railing.

Bucky drops down next to him and nudges him back a little, just for his own peace of mind. Clint doesn't react other than shifting further away, bringing his legs up to hug his knees.

"So," Bucky says after a long, quiet moment, "Jamison refused to bring you your dog and you go off and sulk, making the entire fucking city of Atlantis waste hours searching for you."

Clint glares at him. "What." He scoffs. "If I asked you, you woulda just let me have him?"

Bucky opens his mouth to say yeah, except who the fuck knows what he would have done. He would have at least asked the xenobologists if he was safe.

Clint snorts like a punk.

Bucky wants to wring his skinny neck and also, inexplicably, make him eat an entire plate of mashed potatoes.

He says, "Have you eaten anything?"

Petulance melts into a smirk. He says, "Maybe," which Bucky is taking for yes, and also the high probability that he’s been breaking into their stores.

Bucky sighs. This is going to be a full time fucking job. "Come back to your room," he says, "and I'll see what I can do about Lucky."

Clint makes Bucky feel old.

"You're not old," Steve says, determinedly sawing into his too-dense waffles. "We're not even thirty yet."

"Steve," Bucky says seriously, reaching across the table to cover his hand with his. "Steve, you're thirty-two."

Steve's mouth drops open, then snaps closed again. "No, I'm…. am I?"

"Stark's forty-one."

"No," Steve says, scandalized.

Clint befriended Romanov five days after he stopped hiding in the vents and they haven't stopped running rings around every single other person in the city since.

Clint can shoot an arrow at a bullseye two hundred feet away with his eyes closed.

He's bendy. He does handstands and walks across tables. He swings up into the rafters of the ‘gate room because using stairs takes too long.

Bucky's knees crack when he crouches down to pick up a dropped fork.

He's in shape, he's in great shape, and he's more active now than he ever was on base back on earth, but he also wears a brace on his left knee, and has to use reading glasses and if he were at home he has a sneaking, depressing suspicion that he'd have trouble driving at night.

Clint makes him feel old, and the only fucking reason that it matters at all is because he's definitely, maybe gotten a little crush.

It's been two months and Clint's filled out considerably and apparently has the arm strength to climb up the outside of Atlantis all the way up the second breakfast balcony—on a dare, because he's reckless and young—and it's fucking with Bucky's head.

Competency is hot. The fact that Clint trips over Lucky whenever he goes to open his room door and routinely falls off chairs like it's his job—he tilts them back way too far and can't seem to help himself—sadly doesn't detract from this at all.

Bucky wishes it did. In fact, it should. There's nothing sexy about a lap full of tough chicken, gravy and rehydrated rice, and yet…

So Bucky feels beat and old, even though he's twenty-nine and lied like a rug to Steve about it—Steve's hilariously susceptible at 5:30 AM—and Clint’s probably a good ten years younger than him and also an alien.

It's never going to work.

Romanov has been on permanent team rotation ever since she justifiably shot Rumlow and sent him hurling into space out the back of a puddlejumper. She subs for people stuck in the infirmary or if teams need an extra assassin on hand.

She teaches Clint how to fight dirty and gives him a gun and not even Sheppard has the balls to complain about it.

Bucky turns down every single request to spar with him because he's not a masochist, but he still manages to claim the seat next to him on the movie nights Wilson guilts him into going to.

He knocks their shoulders together and watches Clint's eyes light up when he says, "Hey."

Clint sits like an acrobat, knees and elbows in weird places, and Bucky feels all the points that press against him like fire.

They're watching Jaws and Clint's breath is fast, but Bucky can't tell if that's a Clint thing or a something is wrong thing, and he nudges his fist into the side of Clint's thigh.

"Okay?"

Clint turns to look at him, pupils blown in the half-light. "What?" he asks with a lick of his lips.

"Um." Bucky wants to reach out and curl a hand up under the hinge of his jaw. Without the tape and bruises and swelling, he's got smooth cheeks and a slightly crooked nose. "Are you okay?"

Clint's grin blooms across his mouth in honest, open affection and Bucky feels like he's been donkey kicked in the chest.

Bucky scrambles to his feet and ignores half the room staring at him like he’s lost his mind and books it out of there.

The next time Bucky sees Clint, he’s sitting on a table in Stark’s lab, swinging his feet and humming what sounds like Chariots of Fire.

“Bucky!”

Bucky winces at the volume, and Stark puts a hand on Clint’s knee to get his attention and mimes dialing it down.

Clint points at Stark and says, “Tony’s fixing my ears.”

“I didn’t know anything was wrong with ‘em,” Bucky says, watching the way Clint carefully watches his lips.

“He’s got truly horrendous tech in them that someone cobbled together out of what looks like twigs and bubble gum,” Stark says.

Bucky peers over his shoulder. It looks like regular wires and doodads to him, but he knows fuck all about that kind of stuff. “Those were in his ears?”

Tony hmms absently, but then he pins Bucky down with a look and says, “I haven’t forgotten about your arm either. Who made that crap, anyway? Hammer? Ancient tech is good, but mine is better.”

Clint stares curiously at his arm, but doesn’t say anything.

Bucky was down here for a reason, but now he can’t remember why. He’s losing it, mind and body. This is the worst.

Suddenly Clint waves his hands and says, “Oh! Guess what?”

“Uh… what?” He swears he’s usually more suave than this. He used to have game. He used to charm the pants off of ladies and men alike. His mouth feels too big.

“I’m 22 earth years,” Clint says proudly. “Tony figured it out.”

“Clint,” Bucky says, throat dry. “You weren’t even sure how many of your years you were.”

Clint shrugs. “Eh.”

Bucky takes a deep breath. “Okay, so…”

“Barnes,” Stark says, clacking what looks like a pair of tweezers together, “take the kid to lunch and a slow bone before I choke and throw up on all this tension.”

Bucky freezes. “Did you just. Did you just say slow bone?”

“What’s a… slow bone?” Clint says, head cocked, and this is when Bucky realizes that Stark hadn’t been facing Clint but Bucky is, and now he has to kill himself.

Stark arches an eyebrow at him. “That is not my fault.”

Bucky ignores him and rolls his shoulders and bites out, “Lunch.” He jerks his head toward the door and mans up. “Coming?”

There is a single glorious planet in the Pegasus Galaxy that boasts no less than fifteen different kinds of dinosaurs, and the fact that they have to keep going back to it to get a certain herb that both the botanists and medical doctors go gaga over is a source of unending joy to Bucky.

He fucking loves Dinosaur Planet.

He keeps trying to convince Steve to let him bring back an egg.

He knows the only reason Steve volunteers their team for these missions is because of Bucky. Stark usually insists on sitting them out, which is why they have Romanov with them this time instead. He has absolutely no idea what military organization she’s a part of, but she’s definitely not a scientist. No one’s willing to fuck with her after the Rumlow situation.

She’s got a cold, calm eye that gives Bucky the willies, but he doesn’t have a problem with her. They don’t have problems with each other.

Except, apparently, for right now.

“Uh.”

Romanov has her arms crossed. “Well?”

“You realize you’re ruining Dinosaur Planet for me, right?” Bucky could be getting run down by a T-Rex right now.

“Answer the question, Barnes.”

Bucky could have lived his whole life happily never having heard Romanov ask him if he was interested in boning Clint, Jesus, and he knows this entire clusterfuck is Stark’s fault.

“What answer is the one least likely to get me stabbed?” He’s not above lying to Romanov if he has to.

Luckily or unluckily, Romanov seems to take that as whatever she actually wanted to hear, so she nods smartly and then gestures over his shoulder with a lazy, “Incoming,” and that is how they spend the rest of the day dodging pterodactyls.

Bucky can’t wait to come back.

Clint doesn’t hesitate. Whether it’s shooting an arrow, sparring, eating, swimming, talking—Clint just goes for it, all in, even if he ends up making a fool of himself.

Bucky admires that.

He’s also extremely tired, hot off the Dinosaur Planet, and three minutes ago he was dead to the world face down on his bunk.

He scrubs a hand over his face until the blurry shape in his doorway in front of him resolves into Clint’s grinning face. “Huh?” He’s almost entirely sure it’s the middle of the night, but the city does weird things to his circadian rhythm.

“Sam told me what bone means.”

All Bucky’s body parts wake up and freeze at once. “I’m going to murder him.”

Clint says, “I hope it can wait,” and then lunges forward and kisses him. Kind of. It’s aggressive enough that Bucky thinks maybe it’s his first kiss, which is goddamn charming and almost irresistible. He’s just so enthusiastic.

Bucky slides his hand up to cup Clint’s cheek, rests his metal one on the small of his back, settling him into slowing down. He eases out of the kiss with, “It’s the middle of the night, Clint, and Stark’s probably watching us through his peephole.”

Clint’s mouth is red and his eyes are wide. “Oh,” he says, but looks out of it enough that Bucky’s ninety percent certain he hasn’t understood a word Bucky’s said.

Bucky says, “Go to bed, Clint.” His legs hurt from running from dinosaurs all day and he needs at least another four hours of sleep before figuring out how to handle… this.

“Right,” Clint says, but doesn’t move.

Bucky reaches out and squeezes his hand. “G’night,” he says, and the steps back and slides the door closed behind him.

The only thing that Clint loves more than Lucky is pizza, and the only thing Lucky loves more than Clint is also pizza, so Bucky sweet talks Corporal Lovett into making him a pie in exchange for three chocolate bars he’d been saving. It’s an approximation of an earth pizza, and it’s only 9 in the morning, but he’s due for second breakfast anyway.

Bucky rings the bell on Clint’s quarters and tries not to be skeeved out by the echoing wooffrom Lucky, like he swallowed an actual dog and that dog is making that sound from the bottom of his throat. Lucky’s cool. Bucky gets along great with Lucky if he doesn’t think too hard about him.

Clint’s normally open face is wary when he sees him. He’s wearing shorts and an old t-shirt that has ‘Barnes’ across the right breast that Bucky’s been missing for over a month. He’s still wearing the fuzzy, slouchy socks from that first day in medical.

Bucky says, “Pizza?” holding up the tray, and Clint’s grin finally reaches his eyes.

Clint takes the pizza with a too-subdued, “Uh, thanks?” and Bucky swoops in oh so suavely and slides a hand onto the nape of his neck, tugging him into a swift kiss.

If they’re doing this, Bucky’s gonna do this right—they’re gonna date first, second breakfast, lunch, dinner—and then they’re gonna bone.

