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nights-at-crystarium · 2 years

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Talking about THE comic!

I yelled about it randomly on my personal twitter or in the tags here but probably it’s a better idea to write the first “official” post C:

So, the two idiots I’ve been drawing for half a year now. Mostly self-indulgence, but also a slow preparation for THE comic. At first I merely wanted to tell what atrocities Vivi did in Norvrandt and how that affected their relationship, giving it, I dare fucking say, a rather unique angsty spice.

I’ve never written before, in late January/February I started scripting the Vivi-flavored ShB+5.x story to casually drop it maybe in several releases. A month or two forward, I’ve gone completely mental practiced writing fics (one published, a few more ready, a few more cookin’ but I’ll keep them until the corresponding Fragments are released), spent every day thinking about them so obsessively that the planned comic script got remade with slighly more finesse on my end as a writer, more depth as ViviRaha completely went out of control as characters, and their story started expanding in all directions at once.

I Wrote A Lot and I still keep adding a bit here, a bit there at least once a week. By now the broad concept is fleshed out, just as the characters, everything’s ripe and juicy and ready for consumption. Only one lil thing: now I’ve actually gotta draw it :’D

When am I actually starting? How will it look? Will it be free? And other questions that you guys might have, I’ll try to cover under the cut.

“Fragments” is a wolgraha-centered (duh!) comic that’ll be published here on tumblr for free. I’ll be crossposting it to twitter but the format’s oriented for this hellsite first and foremost. Not sure about the actual webcomic platforms, too much hassle for now. I’m still thinking how to handle the early access and whatnot, I MUST think about it since my art is the only source of my income. Likely I’ll have one release up on tumblr and two next ones on Patreon and Kofi to support my further work on the comic.

I AM anxious about it. My life currently is a huge unstable mess, mildly put, so I’m extra worried about starting the comic, announcing the release schedule, then getting blindsided by something new irl (so far 2022 had 3 major events that left me crippled for weeks - speaking of the personal scale events ofc) and having to go on a break that’d last for who knows how long, and how it’d impact my art style (yeah my mental state, my productivity and the very way I draw are unfortunately linked). There’s no guarantee of a safe and stable life for me atm, the best I can do is to start the comic regardlessly and hope shit doesn’t get worse.

So far the plan is to post every Friday (because Fragments Friday, ha!), anywhere between 2 and 10 pages (2 horizontal frames per page like in the early Tamen De Gushi), depending on the script. Max 10 pages because that’s how much a tumblr photopost can have. I call this “release”. Some scenes will be short and sweet and easily contained within one release, the others will span over multiple releases.

I’m NOT sure I can handle the weekly release schedule. I’ll try and see. I still have to dedicate most of my art juices to the stuff that pays for my rent and food, unfortunately. If I can’t keep up, I’ll dial it down to every other Friday, i.e. 2 releases a month.

Why “Fragments”? The releases won’t always be tightly connected between each other by the plot, yes they vaguely follow the canon timeline, yet many of them will be like glimpses into their everyday life, hence Fragments. I’m aware it’s cheeky, considering the Shards and all that. So, getting that out of the way: Vivi and Raha are NOT fragments of each other! They’re two separate entities, yes, mirrors and missing puzzle pieces of each other, but only that :>

The pages won’t be numbered, but each release I’ll number and put in a comic masterpost for the easy permanent access.

The script’s 20k+ words, some of those are my technical notes, some parts could be dropped, rewritten etc. The major beats are set, the rest’s still a wip. I don’t worry too much about polishing the text right now, I’ll have time for that during the storyboarding. Some scenes will have to be adapted for the visual format anyway. Here’s how my comic folder looks so far.

*screams in terror because chapter 1 INDEED HAS NO NAME YET*

The story itself still mostly takes place in ShB+5.x, save for the chapter 1 which is ARR. I carved out two “time pockets” for ViviRaha to rest and breathe and be happy or angsty in, post-5.0 and post-5.3, chapter 6 and chapters 9 and onward, respectively. Chapter 11 is my personal ShB epilogue. Chapter 12 still happens during the post-5.3 time pocket and focuses on Vivi’s background, by then you should be invested enough to care about that :> Chapter 13 is still tentative, an even deeper dive into Vivi’s past, showing his, gasp, old flames! A bunch of them. And chapter 14, if there’s ever such a thing, would finally move on to Endwalker. But for now I’m staying in my ShB bubble. There’s an in-character reason why I don’t wanna subject Vivi to the Endwalker events just yet. We’ll see. We’re speaking of a behemoth of a story that’ll take several years to get out. I have ample time to think about the later chapters.