#winterhawk #for lissadiane #writing buddies!#oh god

313 notes · View notes

anjibooks · 6 years ago

Text

An Enchantment of Ravens by Margaret Rogerson (Book Review)

Gonna be real honest, the first time I saw this book I was attracted to it because I recognized the cover art's artist. It's the same artist who does Sarah J. Maas works, I think it's Charlie Bowater? But I'm not exactly sure. Then I looked up the synopsis and wasn't exactly hooked, so I continued scrolling. I actually forget what finally convinced me to order this book, possibly all of the amazing ratings I'd been seeing. For example, one of the reviews I read said that Rogerson was BORN to write, so I figured I shouldn't miss out on the hype and go ahead and try it out. Overall thoughts is yeah, it's a fun, light read. Especially if you're a fan of fae, which I am. (fan is a bit of a soft word for how obsessed I am with the fae lol.) One of the problems with the story is just how short it is-- I literally read it in one sitting. Due to the lack of length, it felt a little lacking in the building of certain aspects. Reading this book was an odd combination of pieces that felt too fast and others that felt way too slow. The ending especially felt rather rushed-- the magnitude of big threats wasn't felt all that much with how quickly the story wrapped up. I absolutely adored the descriptions in this novel, they were very vivid and illustrated. I could really see the world and its characters in my mind's eye. I also found myself laughing A LOT whilst reading this one. I loved all of the intricacies with the fae, like if you're polite to them they HAVE to be polite back. Also, the fae we get to know best throughout the novel-- Rook, is hilarious because of his childish tendencies. Seriously, he just thinks he can has what he wants and throws temper tantrums when he doesn't get them, and while that sounds unattractive, it's adorable and hilarious the way it's shown in the novel. Basically, Rook doesn't know any better when it comes to interacting with humans. Actually, all the fae are very childhish in ways, haha. One of my notes is literally "lol, all the fae are children." Another thing that I really enjoyed about this book was Rogerson's take on the Fae, and how, despite all the amazing things in their lives, they're empty inside. They have no emotions, which is something they envy the humans for. They're all not the glamorous beings portrayed in many other fae novels. Instead, they're all vain and glamoured beings-- not nearly as beautiful as they show themselves to be. In fact, these Fae glamour everything, including their food to make their lives seem as perfect as possible. Since they're empty inside, Fae are unable to create, which is why they are so fascinated by humans, and their dabbling in the arts. The romance in the book was borderline instalove, which I hate-- because then you get no time to really get attached or root for the relationship. Borderline, not totally. See, the attraction and connection springs up real quick, but the romance such doesn't happen for a long while, so I was pretty excited when the romance kicked in. Again, my biggest issue with the novel was how short it is. I think most of the other issues I have with it come with its length. Like there's this whole larger set up in the background about an issue with the world that I expected to be somehow resolved, but it wasn't, which left me feeling a little disappointed any empty. Also, the plot was rather predicable for me-- all the big twists I saw coming from about 200 pages away (which is about the length of the book. All in all, a very enjoyable, light read 7/10 stars. There's a fun romance, and interesting and exciting plot. However, I'd advise not to expect too much depth going into the novel. It's there to tell one story, and it does that job well. It brushes on ideas that hint at greater depth in the world, but those are never truly resolved or used to their greatest potential. Synopsis: A skilled painter must stand up to the ancient power of the faerie courts—even as she falls in love with a faerie prince—in this gorgeous debut novel. Isobel is a prodigy portrait artist with a dangerous set of clients: the sinister fair folk, immortal creatures who cannot bake bread, weave cloth, or put a pen to paper without crumbling to dust. They crave human Craft with a terrible thirst, and Isobel’s paintings are highly prized. But when she receives her first royal patron—Rook, the autumn prince—she makes a terrible mistake. She paints mortal sorrow in his eyes—a weakness that could cost him his life. Furious and devastated, Rook spirits her away to the autumnlands to stand trial for her crime. Waylaid by the Wild Hunt’s ghostly hounds, the tainted influence of the Alder King, and hideous monsters risen from barrow mounds, Isobel and Rook depend on one another for survival. Their alliance blossoms into trust, then love—and that love violates the fair folks’ ruthless laws. Now both of their lives are forfeit, unless Isobel can use her skill as an artist to fight the fairy courts. Because secretly, her Craft represents a threat the fair folk have never faced in all the millennia of their unchanging lives: for the first time, her portraits have the power to make them feel.

#an enchantment of ravens #ya book #ya fantasy #fantasy book #book review #margaret rogerson #fae #faeries

17 notes · View notes

homebody-nobody · 6 years ago

Note

We pair one, right? How about...uhh... "People lie all the time" and, uh... "real smooth, tripping over air" Not sure if that's what you meant and kind of late to the party but there you go

Hi hello I am a trash blogger who had finals… and then ADHD. I’m assuming this a prompt which like !!! thank you !!! I never get sent these !!! Since you didn’t send me a pairing and my blog Is The Way It Is I’m assuming you’re a bellarke fan or at least tolerant of said pairing so that’s what you’re gonna get

Bellamy doesn’t really do parties. It’s not because he doesn’t have a lot of friends (okay, so he has like, three) but he tells himself it’s because he hates the crowds, the noise and the sweat from a mob of unruly drunken bodies. Also, he never gets invited to them. So it’s pretty normal that he’s sitting in his apartment on a Friday night, alone and tuning out the noise from upstairs. The room glows softly, all three sets of his fairy lights and his desk lamp on to keep the night at bay. Sitting on his messily made bed with its ancient, pilling dark green comforter, he holds his guitar on his lap, making a smudged mess of a piece of notebook paper as he strums a chord progression and tries to put his raspy voice over it.

His phone starts to buzz relentlessly just as he’s figuring out the chorus, and he curses as he digs through his nest of pillows and blankets he’s created. When he finds it – directly under his left knee – the name on the screen drops a stone down his throat. It’s Clarke. In a panic, he jumps off his bed and stands in the middle of the room. After pacing a few times, he picks up.

Also on ao3

“Hey,” he breathes, and even though she’s not in the room, every sense is trained on what he can read of her reaction through the phone. His vision blurs, his hearing dulling until it’s just her voice, her breathing on the other end. They haven’t spoken in over six months, since their relationship ended, bloody and loud, at the beginning of the previous semester. She’d come back from the summer different, stony and just as impenetrable as she had been when they first met as bullheaded, impetuous underclassmen. They fought, but it was beyond the usual teasing and bickering. She never told him what happened. She shoved him away so violently, slammed all her walls down so fast he never really understood what he’d done wrong.

“Bellamy?” her voice cracks on his name, and he hears the tears, thick in her throat. “I didn’t mean – Oh God, I’m sorry, I –” her breath gasps and quakes in her chest. “I was just –”

“Clarke, breathe,” he says, fighting to keep his voice even, to not let his own growing panic show through. “Take a breath, princess, you can do it.” The nickname slips out softly, a habit he never got past, and she squeaks on a sharp inhale. “Breathe with me, sweetheart, come on.” He squeezes his eyes shut, so tightly the world turns to stars, and leans his forehead against his door, one fist opening and closing, the other hand white-knuckled around his phone. His own breaths are shaky still, but hers finally slow to match. Flexing his hand against the door, he listens to Clarke’s shuddering breaths, and all he wants to do is find her, hold her, get so close he can’t tell his limbs from hers, let her fall asleep, safe in his arms.

But he’s not allowed that, anymore. She left, and for all he wishes, he doesn’t think she’s coming back to him. “Can you come over?” she sniffles. It’s a weak and searching question, and she seems reluctant to even ask it.

He pauses, remembering the last time they were in the same room, the hurled insults and the crackling tension. “Do you… think that’s a good idea?” he asks, and he’s hopeful, too, but cautious. Scared, like she is.

“I –” she coughs and sniffles again, “I don’t care,” she huffs out on a sob. “I need you, Bellamy,” She cries for a moment more and he’s caught, frozen, logic and desire at war in his chest. Then, she says the word that breaks him, the word that always will. “Please.”

It works. It always does. “I’m on my way,” he says, and it’s an exhale, a relief. It’s been half a year, but he still feels her absence as if it was fresh, like her voice on the other end of the line has ripped off the bandage over a festering wound. He tries not to think as he walks the few blocks downtown to her apartment. She lives in the complex in the center of downtown in their small college city, with the pool on the rooftop and the huge LED screens that plays the football games on Saturdays. It was a source of tension when they first met, what with Bellamy’s particular relationship to wealth. But then he got to know her, how sarcastic and hardworking and hilarious she was. How fiercely loyal and confident and determined.

He fell in love with her. It was inevitable; they were two cosmic bodies orbiting each other, pulling one another in, a collision course destined to end in fire and destruction. But it was a gorgeous supernova while it lasted, red and golden and orange flashing in the darkness, light and fire, passion and flame. And then, like everything, it died. And he never knew why. He’s not sure how this is going to go, as he walks. He’s hopeful, as he always is. A life like his has taught him that as long as there’s still breath in his lungs, there’s hope. But he thought he knew Clarke, knew how her brain worked, how she thought and what she wanted. He understands humans, for the most part. Clarke used to tell him he was “good at people,” sometimes as a compliment, sometimes because she was being belligerent.

But he lost her. She pushed him away, far enough that he couldn’t see her anymore, couldn’t reach out and hold her when she needed him, couldn’t feel her warmth in the cold. Stepping up to the buzzer, Bellamy reaches out his hand, and falters. Every piece of advice Octavia’s ever given to him echoes through his mind, her unyielding criticism of everything Clarke had done, everything Octavia had blamed her for. But then he remembers his sister’s eyes, green and sharp as winter, desperate to prove herself, and push through anyone who gets in her way. Bellamy, with Clarke’s help, had begun to discover the ways his sister used him, how he had settled back into a secondary character in his own life. Octavia hated Clarke for that, and Bellamy hated himself for ever listening to her. He rings the buzzer.

Clarke responds immediately, the door to the lobby clicking open. Hood up, hands planted firmly in his pockets, he’s not eager to meet the eyes of Sterling, the kid at the desk, or anyone he might know hanging out in the ground floor lounge. He recognizes the voices of Harper and Monroe over by the pool table; praying they don’t recognize him, he scratches the back of his head through his hoodie, using his arm to block his face. It doesn’t work, and Monroe calls his name, he turns, and their face lights up at the sight of him. “Bellamy!” they call, “hey!”

He turns, slowly, his mind filtering through a thousand different responses and finding none. “Hey… dude,” he responds, and then physically flinches. Knowing he looks wrecked, his eyes stay on his shoes.

Monroe’s cheerful expression slides off their face, replaced by a fleeting look of concern, immediately followed by understanding. Harper opens her mouth, but they nudge her in the ribs without looking. “Tell Clarke I hope she’s okay,” is all they say, before tugging on Harper’s elbow and directing her attention forcibly back to the game. Bellamy has some idea that they know something about the reason Clarke was crying on the phone, and that nags at him.

He hates not being the first to know everything, anymore. Telling secrets was something Clarke was never good at; she struggled with every aspect of sharing her feelings, and Bellamy was the same. They were a grumpy, sometimes malaligned pair, but they fit, somehow. They were each other’s confidants, steady points, rocks in a frothing river. She has someone else for that now – maybe more than one person. That hurts most of all, that he’s become insignificant. But, she did call. So maybe he still is her secret keeper. Monroe keys him into the elevator vestibule, so Clarke doesn’t have to come down and let him in.

However, since he already rang the buzzer, she’s in the hall when the elevator opens, her keys in her hand. “How did you –” she starts, just as he says “I ran into –” She laughs, a half-made, awkward thing, and it hangs. Stepping out of the elevator, Bellamy notices the tear tracks on her face, the salt collecting in her eyelashes, her cheeks, bloated and red. It’s only second nature to step forward and cradle her face, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. She starts, when he touches her, and he freezes, but it’s only for a moment before she leans into his hand. “Clarke…” he says, and it’s a whisper, a breath, the fall of a crumbling wall, the dissolution of a half-made barrier.

Rushing forward, she stumbles and crashes into his chest, tripping over her own feet. Her keys jangle behind his back, her face buried in his shoulder. His arms pause, hanging in the air for a moment before they clasp around her, his palms flat against her back. He can feel the warmth of her skin through her thin t-shirt, and her lips find their familiar place on his shoulder. It feels right, to have her back in his arms, to feel her breath and her pulse matching up to his.

“Real smooth,” he grumbles to diffuse the emotional weight of the moment before it overflows, “Tripping over air.” He attempts nonchalance, but his heart thunders in his chest and his stomach is somewhere at the base of his throat.

She chuckles, watery and soft against his skin. “Shut up.” Finally pulling away, Clarke swipes under her eyes with the cuffs of her white sweatshirt. Bellamy realizes with a jolt that it’s his, from his high school lacrosse team. She already looks different, even after only a few months. Her hair is shorter, cropped short around her chin, and there’s a shock of hot pink in the bottom three inches on one side, like she’d dyed it a long time ago and already and started growing it out. The sight chips a little deeper in the widening cavern in his chest.

Turning and obviously expecting him to follow, Clarke heads towards her apartment. Once she’s around the first corner, Bellamy releases the breath he was holding, heavy and loud in the concrete hallway. It echoes louder than he anticipated; it feels like all the anxiety it contained settles in his hair and on his shoulders, and he resists the urge to shake it off. He settles for pulling his fingers through his hair before setting off after her. Clarke gives him a small smile when he catches up, and his stupid heart drops to his feet. Even with the tear tracks and the blotchy red face, she’s gorgeous. She’s ruined him – he won’t find anyone more beautiful than her.

Unlocking the door, Clarke sniffs before saying “Excuse the mess. It’s been a rough – while.” Her space was usually fairly messy anyway, since she was both incredibly busy and wildly forgetful. But the scene they walk into looks like a bomb has gone off. Jackets and sweatshirts are on every surface of the living area, a stack of half-finished canvases sat next to the TV, and the dropcloth and easel look like they’ve been in the middle of the floor for over a month. Dust is thick on her bookshelf, and there’s a stack of dishes in the sink.

Bellamy feels a little sick and frustrated with himself. Because she lives without a roommate, there is no one around to monitor her, to pick her up and drag her out of the house when she is isolating herself and hibernating like a bear. When they were together, he usually took over that role; reminding her to eat, to switch the laundry, to not live like a hermit raised in a barn. Six months was too long to go without checking in. Part of him feels responsible for the place she’s in.

Ignoring all of it, Clarke beelines for her bedroom. The bed, for some odd reason, is made, even though the floor is a thick carpet of t-shirts and tops. She clambers up on it and pulls a large stuffed deer into her lap, wrapping her arms around it and clinging to it for dear life. Her watery blue eyes watch him as he stood in the doorway, taking in the scene, his heart breaking even farther with each second. He didn’t realize it had gotten this bad. He should have been around to make sure it didn’t.

She watches his face, and she still knows every line, every twitch and glimmer that gives away Bellamy’s every emotion. He’s shattering in slow motion, hairline crack by hairline crack, and it’s her that’s doing it to him – seeing her in this state. And she’s watching him blame himself; it’s in the pucker of his eyebrows and the shift of his cheeks. The lump rises in her throat again, and she chokes back tears with an apology. “I’m sorry, Bellamy,” she sobs, and then drops her forehead against the stuffed animal. “I’m so sorry.”

Bellamy steps on a pile of t-shirts and sinks down on the bed next to her, already hushing and comforting in his soft, deep voice. “It’s alright, it’s alright” he repeats, pushing the head of the deer aside so that she looks up at him. He’d gotten for her for their first – and only – valentine’s day together, because he’s a stereotypical cheesy romantic and for some reason, deer are Clarke’s favorite animal. “Hey, look at me. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she says, shaking her head, looking at him. The sudden closeness almost hurts. After six months – half an entire year – of barely hearing from her, seeing her only at parties and events, and now they’re alone in her bedroom, sitting on her bed, and she’s filling up the space with her eyes and her voice and her smell, and it’s almost too much. Clarke takes a deep, shaky breath, and moves the deer from her lap, turning to face him. Sitting criss-cross so they’re knee-to-knee, she takes his hands, and focuses on them as she speaks. “It’s not, because –” and her voice breaks, and he’s so glad she’s touching him, finally, so he can hold her hands tighter, give her some solid ground to stand on. “Because I hurt you, and I never told you why.”

“Clarke,” he breathes, “We don’t have to do this now.” He smooths the hair off her forehead and he wants so badly to pull her into his chest and let her cry. He wants to let his touch shut out everything, make it just the two of them again, together against the world.

But she doesn’t fall into him, just sniffles and wipes at her eyes again. Taking another deep breath, she seems to be preparing herself for something. “No,” she says, “We do, because –” another shuddering sigh. “Because I lied to you.”

This one hits him in the chest, scooping away at the hollow already there. Bellamy and Clarke didn’t start their relationship well; there was a lot of screaming, and then light hearted banter, and even when they were together they fought and teased and bickered – but there was never any lies. “About –” he stammers, “about what?”

She drops her eyes, and he watches her struggle with what she’s about to say, watches her start to raise her walls again, and then pause, remembering who she’s with. Fidgeting, she adjusts her grip on his hands a few times before she begins. “When we –” She catches herself. “After I –” she tries once more before finally settling “at the end of that summer, I – I left. And I told you it was because I thought we – that we’d run our course and that I –” she chokes on her next words, “that I didn’t love you anymore.” her eyes start to fill. “And that was a lie. God, it was a lie.”

Confused doesn’t even begin to cover where Bellamy’s at right now. Part of him is elated, that she hadn’t randomly fallen out of love with him, but he’s terrified of the possibilities of her lie. Maybe it really was something heinous, something he would never be able to forgive her for… although, he’s not entirely sure that’s possible. “What was it?” he asks. “What did – what did you lie about?”

Clarke pauses and sighs once more. “Do you remember my cousin Madi?” Bellamy nods slowly, not entirely sure where this is going. He’d met Madi at a few of Clarke’s family events. Thanksgiving, Christmas, things like that. Since his mother was dead and he’d stopped answering his sister’s calls, Clarke’s family had become his. Madi was a cute kid, fourteen and full of energy, ready to grow up, but not quite there yet. She hero-worshipped the both of them, but they didn’t mind. She was fun to hang out with, and pretty funny, and loved all the same old-school nickelodeon cartoons they’d grown up with. Bellamy’s stomach drops at the foreboding tone in Clarke’s voice. “She was diagnosed with some kind of rare blood disease at the end of last summer.” She says, all in a rush, like it’s a relief to get it off her chest.

“She got hurt, and her blood was almost black, and I was babysitting her and I had to take her to the hospital and she got put on permanent oxygen and then things just –” Clarke chokes on the words, her eyes filling with tears. “They only got worse from there, and now –” her tears are flowing now, collecting and dripping off her chin, but she just keeps talking, like she’s been holding on to it for too long and it all just needs to come out. “Her mom just called like half an hour ago and she’s in this experimental surgery and they don’t know if she’ll pull through and she’s halfway across the country in Polis and I’m stuck here, and I can’t – I don’t know what to do and I just —” she dissolves into too-quick breaths and sobs, and finally, Bellamy pulls her into his chest. Her face falling against his shoulder, she curls up into his lap, crying, ugly and loud against his neck. It hurts him, to feel her shaking in his arms, to know there’s nothing he can do but hold her, keep his arms as a boundary around the pain, so it can’t get any worse, so it can’t grow beyond something she can control.

When she tires herself out, her breath evening as the tears subside, she laces her fingers around his shoulder and pulls herself closer. “I’m sorry,” she whispers again. She’s torn down and flagging, just so tired. She wants to lay down, to have Bellamy hold her so close she can’t tell where she ends and he begins. She wants to close her eyes and stop existing, just for a while. She wants to forget.

Bellamy lifts her chin off his shoulder and pulls away slightly, enough to look her in the eyes. “If it’s forgiveness you need,” he says, brushing a piece of hair away from her eyes with his thumb. “You’re forgiven, okay?” His heart hammers in his throat, but he means it, every word. There are a thousand other emotions storming around in his chest; grief, for Madi, sadness and empathy for Clarke, and yes, a little bit of anger, too – at the unfairness of Madi’s condition, even at Clarke, for not letting him help – but she’s here, and she needs him, and he’ll do anything, to protect her.

She bites her bottom lip, unable to pull her eyes from Bellamy’s, deep and brown, looking warm and genuine, feeling like home. “But I lied,” she whispers. She knows how much Bellamy values honesty, how he grew up surrounded by lies and treachery and sneaking around, and how he needs people to be upfront with him. She knows how hard this cut, her deceiving him. And as much as it makes sense, as much as she’s justified it these past six months, she hates herself for it, too.

“Clarke,” he says, in a whisper, his voice cracking on the single syllable of her name. And that’s how she knows he’s sincere. It’s the same way he says her name at the end of every fight, the same way he says it when he gives in to every emotion, when he buckles under every burden he makes himself carry. His eyes start to well with tears, and he shakes his head, just the slightest, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s him saying don’t be naive, don’t think I would ever hold this against you. So much in this small gesture. “People lie all the time.”

There isn’t anything left to say. She rests her hands on either side of his face, brushing her thumbs against his cheekbones, and rests her forehead against his – a question. Breathing ragged, hands trembling, Bellamy pulls her lips to his. A kiss, so simple – but an answer, a promise, a second chance, all the same. A whimper of relief creeps up the back of Clarke’s throat and – like so many times before – they fall into each other. It’s not perfect; they’re both a little teary and a little desperate, but they find their home in each other, and it feels like the first time all over again. It’s slow and sweet; she falls, and he catches her, again and again.

When she finally pulls away, lips tingling, skin aflame, he nudges her nose with his. She almost laughs. That’s Bellamy’s move, something small that he doesn’t even realize he does. Something comforting; a reminder that he’s still here, present in the moment, all the way with her. “Will you stay?” she asks, smaller than a whisper.

“Of course,” is all he says. It’s late already, and they’re both exhausted, so – after a few minutes more of Bellamy holding her – they separate. Clarke is already in her pajamas. Bellamy pulls off his shirt, and she tosses him a pair of his sweatpants without looking at him, her face red. He chuckles. “I’ve been looking for these.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, hiding under the covers.

He turns off the light and climbs up behind her, his arm sliding around her waist, solid and strong. She closes her eyes and turns over, nuzzling into his chest. They lay in the dark for a while, Bellamy dozing, dragging his fingertips up and down her spine, Clarke trying to sleep, but with a white-knuckle grip on her phone, willing it to ring. The night wears on; eventually, Bellamy drops off, but Clarke stays awake, breathing him in, trying to find comfort in the circle of his arms, pacing her breaths to his even ones, lightly tracing her fingers over his face in the moonlight that filters through the curtains. She whispers apologies to him, over and over again – not just for lying, but for leaving, for not explaining, for cutting and running right when she needed him most. She knows he can’t hear her, that he wouldn’t want to, wouldn’t let her blame herself, but it makes her feel better.

At five, just as the sky is beginning to lighten, her phone rings. It had slipped between the two of them in the middle of the night, and the vibrating wakes Bellamy as well. Clarke rockets upright and answers it, her other hand clutched in her short blonde hair. Sitting up, Bellamy rubs a hand up and down her spine, attempting to hide the anxiety clawing at his chest. He has to be strong, for her. Her half of the conversation is just “yeah”s and “okay”s and finally, a “thank you. I love you, keep me posted.” She hangs up, and then turns and throws her arms around his neck. “She’s stable. She’s gonna be okay.”

Bellamy holds on tight, feeling her press her smile against his shoulder, where her lips always find their way, where they belong. He lets out his own sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he sighs. Madi had started to take the place of Octavia in his heart, in terms of brotherly affection, and he had his own worry for her. “Oh thank fucking christ.” And then suddenly, they’re both laughing.

She pulls away, puts her hands on his face like she had the night before. “She’s gonna be okay,”

She laughs, and her smile is almost blinding. Clarke is his sunlight, his hope in the dark, and every time she smiles, he’s reminded of it. Her laugh is disbelieving, but bubbling and radiant. She stands up on her knees, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist. “Oh my god!” she says, like it’s finally sinking in, “She’s really gonna be okay!” She tries to jump up and down on her knees, but only succeeds in destabilizing herself and falling onto Bellamy, pushing him backwards onto the bed.

He lets out a yell of fake indignation and rolls over, running his fingers up and down her sides with ruthless tickles. She squirms and shouts, still laughing, and as the sun creeps up over the buildings, they forget the past six months. In this moment, they never broke. They never spent too much time alone, thinking of the other. Clarke never pushed him away. Bellamy never let her. In this moment, there is only the early morning sun, and their impossible laughter, and the small victory of temporary relief.

Finally, when Clarke is breathless and tears are starting to leak from her eyes, Bellamy stops the torture and leans in to kiss her, long and deep. She tangles her fingers in his hair and can’t stop smiling against his lips, as these last hours have brought her more happiness than she could have ever imagined. She wraps her legs around his waist and tries to pull him closer, but he pulls away. “Wait –” he says. With his hair impossibly messy like that, his lips shining and his cheeks flush, it’s the last thing she wants to do, but she stops. His eyes are wild, and she can tell he wants this as much as she does, but something is (barely) holding him back. “Why did you call me?” They both knew there were several other people she could have called, people that definitely would not have brought even more emotional baggage to the table.

Her heart jumps to the base of her throat, a blush rising in her cheeks. It’s stupid, and embarrassing, and she hides her nervous chuckle in his shoulder. “It’s stupid,” she says. He rolls off her (unfortunately), and settles next to her on his side.

“Tell me,” he urges, holding her hand when she places it over his heart.

She focuses on her palm against his bare chest, the heat of him, the contrast of their skin. “Remember when we met at that like – peer mentor thing, and you had to give us all your phone number?” Bellamy nods, remembering the day they met. Clarke was a new freshman, Bellamy a sophomore who had somehow landed a position as a peer mentor for Arcadia University’s honors program ‘freshman experience.’ His contempt for the position had been obvious, and none of his students had liked him, and vice versa. The ‘mentor feedback’ forms from that year ensured it was a one-time gig for him. It wasn’t until he and Clarke met at a party several months later that they discovered they actually liked each other. “Well, I uh…” a smile tugs at one corner of her mouth, and she taps her fingertips against his chest. “I put you in my phone as ‘raging asshole.’”

He barks out a laugh, and she hurries to correct the situation, her hands fluttering as he curls forward with the force of his surprise. “I changed it when we started dating!” she insists. He shakes his head, waving her off, gesturing for her to continue her story. “Well, after we, uh –” she doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to hear her say it. “Well, after, I changed it back. And then, last night, I was trying to call Raven, and I hit your number instead.”

“So… it was an accident?” he asks, wondering why he feels disappointed.

“I guess,” she says. But then; “But you picked up the phone, and I realized – it was you, I wanted here. It was you I needed.” He surges forward to kiss her again, and when she pulls him closer, he doesn’t stop.

After, when they’re laying skin-to-skin and the morning has taken over the room, Clarke looks up at Bellamy from where she’s laying on his chest. Soft golden light filters through the curtains and falls across his relaxed, pensive face, setting his bronze skin aglow, turning his deep brown eyes into liquid amber. His fingers are drawing absent patterns across her skin, and she’s sated and safe and happy. “Bellamy?” she asks, easy, but still worried at the answer.

“Yeah?” he responds, adjusting his position so he can look her in the eyes.

It almost stops her heart, that this beautiful man can be so good, and come back to her again. “Do you –” she pauses to heave a deep breath. “Do you think you could love me again?”

His face softens, and he brings a hand up to pull her chin up, giving her a sweet, slow kiss. “Don’t you know?” he says, “I never stopped.”

#bellarke #bellarke fic #the 100 #the 100 fic #bellarke au #bellarke modern au #bellarke college au #the 100 modern au #the 100 college au #answered #prompt fill #anon #thank you so much for the prompt very sorry it took so long

38 notes · View notes

phoena12 · 7 years ago

Note

Cuphead: “I’m not always a good person, but I do regret what I’ve done to good people. You’re kind enough to forgive me and I thank you for that. But I don’t deserve it.”

im sorry this took me so long to get to ^^”

The ground is cold and damp beneath Dice’s tired body, theeffort to move and curl up into a ball for warmth is too much a trial and so helays there placidly, awaiting the embrace of death. He’s pretty sure that’simpossible for him but hey, a guy can hope. As he slips in and out ofconsciousness, wicked flames filling his vision one second and then to thelarge expanse of stars littering the sky another, he wonders if it’d be worseto end up in one of hell’s many circles. He knew all of the circles by heart ofcourse, having to dump many souls down there after, ahem, paying their debts. None of them went willingly of course, which iswhy it was such a relief when two idiot children entered his fine establishmentand meddled with the big boss.

Dice manages a painedsmirk, his lips splitting and small drops of blood forming along the seams. Itwas funny, almost hilarious even, when those two boy’s had come with theunmistaken naivety and innocence that youth brought through the smoke filledlobby. All eyes were oblivious to their entrance, coughing and splutteringthrough the initial intake of smoke as they were, save him and his assholeco-worker who had rushed to his side to tell him of them. No wonder there wasso much damn smoke in the casino. He’d set the boy’s up for a game and let themwin the first few times. It was only after the tenth game, when he’d startedthrowing out baits and using extra cards that despite his excelled proficiency,he was still losing. He’d silently admit to himself, he was impressed.

Then the Devil had stepped in and all else had gone seeminglyuphill from there. Dice’s life was made easier. Just keep an eye on the brats.Make sure they got the contracts and gave them to him. If they died? Make suretheir souls went straight to hell. It was easywork. The duo had steadily made their way through debtors and collected all thecontracts with a few cuts and bruises for the ride. By the time the two hadcrossed over onto the third isle though? Well that was when things started tounnerve him. Just how strong were these kids? That question was soon answeredwith the ensuing battle going in the boy’s favour and his beloved casinocrumbling and setting alight. They had fooled everyone.

Dice opens a bruised eye, his vision swaying and coloursshifting into each other, as he hears the soft tread of feet. His breathe, slowand ragged, puffs into the chill air as he surmises this is the end for him. Hewouldn’t put it past someone to end him right here and now, for all the sins he’scommitted these years and all the people he’s cheated. The Devil better have agoddamn suite waiting for him down there, or at least a chair. Lying face downin the dirt was rather uncomfortable.

Alas, he isn’t met with the sudden flash of pain that aknife would bring or the numbing crack to his skull. Instead, a quick gaspescapes the person’s mouth, followed by a light touch to his shoulder. He’s notsure what hurts more, the soft spoken “Dice? King Dice are you still there?” orthe gentle shake of his shoulders because both actions are too sweet a sentimentfor the likes of him. The strangers tone is familiar and filled to the brimwith worry and caution. The insistent shake of his shoulders that beckons himto stay awake and stay here and not to give up. He doesn’t move. He can’tactually move anyways but plays dead so that this kind person will just snuffat his dead body and move on.

They don’t, obviously, because the world just loves to playtricks on him. His mind is swirling a little now, the once far away starsunnervingly close to him and the ground seeming to shrink away. He doesn’t hearthe stranger call for someone, until another pair of feet come stampeding hisway. The ground shaking, or so it seems, as the called person in questionshouts with confusion “king dice!”. Oh boy, he definitely recognises that toneand suddenly it’s all too clear who is trying to help him and who is chargingtheir way to his battered self.

He curses inwardly, swearing hatred to any and all gods thathe can manage to think of. He grits his teeth slightly as the shyer of the twoboys greets his brother and voices his concern. He wants the ground to swallowhim up. Right now preferably. He shifts his body, gauging his strength andholds back a strangled groan. It catches the boy’s attention and soon enough Cuphead’svoice is in his ears.

“Are you dead?” directly to the point as always and hewishes he was dead. His doesn’t answer Cuphead’s question and when the silencestretches on too long for the boy’s patience, the young cup kicks him in theside. It’s not a very strong kick, more of a poke really and something thatshouldn’t have had Dice scream out in pain, bloodshot eyes wide and tremblinghands covering his abdomen. Fucking kid! The boys are bickering between eachother, worry, regret and anger warring in their voices as Dice’s vision blursand his breathe goes shallow. His body is numb and cold and he lets go. Worriedshouts going over him in waves, small hands shaking him but failing to rousehim. He lets the waiting fires envelop him and with a last thought to thisworld, hopes there is a goddam chair waiting for him.

~~0~~

He’s lost in a dream, one that fills his mind and makes nosense to his tired self, the colour green being prominent all around him, abackdrop of orange and red slowly fading into the distance. The sky is filledwith coins, spinning and twinkling, he tries to reach his hand out and grab onebut finds he can’t move at all. He gives up and stares at the sky for a while.Dice thinks it’s very pretty and wants to keep staring endlessly at it. Thereare voices too, though he can’t make any sense of them, one moment they are byhis ears the next their somewhere else in his dream. The voices mix and minglewith each other, squeaky, stubborn and gruff and then nothing.

Dice smells smoke tooand finds an imp, adorned in a chef’s garb, cooking at the casino’s stoves.It’s a funny picture but makes him worry, Devil never said anything about hisminions being able to cook. As soon as the Devil crosses his mind the improtates its head 360 degrees and Dice is met with two red slits for eyes,flames burning up around the little beast until its body has melted and allthat is left is those eyes. Beckoning. Dice flees that part and finds himselfsurrounded by flower smells and, is that cinnamon? His mind brings up the scentof an old cologne that he used to wear, one his father let him borrow.

Why is his fatherhere? He opens his mouth but finds its sown shut. He begins to panic, rockinghis body sluggishly left and right. Long black tentacles wrapping themselvesabout his body, forcing him immobile yet again and then his body wracks withpain. Sharp and hot, it doesn’t seem to end, tears flowing down his cheeks andthe string keeping his mouth closed becomes taut. He expects to wake up, tryingto move or wriggle or something, wanting to wake up. Then his eyes are there,or at least one of them, gleaming blood and malice at him. He knows that eye,tries to beg for mercy or make another deal but he only manages strangled moansthat stick in the back of his throat. It looms forward, a red line cuttingacross the centre and opening to reveal many, many pointed teeth. Saliva and blood drips from the coated maw andslowly envelops Dice’s head. He twists and turns but the Devil closes himselfon Dice, his fangs scissoring through Dice’s skin and skull, before coming tohis neck and snapping it clean offhis body. A guttural growl dripping rich crimson that turns into a throaty andgarbled laugh…

~~0~~

Dice awakes with a gasp, eyes wide and hands scouring hisface. Was he just eaten by an eyeball? What was all that other stuff?? Hebreathes in greedy gulps of air, expecting the creature to come back at anymoment. Once his heart rate is calmed, he looks about his surroundings. Itappeared he was in a room, solid wooden walls and a window that streamed infaint rays of light his initial surveillance. He was also in a bed; a softcomforter placed on the mattress, fluffed pillows and a slightly worn duvet ontop.

Despite the smell ofmedicine that coated the quilt and the, pattern(could he call it that? it looked more like a few half assed crocheted lines tohim) that adorned the centre of the duvet, it was better than a chair. Which hestill fully expected of course because this was still a dream. He thinks? Henotices a Chester drawer with some rather ancient looking antiques sitting atopit. Beside him is a bedside table; a series of medicine bottles (no wonder itstank like a hospital in here), rolls of bandages scattered about, an empty cupand a lone wooden chair with a green cushion on it.

Hah! See? He knew at least a chair would be waiting for himin hell, it didn’t explain any of the other things in the room but Dice ispretty smug about getting that much right. He eyes the medicine bottles andgoes to reach for one. He then notices the bandages strapped about his arm likea snake, small blotches of red showing through. Some of the events from theprevious night come streaking back to him. Calm, collected and preparing for afight he knew he would win. Losing that fight. Being turned on. His casinofalling like an uneven stack of cards. So much fire that spurted from theground and engulfing everything. He gets a headache just remembering it. Dicedoesn’t think he’s in hell, there’s no fire, no brimstone and no cackling imps.

No Devil.

So where the hell was he?

He doesn’t have to think long on it before he hears thesubtle creak of wooden flooring as someone makes their way up the stairs. He shiftsin the bed, straightening his back and awaits whatever horrors would greet him.

It’s much worse than he expected.

A grumbling and wheezing tone first puzzles its way intoDices mind, his guard lowering a bit, he cocks his head a little at the noise. Itcertainly didn’t sound like either of the two cup brothers. He was dealing withan old man? Perhaps his “saviour” was on the weaker side, which worked well inhis favour. He may be injured and indebted to this person but that didn’t meanDice had any notions of staying here. Just more water under the bridge. Except itwasn’t just any old man. As the huffing figure comes bumbling through the door,a tray with steaming tea on it, Dice knows there’s no way out of this one.

“Ah, you’re awake!” Elder Kettle greets, the tray In handshaking with his enthusiasm, he shuffles over to Dice, ignoring the pointedstare and lowered brows.

“I’d rather be dead” Dice grumbles, rubbing his temple.

“Well, had the boys not found you when they did, you surelywould be” Kettles catches the quip and throws it back at Dice, stern gaze andsturdy frown following suit. Kettle places the tray on the bed side table,knocking bottles and bandages over and drags the wooden chair backwards a bit,sits in it heavily and straightening, steam puffing out of his nose. “So…” hebegins, gnarled fingers clasped together and gazing heavily on Dice, “…justwhat did you think you were doing?”

It’s an odd question, given how little and how much theelder claims to know and from Dices past experiences with the man, he decides it’sbetter not to tangle with him at this moment. The barb still hits though. Did Kettle know the control that the Devilstill held over Dice? Did he see the claw marks that stretched unevenly at hisskin? “How much does he know?” burns in his mind.

Dice scoffs, “what ah thought best” and leaves theconversation at that, looking askance out the window. Or he tries to but Kettlehas none of it and with a tone Dice didn’t believe possible of the antique.

“You thought it best to lie face down in the dirt and letthe world win? You thought it best to allow the Devil into your mind and fillyou with his nightmares?” a pause and a sceptical glance from Dice “I know,son, I know. He beat you and moulded you into his plaything. He made you intowhat you are, an extravagant and foolish child” Elder Kettle levels his gaze toDice, who looks about ready to explode.

Kettle continues his onslaught “you hurt people Dice, goodpeople, bad people but people all the same” Dice wants to sink into the groundand never come out, he hates how soft and commanding his tone is. Reassuring himto speak his mind but not overstep his boundaries. “You tortured souls andcheated people” Dice already knows this. Kettle knows this so why bring it up? Rubsalt into the wound why doesn’t he. Dice inwardly scoffs and decides this is apretty fucked up hell, even by the Devils standards. Kettle leans forward andplaces a rough hand on Dices softer one and looks earnestly at the broken man. “You’vecheated death and survived in a world full of deceit and hate and yet I don’t seethat spark in you anymore.”

“Get to the point” Dice snarls and snatches his hand back. Alittle freaked out by the man’s soft words and reassuring gestures, Dicesurmises this is all a trick.

Kettle sighs heavily and wrings his hands together, like a parenttiring of telling their child the same thing over and over. “You’re free nowKingsley, it’s time you forgive yourself, just like me and the boys have”. It catchesDice off for sure, makes his heart shrivel up inside himself further.

“I’m not a good person, I regret the things that I’ve doneto good people” Dice begins his voice shaking a bit, “you’re kind enough toforgive me and I thank you for that” a forced grin and a broken smile graceshis features as he looks levelly at Kettle, “but I don’t deserve it” his voicebreaks at the end and he fights back the tears he knows begs to break free.

“Ah, Dice…” Kettle shakes his head.

And that seems to end the conversation, Dice sits rigidly onthe bed expecting another line of truths to come hurtling from Kettle but theold man fumbles with the now luke warm tea, adding a sachet of powder to it andoffering it to Dice. Dice accepts the medicine and splutters at the bittertaste. Kettle rises from his chair and walks over to the window, gazing out athis boys in the garden. They had been quite forward in getting Dice someflowers to make him feel better. Such sweet boys.

“…maybe one day…” he hears Dice mumble between sips of tea. Kettlegrins and settles his eyes back outside the window. One day indeed.

~~0~~

“WE GOT YOU FLOWERS!!!”

Dice is abruptly awoken by two bustling bodies bursting intohis room and shoving an array of different coloured flowers in his face. He swearsand tries to back away from the flowery onslaught but the kids are relentless.

“Mine are the best Dice! Look look! They got real prettycolours!” Cuphead shouts over the noise of literally nothing else and shoveshis vibrant gifts at Dice. He eyes the bunch, and he assumes they would bebrightly coloured had Cuphead not grabbed the flowers by the head, the brokenstems and lack of petals a stern indicator.

“Hey mine are pretty too! These’ll make Dice better!” Mugmansqueaks, a small pout on his face at being second to show his bunch of flowersto Dice. At least he doesn’t shove them into Dice’s face, the array of whiteand pink a soothing sight, almost. Being awaken by two screaming children isnot ideal for his health. His head now swimming and vision blurring.

“So which bunch d’’ya like best?” the boys ask in unison. Godthat’s creepy.

Dice doesn’t really get a chance to say, not that he wouldpick anyways, before he faints and sinks back into a fireless sleep.

…

“Elder Kettle!! Cuphead broke Mr Dice!!!” the younger boytattles and takes off out the room.

“With affection this time!” Cuphead shouts indignantlyfollowing his brother and leaving Dice to his slumber.

#cuphead don't deal with the devil #King Dice #Cuphead #Mugman #Elder Kettle #King Dice needs a goddamn hug guys #Also sweet boys are super sweet #and flowers make people better confirmed XD

12 notes · View notes

wristic · 8 years ago

Text

Yellow Light

Pairing: Loki X (frost elemental-Inhuman) Reader Word Count: 3500 Warnings: Precious touch starved babies

-Part 1- -Part 2- -Part 3-

Inspired and elaborated from this headcanon prompt, also this song cause I love this song pertaining anything to Loki

@belloangelus @duckgirl16 @badbitsh13 @emislayyyy74 @ivarinleatherpants @cazycurlyhairgirl @byzantium-glytch

Your abilities of ice and snow have never entirely been within your control. Skin so cold it freezes anything it touches, you’ve been left alone and craving a connection as any Inhuman would, finding the end of your forced seclusion not from a friend like you always imagined, but an enemy.

The jet rumbled a little, not enough to cause concern with anyone. Though what did cause concern was that he hadn’t stopped staring at you. Either you didn’t notice or you were ignoring him, picking the small bits of rubble that got stuck to your snowy suit, the pieces that dropped to the ground and misting in the warm air, and holding Loki enraptured. Something like you shouldn’t exist here, it showed in the way no one stood by you, and he had many question.

“Tell me,” you still didn’t look up, still picking away at the tiny debris frozen to you from the fight. “How does a Midgardian come by the ability of ice?”

The moment the element slipped from his lips your eyes jumped to his, rigid as the jet bounced again. “Midgardian?”

“Human.” he smiled.

Your brow furrowed, not looking at anyone else as you went back to cleaning. “By being a punk and messing around in abandoned military outposts.”

“I’m not sure what that means.” he did, but he wanted more. It didn’t help you were an open book, closing yourself in more, uncomfortable in your own skin on such a simple question.

“I touched something I shouldn’t have and it rewired my DNA. If you understand what that means.”

Loki calculated his next response, wedging himself further into your discomfort, but he played it off like a harmless blurt. “So, you're not human anymore?”

The look you gave him, the sheer amount of pain manifesting in a defensive glare, the way The Man of Iron stepped up warning like he was ready to knock Loki unconscious rather than let him utter another word, this was a fact that tore you to pieces and everyone knew it. It was your weakness.

With a smirk Loki didn’t apologize, locking that wonderful piece of information away, looking at you crouched sullenly and forcing yourself to smile in order to calm everyone down. Though the little ego boost didn’t last long, the jet giving a hard jerk as the redhead announced a sudden storm coming. That Thor was coming.

And of course he arrived in the roughest way possible. Yanking him from the plane, tossing him to the ground, yelling but begging him to do the impossible. Come home? There was no home that was his. Not in Asgard, not in Jotunheim. He wanted home he’d have to take it, and take it he was determined to do. But in the most hilarious turn, in an instant, mid conversation, Thor was gone, sailing as the little creatures he was trying to protect fought him for the claim of imprisoning Loki.

In a chuckle he went to go watch the show, every intent on being taken back to a headquarters whether Thor wanted to get involved or not. As he reached the edge, the sound similar to glass cracking snapped in his ears. A seeping chill ripped the breath from his lungs, mist building as large spikes of pale blue ice sprung up in front of his feet, edging him back from the possible escape.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Feeling the cold in his palm and the warmth in the night behind it, he felt like he was holding the Casket of Ancient Winters, felt like if he opened his eyes his hand would be blue and Heimdal would be encased in ice before him, the road shimmering in all its colors, the sound of waves rolling below him. But none of that was there. Only the rocky pinnacle he stood on, a wall of ice before him, and you at his back. Gulping away the unwelcome memory, Loki pulled himself into a half smile as he turned, hands raised and as non-threatening as could be.

A path of snow was behind you, the slide meant to be slick, not durable, to transport you but not remain long enough to stain the scenery. You’d found the heroic stance you let slip on the jet, and he immediately wanted to see it crumble away all over again. See your nerves opened and bare under his silver tongue.

“Its very beautiful,” he glanced to the long thick spikes armed for his throat. “An art all it’s own.”

A hardness seeped into your eyes, an adorable attempt at putting up a wall.

His hands slowly came down, one running down the length of the pillar, so clear cut the reflection of his pale fingers glittered along it. He looked to his fingertips, feeling a tingling as he steadily walked toward you. “I doubt many would see it that way. It’s hard to appreciate something so deadly and so… different.”

Looking to you, you were steel gazed, ready for anything. Yet as he continued to step closer, you glanced down at his encroaching proximity, actually taking a step back as he started to feel the temperature steadily drop. “You really are such a fascination...”, he reached to you and you flinched, hard.

“I won’t hurt you.” he reassured, such honesty and openness Loki played in his face.

“That’s not what I’m afraid of.” a crackle seeped into your voice, a magnificent show of vulnerability just for him, your enemy.

With an earnest, sympathetic grin, he pushed forward anyway, feeling the air drop sharply with every inch closer. Yet when his fingers brushed your cheek, where the cold should have been harsh enough to burn, it simply tingled to let him know how much damage could be done to anyone but a beast bred for such a climate. So much so the tips of his fingers started fading to a deep pale blue. Loki watched his hand slowly shift, more curious in it then how still you remained under his caress, him resting his palm on your cheek, brushing back behind your ear and down to cradling your neck under the thick collar of your suit.

But the glance he did give you, made his wonder stop entirely. Lips parted in reverence, eyes wide with bewilderment, pulse hitting hard under his palm. Loki lifted his thumb and trailed along your jaw, watching your breath hitch, gaze transfixed in his.

The ringing slam from below the mountain startled you out of his reach, Loki quickly reeling back to avoid you noticing the true color creeping up his neck.

While he hid his hand, Loki couldn’t help but notice how short your breath was, your eyes dodging frantically. Again it was a wonderful boost to his ego as you fretted with the speaker in your ear, demanding Natasha to hurry up. You couldn’t look at him, your gloves whining as you twisted your fingers. There was war waging in your expression, one that made him wonder what he could get away with on touch alone.

It was so quiet these days. After Ultron and the Avengers falling apart, this giant tower was so empty, echoing the harshness everyone had done and said to one another. You held yourself a little tighter, dreaming away into the sunset of orange and yellow above the city. Staring out into the sun you peeled off a thick white and shimmery glove, reaching out into the heat of the light. As you drew closer the window fogged more and more, the sun dimming, a thin pattern of ice starting to form as your fingers touched the glass.

Before the tips stuck to it, you retracted, watching the sun slowly glitter through the cold spot, the ice and mist turning into water, a drip trickling down from the bloom of gold behind it.

“It’s beautiful.”

Startling, you whipped your head around only to find the one of two janitors allowed on the upper levels. Rubis was an older gentlemen, always ready to offer you a conversation from the shadows, keeping his distance healthy as he should. Seeing his gentle smile you returned it, playing with the glove instead of putting it back on.

“Also more work for you, I’m sorry.” you took a few steps just to let him know you were interested in keeping a conversation, but made sure to not chill him too bad.

“It’s no problem. I like watching the patterns slowly fade away. I take pictures sometimes.” you couldn’t help the flattery, dipping your head and trying to hide your smile. Worry still fell over him, “I-I hope that’s not inappropriate. I know I’m not asking- is it weird of me to do? The crystals are just so-”

“Never hurts to be appreciated.” you mumbled.

Rubis was handsome for his older age, tall even steps away, black hair peppering grey and pushed back under his hat, clean shaven and sharp features, charming laugh lines in the corner of his green eyes. He smiled in relief and your heart flipped.

The elevator dinged catching both of your attention, and a certain God of Thunder came stomping in with a bright smile and big open arms, calling your name.

“Thor!” one of the very few you’d known could stand you, your body technically. Rubis took back further in the shadows, being forgotten as you jumped into the old friends arms in a tight hug. “I missed you!”

As you slipped down you noticed the trail of frost you were leaving on his Earthly clothes. Yanking your hand back with an embarrassed, “Sorry.” you quickly slipping the glove back on, already missing the feel of heat under your palm.

“Its nothing.” he chuckled, not bothering to acknowledge it. Just one of the many things you loved about him.

Shyly spinning your toe into the floor, you asked, “I don’t know if you have the time, but maybe I could make you a drink and you can tell me what brings you to this lonely little corner of the galaxy?”

His eyes fell a little, his smile looking strained. Clearly someone had told Thor what happened if the joke didn’t go by him, Jane assuming. Instead of asking he nodded, “I’d like that.”

You always cherished his company above all others. His hide was thicker than anyone from Earth, letting you sit in the seat next to him, not shivering uncontrollably, occasionally patting your back as he laughed. You got that it still stung when his skin touched yours directly but he could hide it well. It had been so long since you were normal. Since anyone touched you without their skin burning a charred black, ice climbing up on it’s own to kill more of the flesh. Since you could feel the heat as their thigh accidentally brushed yours. Since you could almost taste the drink on their breath as they leaned close to whisper for exaggeration.

You didn’t know if was obvious how hard you swooned over Thor’s proximity. If it was he at least seemed to appreciate it. Or maybe he felt bad for you. Again you couldn’t possibly know either way and didn’t care as long as he didn’t leave.

And he stayed for quite awhile, longer than someone just catching up. Maybe because so many of the Avengers were in hiding, both of you distracting each other from the sad fact the team was split. You did your best to keep yourself at tipsy, alcohol had a hard time dissolving in your cold blood, but Thor was having no issue in throwing back the drinks. You two talked about the first time you teamed up. You talked about your own personal quest to find more about the Inhuman’s, meeting with secretly not dead Phil Coulson and a woman similar to you named Daisy and her ability to shake the earth. Thor talked of a place called Jotunheim and how you could be a Queen there, how you could make the desolate wasteland into something so beautiful with your abilities.

You didn’t even know how late in the night it was, not caring either as you almost laughed out of your seat. Thor held you back into sitting, laughing before you both caught your breath and a long pause filled the balcony room.

“I should go.”

You perked up, “Oh no no! Tony made a room for you here if you're tired!”

He chuckled, lifting from his seat, “No, I’d best return to Jane. She knows I have a lot of catching up to do but I don’t want to spend too much time away, I only have so much.”

“Right.” you whispered, trying so hard to keep your gloom back.

A hand fell on your shoulder with a reassuring squeeze, “They’ll come back around. We’re stronger together, they have to see that.”

You nodded, a small bit of relief he mistook his leave for a more generalized loneliness. Saying your goodbyes, you hung around the door, still smelling his scent linger and taunt you with the sudden absence of closeness. It may be years before you’d get that heat again, the connection from one person to the next.

“It’s funny… how desperate we can be when we find ourselves alone.” you spun around, shocked to find Rubis at the bar, downing your unfinished drink. You thought he would have left LONG ago, was he really in the room the whole time? Pulling back the glass, he set it down with a chuckle aimed at you. “It’s also adorable how weak your tolerance is.”

You took a ready stance, trying to disguise it by holding yourself from the discomfort dripping off him in waves. He always seemed so nice.

As he walked to you, boots sounding heavy in the thick air, a glimmer took over his form. Average beige janitorial clothes turning extravagant and elegant, gold armor and green silk shaped for royalty. Youth glowing into his face and hands, his hair turning jet black and stretching down to his shoulders.

Before you stood Loki, God of Mischief, so confident this wouldn’t end with him in a cage.

“What did you do with Rubis?” you gritted.

He gestured to himself, “Right here, all along. You didn’t really think a man could have that clean of a record did you?”

Reeling back in disgust, you hated how his looming figure made it seem like you had nowhere to go. For a man who dreamed of being a king, a part of you did relent he held himself well enough, he could summon that presence, tricking you into feeling like you didn’t have the option to fight. It was a wonder why on earth you hadn’t flung him across the room already.

His hand moved to you, close in a way you instinctively flinched back in worry of the danger you imposed. You made the mistake once, never again. Looking up at him Loki smiled, inching closer anyway until he took your hand. “You don’t deserve to be so lonely, pinning for the affection of people who can’t see you, care enough to know you.”

You went to refute when the glove started sliding off. You looked down at him revealing your arm, letting the invented cloth drop to the floor. Again you tried to fight your desperate want for touch, tried to open your mouth to argue him but he ran his bare fingers down the underside of your forearm, almost tickling past your wrist and palm. You gulped watching his skin reveal itself a pale dark blue as his fingers turned your hand over. You looked up in worry there would be agony in his features, that your touch was killing him, but like before he only met your eyes under his lashes, tilting his head in your wonderment.

Loki loomed closer, you with nowhere to go as you pressed back into the wall. At any moment you could lash out, but his fingers gently kneading into your hand lulled you, pulling up dread of the consequences if you did fight him off. He’d leave. He’d stop touching you, and all those years, only the smallest of contact from Thor where Loki here and now touched you like he wanted to.

His eyes dropped to your lips as your sigh ghosted around his. It seemed he couldn’t help the smile as you patiently, turning expectantly waited for him to close the distance. Still holding your hand as a reminder this wouldn’t end in screaming if you didn’t want it to.

The kiss was so gentle, so aware of your inexperience and chastity brought on by your ability. You felt something that you hadn’t in a long time, warmth inside. It didn’t matter who it was from, just that it could happen, that your loneliness wasn’t so assured anymore and you cherished that idea. All thoughts of fighting were gone from you as he pulled back just a fraction, breaking it and testing to see if you wanted him to continue. You did, terribly and wrongfully you wanted the feel of lips on you again.

Your eyes still closed, feeling his breathing on your lips, hesitantly, you slipped your hand from his, flinching at the first bare contact on his cheek before finding the ease to run your fingers along his soft and oddly cold skin. Licking your lips in anticipation, you brought yourself to him, returning the kiss in a tender uncertainty.

Every kiss ended in a tease from his side, giving you the option to stop as each one broke, getting a kick out of every taunt ending with you falling deeper into him, willing to touch him more. When your body came to press against his Loki finally deepened the kisses, wrapping an arm around your waist and the other holding your neck to give you something you’d been craving since before the turn, passion.

You drank in everything he could possibly offer, still grabbing on for more you had no possible idea how far you’d take it if he kept giving himself. Like a wave receding, there was a moment of slowing, this savoring that threatened to open your eyes and bring you back to sanity, or you supposed what he thought was sanity as he stiffened, waiting for you to see.

You’d seen your fair share of strange things, you were a strange thing yourself, but you simply hadn’t been expecting to be looking into pools of deep dark red, as red as blood, surrounded in a blue that made you think of mountains just after sundown. His eyes held into yours with a sort of disappointed expectancy, black pupils looking to his hand on your neck, pulling his palm open to see his own shade. It occurred to you the shift may have been involuntary. While you didn’t know what it really meant you knew he was a Frost Giant by the lore, maybe he’d been hiding this whole time, maybe this was what he really looked like under the illusions. You caught him smiling, not reaching his eyes where you saw the resentment, and nearly pull back from you.

Your hands held firm, the unclothed one still at the back of his neck, nestled in his still pitch black hair that stayed soft, not clumping in thick strands just because of the frost that was suppose to claim it. Your hesitance to let him go was clearly not calculated if his face was anything to go by. Loki remained perfectly still as you brought your lips to his again anyway.

There was pain and mistrust in his features as he was still rigid holding you when you pulled back. You didn’t mind, both your hands pulling his face into your kiss.

The rate at which he returned it, a wall in him knocked down unleashing something more savage and raw, pulling and tugging on you in a much different way than before. Each kiss was devouring, needy was the word you would describe it, and you loved it. It may have felt warm before, but now you were glowing, his hands roaming you and stirring in a heat that had you shivering. Loki searched out the notches in your clothes to feel more of your bare skin and you keened into the clawing touch, you squirming with how sensitive your skin was, so parched of a soft hand.

He practically had you off the floor from embracing and grabbing at you, making you wonder how FRIDAY hadn’t set off an alarm and called anyone. It was still so silent in the room save for the erotic sounds between you.

Your hand cupped his face as he withdrew, looking into the red pools of his quickly turning mischievous eyes. Compared to before you didn’t see it so much as devious, but playful, even as he remained near demonic looking, brushing your face and cupped your neck one last time as he whispered promises like a demon would. “You could come with me. I could make you a queen, it doesn’t have to be some fantasy.”

The offer of titles, riches, power, meant absolutely nothing compared to his skin touching yours, his breath on your lips, your hands on him as you pulled him into one last savoring kiss, entirely terrified it would be the last.

“You could always have this.” he cooed as it broke.

You couldn’t answer, your breath hitching as the temptation to say yes pulled up your chest. He looked so beautiful in all his blue, cold and dark, but beautiful. The green and golds didn’t fit him in the least with such a shade. You wanted to see him in white like you wore, you thought he’d look best against snow white.

When he pulled back from you, you refused to raise your hands from him, your fingers sliding down his arms, curling in his hands. As he backed away, he let you follow, hold onto him, gaze into his teasing yet reassuring face. You couldn’t think straight, the drink still buzzing in your system, now mixed with the euphoria of having someone to place all your affections.

A portal similar to the one erupting in the sky all those years ago, opened before him, a personal size and shimmering gold, the scene on the other side blurred entirely yet very active and dark.

“Last chance.” His fingers wiggled in yours.

You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t of let him even get this far. His promise taunted you, years, decades might go by before you could have someone again, perhaps never again. Yet here Loki of all people stood, before you, now, holding you so easily, so darkly. With his deep blue skin and blood red eyes the temptation sounded obviously the bad choice but the idea of the taboo and adventure only taunted you further in your drunken lustful haze.

With a squeeze of his hand, you stepped forward to his side.

You were going to regret this later.

#loki #loki imagine #loki x reader #Avengers #avengers imagine #my stuff #Yellow Light #I feel like there should be way more tags but I can't think of any #So does Loki count as apart of the Sexy Blue Alien trope?

395 notes · View notes

glitchinthesystemspiderbyte · 7 years ago

Text

[38] Glitch in the System - The Sound of Silence (Crossroads pt. 1)

By E.

A 3-parter based on a prompt by @thatoneshortbandgeek. It’s not EXACTLY what you asked, but we have a similar story in the works so I tweaked a few details. Hope you enjoy it! :)

Some hard truth happens. _

“You’re sending me to go get paperwork?”

Sombra stood before Akande, face contorted in indignation. It had been almost a month since their failed infiltration, and she’d beenatoning ever since. She got it; she fucked up. Even she agreed that she fucked up. What else did she need to do to prove her penitence?

Akande sat at his desk, fingers steepled in a typical show of removed professionalism, regarding her distantly. “I am. Locate, acquire, and destroy. That’s your mission.”

She looked at him petulantly, reflexively unwilling to perform a task so glaringly below her abilities. “You want me to scan a repository of old files,” she repeated slowly back to him, “and then what - set it on fire? Tear them up piece by piece?”

“I am certain you’ll figure out a creative method for removing the evidence,” he replied evenly, unfazed by her annoyance. “Once you have acquired digital copies.”

“Then you need an omnic and a cleaning crew, Akande, not me.”

“I want you on this mission specifically, Sombra,” he insisted, not cracking in the slightest.

“I’m the world’s best hacker.”

“And the world’s worst teammate,” he replied without missing a beat. The tide of guilt she’d been slowly dealing with over the past few weeks, that she’d tried to ignore for the sake of the holidays, came flooding back from the cave she’d banished it to. It was, perhaps, the only thing strong enough to override her indignation at the task given her: collect literal paperwork from a thousand-year-old German castle Talon once employed as a base of operations in its post-Omnic Crisis infancy. It wasn’t even important paperwork - Akande just wanted someone to clean up an old mess, and was using it as a way for her to prove her loyalty. Truth was, as always, that she didn’t give two shits about Talon, but she did care about Widowmaker, and right now she couldn’t see much of a difference between the two.

She took a deep breath to steady her voice.

“Fine.”

The trip was easy, but long. So as to avoid any unwanted attention, Akande sent her on a train from Venice through the north of Italy, then Austria, before eventually landing in a small secluded village in the northwest of Germany. It was a 15 hour ride and she’d thought that, perhaps, it would have afforded her a nice break. It was almost like a vacation, and it may have even been enjoyable had she not been dining on a steady diet of frustration, boredom, and guilt. The country was vibrant and the weather ideal as she curled up in an isolated train car, and instead of the respite she’d hoped for, all she could think about was how badly she’d screwed the pooch.

She should have just taken a plane anyway and gotten it over with.

The castle was not difficult to get to, but it also wasn’t a particularly easy trip, either. It was not a tourist destination so much as a place that saw occasional foot traffic, and as a result had largely functioned as a historical site maintained by locals with some funding from the government for the past several decades. It had little to offer in the way of intel and even less to offer in the way of a challenge.

Sighing, Sombra hiked her bag up onto her shoulder and stepped inside the grounds.

If nothing else, the castle was a sight to behold: huge and strangely colorful with sharp angles both inside and out. There was none of the carnage here that had destroyed most of Germany; just typical entropy found in a building that had been standing for a very, very long time. Still, it was a picture of symmetry typical of Renaissance architecture, and something about the stark geometric framework appealed to the hacker’s logical mind. Were she not so deeply frustrated with having to be there in the first place, she may have been inclined to spend more time exploring its depths. As it was, however, she planned on getting in and out as quickly as she could.

“Hello?” she called out, expecting there to be a guard or two stationed at the front door. Akande had implied that she might face some minor resistance, but hand waved it away as “nothing you can’t handle.” Usually, that meant she had carte blanche permission to shut up any witnesses on a permanent basis, but after loudly making her presence known, there didn’t appear to be anyone in the building, so she continued on with only the smallest nod to caution.

The stonework stairs were crumbling - not dangerously, but unappealingly so. Sombra had never been a fan of ancient history. It was cold, dead, and the stories housed within the stone foundations were secrets she couldn’t hope to extract through manipulation or interfacing. The world around her was silent, and there was nothing Sombra hated more than information she couldn’t take for herself.

Looking at the map Gabriel had drawn - literally - on a piece of paper, she couldn’t help but think that this entire mission was just one giant, frustrating trick. Give the hacker a paper map and send her into a glorified library to bring back information that was so unimportant no one had bothered to transcribe it into digital form? She hadn’t thought Gabriel to be quite so petty, but they’d found their personalities intersected in stranger ways before.

Frowning and turning the paper around, she found her general location on the map and headed down the stairs.

The subterranean basement was dark, damp, and deeply uncomfortable. Sombra kept her hand on the wall to guide her until she hit a patch of slime that nearly made her retch; after that, she simply activated her screens and used the light coming off them to better illuminate her passage.

“Thank God,” she muttered as she cleared the last step and into a dimly lit corridor. Someone had strung up a basic network of electric lights. Waving her screens away, she squinted at the map again and continued on.

The archive was easy enough to find: it was the most modern-looking room, with a sign on the door reading “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”

“That’s me,” she sighed, tentatively pushing it open with her palm, wary of reprising the previous slime situation. The door was dry, and she proceeded inside where she immediately noticed that there were boxes and loose papers lying around the room.

Everywhere.

“Well, I’ve come this far,” she sighed. Pulling a chair over from the wall to sit at the desk, she got to work.

Trying to make the best of what was far from an ideal situation, she glanced over the paperwork before her. It was mostly blueprints and old personnel reports filled with names and places that were unimportant to her, but apparently important to Talon. There had to be something in there. Penitence aside, they wouldn’t send her out for nothing. She scanned them dutifully, setting the data aside for the long trip home in which she’d have more than enough time to parse over any nuggets of interesting intel that might be located therein. For the time being, though, she was just a collection bot: flip, scan, store, destroy, repeat.

She worked for hours, diligently marking and shredding the documents she’d looked over while pointedly ignoring the sheer number she hadn’t gotten to yet. Sorting through the papers, she couldn’t keep her exasperated sighs to herself, even though there was no one around to appreciate them. The things she did for…

Well, she wasn’t entirely sure why she was doing this, but here she was regardless.

She was starting to get hungry and considered packing it in for the day and taking a trip to the village for dinner when she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing down the barren hall.

“Finally,” she hissed under her breath, unholstering her weapon. “Thought the only casualty in this little adventure was going to be me.”

She stayed at the desk, unconcerned about the approaching footsteps. Flipping through the paperwork before her, she didn’t even bother looking up when the door opened; she just pointed her gun and yawned.

“I’ll be out of here in a moment, amigo,” she said, scanning in one final paper. When she looked up, she expected to see a terrified guard.

Instead she found herself face to face with three Vishkar.

“Huh,” she said, dropping her weapon in the face of the vastly superior firepower now aimed at her. “Well, shit.”

They put her in the dungeon; in one of the cold, barred cells dotting the subterranean catacombs of the castle. It would have been hilarious had it been anyone else, in any other situation, and with any other niche. Instead, it was perfect, if only in its efficacy in keeping the hacker locked up with no real manner of escaping.

Turns out technology didn’t exist 1000 years ago. Who’d have thought?

Despite this knowledge, Sombra ran her hands along the walls, searching for any frequency at all, any remodeled tech to latch into and exploit, but what she found was pitiful at best. The thick walls of the castle and the remoteness of their location were really cramping her style. She was certain there must have been tech there at some point, but the castle had been unused for so long that it looked as though someone had forgotten to pay the wifi bill. Despite her best efforts, she found nothing save for some tendrils of a connection coming from the village and her own ineffective hot spot hitting dead air.

Still, it was something, and Sombra prided herself in making even the worst situation work in her favor. Using every ounce of finesse she had, she managed, for a brief moment, to hitch onto some connection and make the link to Talon.

“Hey, guys?” she said into her ear piece, reminding herself to be succinct in case the tenuous line she’d leeched onto dropped. “I’m kind of in the shit.”

“Sombra?” came the raspy voice, made harsher by the terrible connection. “What’s wrong?”

Sombra held back a shout of joy. “Gabe? Thank God, there’s practically no connection here. I’m going to need an extraction.”

There was a pause Sombra wasn’t sure to attribute to the poor connection or the palpable incredulity emanating through the call. “You need an extraction,” Gabriel said, voice dry, “from an 11th century medieval castle?”

“They put me in the dungeon. It’s embarrassing.”

She could hear him pinching the bridge of his nose. “You need an extraction from the dungeon of an 11th century medieval castle?”

“I mean I’m not exactly happy about it, but -” “What did you do?”

Sombra frowned, still on her tiptoes and struggling against a growing cramp in her foot. “What do you mean? I did as you asked, Gabe - I went into the woodland of Germany to dig through old papers.”

“I mean what else did you do?” he asked, the unspoken again ringing in her ears.

“What else?” she said, her elation at having reached her team shifting abruptly into anger. “Nothing. I followed the plan, Gabe. Your plan, if I remember correctly. To the T, in fact. No variations on a theme, no heroics, no deceit - I did everything I was told and you sent me into a sleeping den of Vishkar.”

“Vishkar?” he asked, and she could hear him beginning another sentence when their connection was abruptly cut off.

“Ya valió madres,” she hissed, wishing she had something to slam down in anger. She settled for a petulant kick at the dungeon wall, immediately loosing a cascade of dirt and stones. For a moment she wondered if she could somehow dig herself to freedom, but the thought passed as quickly as it had arisen when she realized she was a hacker with no tools and not an excavator.

Finally giving up, she groaned loudly and flopped to the floor, doing what she could to ignore the cold, filthy ground and the chill in the castle air. One of the Vishkar had set up a teleporter, and the glowing portal lay just beyond her reach, the closeness of the lifesaving tech frustrating her all the more. She didn’t know her captors well enough to know whether this had been performed as an act of pettiness or not, but the result was the same regardless. Sombra was, without question, deeply annoyed.

Even worse: she was bored.

With little else to choose from, she began sifting through the files she’d scanned in from the store room, idly flipping through them one after the other, not paying much attention to them as they passed until one in particular caught her eye. She paused after flipping past it, scanning backwards to reexamine it. It was a photograph from the early years of Talon’s infrastructure, showing all the formative members around a table.

And there, at the center, next to Moira O’Deorain and Maximilian, was Sanjay.

“No mames,” she exclaimed under her breath, fingers flying as she cross-referenced the old photo with the rest of her database. Of course she’d suspected it - she’d been through Talon’s database ten times by that point - but she’d never seen actual, undeniable proof.

It was almost enough to distract her from the rumbling her her stomach. Cackling to herself, she perused the rest of the files, bookmarking things to come back to and backing everything up when she was done. Maybe this little trip had borne fruit after all. All she needed now was to get out and savor it.

It seemed like forever before she finally heard the soft whoosh of the teleporter being activated. A woman stepped through: tall, elegant, head held high as the man who came after her spoke in low tones, all the while casting Sombra several not so subtle looks.

“Thik hai,” the man said, sighing loudly enough that Sombra could hear him, “lekin jaldi karo.”

“Zarur,” she replied. The man looked over at her once more before stepping back into the teleporter, the ethereal blue mist within grasping his body and pulling him out of sight in the space of a second.

The woman approached her cell with little concern, knowing full well Sombra was harmless in her current state. Her gun, of course, had been taken, and there was little she could do about her situation. Her translocators were too big to fit through the bars and she certainly wasn’t squeezing out herself. No, she was right and truly stuck, and it was obvious to an embarrassing degree.

“Sombra,” she said, hands clasped behind her back. “It appears as though you are somewhat - how should I say?” She paused, tapping her chin. “Ah, yes. Impotent, in your current situation.”

“You don’t have to be crass about it.”

Satya smiled; her mouth set in a thin, pert line that was equal parts prim and pretentious. “I would have figured the world’s greatest hacker might be a bit more difficult to capture.”

“Yeah, well, I would have figured the world’s greatest hacker wouldn’t be digging through dead trees for data no one actually gives a shit about, and yet here we are,” she said, standing and walking slowly toward the cage, emphasizing each step. “Face. To. Face.”

Curling her hands around the bars, she brought her face as close as she could get to the gap between them, smiling mischievously. “You know we can talk a lot more easily without these bars in the way,” she said, tapping her nails against them as she spoke. “Woman to woman. Let me look at that fancy teleporter over there.” She nodded her head at the glowing portal and winked. “Oye, I could make it sing for you, Satya.”

The woman flinched at her name, looking at her with such a deep distaste that Sombra couldn’t help but laugh. “What did I ever do to you?” the hacker asked, half facetiously. She knew what she’d done and she knew why the Architech wanted to speak with her.

“You stole my technology.”

At least they were on the same page.

“Stole is such a harsh word. You clearly still have it,” she said, pointing through the bars at the teleporter. “So what’s the big deal?”

Satya was trying her best to remain impassive, but the physical effort it was taking to maintain her composure ruined any chance of her appearing nonplussed. She took a step closer, hands still held stoically behind her back, approaching just within Sombra’s reach. Sombra had no intention of harming her, but Satya didn’t know that. It was a power move.

“You took my creation,” she said, hitting each dental with the harsh plosive nature of her native tongue. “You took it and you changed it.”

Sombra narrowed her eyes thoughtfully at the Architech, assessing the creases in her brow and the slow dawning anger in her face for the truth behind her words. It was there, dancing in the cracks of her expression - she just needed to catch it.

“Sí, verdad - a few tweaks here, some alterations to the base code and hard light structure. I just fixed a couple errors was all,” she said, shrugging casually while keeping her eyes fixed to the woman’s face. “Nothing’s perfect.”

It was the final jab, she figured, that got far enough under Satya’s skin that her true feelings showed. Her expression flickered the slightest bit, her eyes shifting for just long enough for the hacker to realize what was actually bothering her.

It was not that Sombra had stolen her tech; it was that she had deigned to improve upon it.

“I mastered the art of manipulating hard light,” Satya said, voice low and steady, but with a nearly-imperceptible quaver to it that Sombra picked out like the melody of a complicated orchestral piece. “There were no ‘errors.’”

Sombra laughed, stepping back from the bars to place her hands on her hips and regard the woman with no small amount of incredulity. “And people say I’m conceited.” She smirked, leaning against the wall to continue picking the Architech’s brain. “Tech is only as good as the user; I just needed it to work harder for me is all. Don’t get bent out of shape about it.”

“Its purpose is to help those who cannot help themselves,” Satya maintained, her course set. “To further the Vishkar goal of creating a better world.”

“A better world, huh? Like the favela you leveled in Brazil?” she laughed, and this time Satya didn’t even try to hide her surprise. “Good job there, by the way. Talon loved that. Really sowed some discontent among the masses. Something to pick at down the line.” Looking down at her nails, she shrugged as she casually dropped her bomb. “Helps having friends among the Vishkar, I suppose.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asked, her arms crossed now. Sombra watched the movement of the jewelry dangling around her wrist, a subtle fashionable departure from the austere nature of the Vishkar uniform.

The hacker regarded her for a long moment, trying to figure out how best to leverage what she was about to say next. “You really don’t know, do you?” she said at last, testing the woman’s investment in their little chat, and seeing just how easily she was baited by the promise of a good secret.

Satya, she could tell, did not want to bite. She remained silent, regarding Sombra coldly for a long time. It was only the two of them there, though, and she really had little choice in the matter unless she wanted to engage in a standoff she couldn’t hope to win.

“What?”

Sombra grinned, pushing off the wall again to get closer to the other woman. She tossed her hair and crossed her arms to mirror her. “Sanjay,” she said, raising one notched eyebrow to enunciate her words, “sits on the board of Talon.”

“Chup raho.”

Sombra shrugged, inferring the meaning of her words by the sharpness of her tone and the blaze of anger in her eyes. “No one ever appreciates when I tell them the truth.”

Satya shook her head and looked away, but before she did, Sombra could see a glimmer of doubt in her expression. There was something keeping her from completely disregarding the hacker’s words; something she remembered that made her think, perhaps, there was a grain of truth to what she was saying. It reminded her of the time she played Zaryanova like a pawn, watching the light of reluctant realization dawn in her eyes as she tore down her idol in one quick truth. It just never, ever got old.

Yet again, the seed of doubt had been planted, and Sombra was going to have one hell of a time watching it sprout from afar.

If she ever got out of there, of course.

“You are lying.” “Usually, yeah, but not this time.” Sombra shook her head. “That was a really good one, too, and you got it for free. Can a girl get some dinner in exchange for international secrets, maybe?”

“No.”

“Cruel,” Sombra sighed. “Anyway, if you need some proof, I can give it to you. Just say the word.”

“I do not need your ‘proof,’” Satya said after a long pause, not looking at Sombra as she spoke, and not waiting for her to respond. She turned abruptly and stepped through the portal, leaving Sombra alone with her thoughts and nursing a particularly vehement curiosity.

“See you soon,” she chuckled. Smiling to herself, she sat down on the ground and waited.

*Read from the beginning or check out our intro post! All stories tagged under #glitchfic. Table of contents located here.

27 notes · View notes

gffa · 7 years ago

Note

Hey! I just finished listening to the ROTS audiobook for the first time and GAWWWD i loved it. So beautiful, so heartbreaking, so tragic. So many incredible descriptions of characters and themes. So many hilarious lines and quips. But I gotta ask, during his commune with Qui-Gon, Yoda claims that the Jedi lost because they failed to change with the times whereas the Sith had evolved. Yoda apologizes to Qui-Gon for not seeing the wisdom he possessed and for being too rigid and traditional. (1/2)

(Actually 2/3) But this kinda goes against everything the Jedi and Star Wars stand for. If the Jedi are defenders of the light, peace, and balance since time immemorial, and are presented as such in the narrative (servants of the senate, forced into a war as a trap by Palpatine), how can Yoda claim that it was the fault of the Jedi they lost? And how can he claim that Luke and Leia should explicitly not be taught in the old ways (not forming attachments) if such ways are NOT wrong?(3/3) I’m Jedi fan #2 (after you of course) so hearing Yoda lament himself and his teachings in this novelization feels bad man. It certainly doesn’t come across in the movies or any other canon material. The whole idea the “flawed Jedi Order” is so annoying coming from Jedi-hating fans who misunderstand the movies but after reading this…I just can’t believe it. Thoughts?

Hi! You’re super sweet to think to ask me about this and I do love everything I’ve read of the ROTS novelzation because IT IS SO PAINFUL IN THE BEST WAY. As heartwrenching as it is, this is why I’m in here in SW fandom because look at all the feelings it gives me!As for where the Jedi went wrong re: the ROTS novelization, it’s sort of summed up in these two passages, when you consider the context of the galaxy around them–that this is about politics and not morals. Here’s Yoda’s thoughts on fighting with Sidious:

�� Finally, he saw the truth. This truth: that he, the avatar of light, Supreme Master of the Jedi Order, the fiercest, most implacable, most devastatingly powerful foe the darkness had ever known… just-didn’t-have it. He’d never had it. He had lost before he started. He had lost before he was born. The Sith had changed. The Sith had grown, had adapted, had invested a thousand years’ intensive study into every aspect of not only the Force but Jedi lore itself, in preparation for exactly this day. The Sith had remade themselves. They had become new. While the Jedi-The Jedi had spent that same millennium training to refight the last war. The new Sith could not be destroyed with a lightsaber; they could not be burned away by any torch of the Force. The brighter his light, the darker their shadow. How could one win a war against the dark, when war itself had become the dark’s own weapon?

Then the passage from the ROTS novel about Yoda’s talk with Qui-Gon:

And the Force answered him. Do not blame yourself, my old friend. As it sometimes had these past thirteen years, when the Force spoke to him, it spoke in the voice of Qui-Gon Jinn. “Too old I was,” Yoda said. “Too rigid. Too arrogant to see that the old way is not the only way. These Jedi, I trained to become the Jedi who had trained me, long centuries ago-but those ancient Jedi, of a different time they were. Changed, has the galaxy. Changed, the Order did not-because let it change, I did not.” More easily said than done, my friend. “An infinite mystery is the Force.” Yoda lifted his head and turned his gaze out into the wheel of stars. “Much to learn, there still is.” And you will have time to learn it.

There’s also a line from Wild Space, about how “Too old I am to be the last hope of the Jedi.” Yoda thinks and, okay, Legends, but it always illustrated to me Yoda’s dilemma pretty well–they’re in a time of something they’ve never faced before and aren’t prepared for, because they’re not politicians and they’re not soldiers, they’re shoved into that role and run ragged so they never have a chance to recover or barely even breathe between fights, they’re manipulated into either this path or just not helping others at all, AOTC literally tells us that the Force is so clouded in the galaxy that it’s compromised for them. Everything the Jedi had to rely on was crumbled away from them and so of course everyone ran right straight to Yoda because he had the most experience and they were looking for guidance.I’m also going to draw a lot on the Star Wars Propaganda post I made (which is a long read, like 5k words long, so I don’t expect anyone to have to Do Homework for this post, the basic summary is: the Jedi’s greatest flaw was that they were bad at PR, because they are not talked about in the same way that the corruption and moral decay of the overall Republic is) because I feel like these two things overlap a fair amount, because it’s a great meta book on the state of affairs of the GFFA, and because it really lays this all out well!The thing about all of this is that it’s also to be taken with a grain of salt, that this is Yoda’s point of view in the very lowest point of his life, he’s just witnessed the deaths almost every Jedi and their entire culture, the Republic has fallen, they were ground down in this war they thought would be worth the sacrifices they were making, but instead everything was ashes. Of course he’s going to feel like everything is wrong, that they were mistaken, because that’s a normal reaction to have in the moment!But it’s also about the structure of the prequels, in that politics are a huge, huge part of EVERYTHING that is going on. One of the major themes of the prequels was ALL ABOUT Bush era politics, that’s why we had all those scenes with the Senate and all that stuff about taxes and trade routes and treaties–because that is the Republic that they had built up. Politics set the stage for this.And the Jedi’s greatest failure is that they did not evolve to meet this new political climate. They believed their actions would speak for them, rather than getting out into the spotlight to deliberately craft the narrative they were assigned. They believed that tradition and trying to stay out of politics was the path that would be best for everyone–they were with the Republic (under Senate jurisdiction) because a thousand years ago the Senate asked them to become part of the Republic so that they could help smooth over the lingering war outbreaks after the last great war. But they did not evolve to be political masterminds–while the Sith did.Palpatine didn’t kill the Jedi through being the best ever at using a lightsaber, he achieved the Jedi genocide through politics. By becoming Chancellor. By painting the Jedi as the narrative he wanted them painted with, rather than what the truth was about them. By studying how they interacted with the Republic, their lore, and using it against them on a political stage. By engineering a galaxy-wide war the was specifically designed to destroy them and destablize the entire galaxy so that they wouldn’t protest when the Empire rose.It says it right here: The new Sith could not be destroyed with a lightsaber; they could not be burned away by any torch of the Force. The brighter his light, the darker their shadow. How could one win a war against the dark, when war itself had become the dark’s own weapon?The war itself had become the dark’s weapon. So, that’s where the Jedi went wrong–they met a war with physically fighting back against it instead of becoming politicians who would use the war itself as a weapon, rather than a lightsaber. They weren’t good enough at politics.Being bad at politics isn’t an inherently bad thing, there’s a reason a lot of politicians get portrayed as slimy and gross, that it’s rare to find truly good people who are also good at politics. Star Wars itself hammers this point home pretty clearly, that people like Bail and Padme stand out because they’re good people in the swamp of the rest of the Senate! And it’s not inherently a bad thing to be part of the system, because that’s how you can affect change, by working from the inside, by using the authority given to you to help the most people.And the point was, that they were trying to find balance in the middle and their balance (willing to help, to be part of the system so they can reach people who need them) is not inherently bad, but the political climate around them made it so that it was used against them. To want to remain a step apart so that they could be used as neutral negotiators wasn’t bad, because that system literally worked for a thousand years, that’s probably the longest stretch of peace the galaxy has ever had! It was only over the span of a handful of years that all this changed and they weren’t fast enough to adapt, they thought they could weather out this storm and they were wrong.It’s not as simple as “Oh, we were so wrong, we were so uncompromising, we were bad and terrible!” because that would take things out of the important context they come with. This wasn’t about the Force or really even about being a Jedi or a Sith. This was about narrative, propaganda, legal authority, and politics.

#jedi #jedi order #meta #shmi skywalkers #long post #i just COULD NOT figure out where the hell to put a read more on this thing #so sorry about the dash killer #i'm trying not to honest!

62 notes · View notes