Characters? Mostly ViviRaha (what? NO WAY), Alisaie’s the second most visible canon character, followed by Thancred, Lyna and Feo Ul. The Chais, Ardbert, Emet, Alphinaud, Tataru, Y’shtola, Estinien and Urianger have just a few lines. I’d LOVE to have more Urianger, who knows, maybe I can train my writing muscles and wedge more of his scenes in. Ryne and Krile as decorations (sorry!). Cid and Rammbroes in chapter 1. More ocs will appear in chapter 12. Chapter 13 has.... Drumroll...... Aymeric and Haurchefant as Vivi’s old flames. They were important. But you’ll have to survive until THAT late point in time to see them <w< There are some more ocs/npcs as well.

Since I’m looking at the weekly amount of (not always, but often) 10 pages each with 2 frames, I need to think about optimization. I’m not used to monochrome and I LOVE colors, so I wanna try doing something like this. Color is the quick and fun part for me, however, I still need time to train my hand in the lineart department. It won’t be super polished just because I’m not about that, but I wanna be personally happy with my sketchy style. I’d say I’m 70% there.

Drawing them nearly every day, figuring out their proportions and outfits, practicing general anatomy, all is the preparation work. I admit being absolutely lost and terrified in the background department. I’m rather comfy and chill about the natural landscapes, THAT I have no problem with, however, I’m still unsure about the buildings and interiors that I’ll wanna avoid, but I’ll have to draw at least SOME of those. So, yet another slowing down factor. I need more practice.

Fragments will be character- and feels-centric with little to no action/combat since it’d only detract from the story. I’m trying to stay as close to the main point of this comic’s existence as possible. Just feels, lots of them. Various flavors.

More about the technical stuff: ✓ finding/making textures (the slight overlay to avoid the flat, "digital” look) ✓ making and testing a storyboard template ✓ doodling cover ideas (atm 8 or so chapters have a cover that I’m happy with) - picking a font (or making own) - making frame and bubble templates (normal speech, screaming, thoughts, etc) - finalizing character designs (proportions that I’ll stick with to avoid awkward wobbly style) - finalizing character outfits for the same purpose as above

I’ll never be ultra-completely-ready but this checklist is vital. I’m doodling like crazy to make sure the main characters look exactly how I want them to. Vivi’s more or less complete, but lately I’ve realized that I still can’t draw our beefcake cat bf like I see him in my head, so I’m working on that.

Still no deadlines, I HOPE to start before August but who fucking knows. I’ll talk some more and make a lil countdown once I have at least 3 releases ready to go. Fragments is still my self-indulgence but it’ll span over the next few years. I’ll just start it when I’ve figured out the bare minimum and flail my way from there on :’D

Fragments already has its own tag where you can see some standalone comics and illustrations that I deem fully canon. Those posts also have a chapter tag, which should help situating each event on the broader timeline.

#ffxiv: fragments #text post #nextlvl rambles

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narrativelysignificantturtleduck · 2 years

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Piandao for the ask game?

First impression

cool swordmaster who appreciates sokka <3

Impression now

old gay man who has a hard time letting people in because of his abandonment issues & years spent hiding his true (gay, anti-war) self, but who sees his struggles as a nonbender in sokka and decides to open up his heart and give him the support and love he wishes he'd received as a young man. a victim of his nation and a perpetrator of its atrocities, a good honest man and also a practiced liar blending in with the upper classes he was not born into. a minor character i am totally normal about <3

Favorite moment

"you messed things up in a very special way" is such a good description of sokka, because as much as i hate people painting him as an incompetant funny guy, part of his character is that he often throws himself at new things and fails hilariously. "why would you lick the wall of a cave?" "i have a scientific curiosity" curiosity and creativity are good things! messing up because you're doing something new and creative is something to be praised, a good quality. sokka throws shit at the wall to see if it sticks, and not all of it does, but if you keep throwing something will, and more and more over the course of the show sokka succeeds at what he tries. piandao is smart enough to see this and praise him for it.

i guess that moment's more about sokka. but all of piandao's great moments are. "you added a rainbow" "creativity, versatility, and intelligence", etc.

oh and there's this screenshot i found while looking for art references:

[screenshot of atla. piandao looks down at sokka with a warm smile]

look at him. look at how fond he is of his son. instant serotonin

Idea for a story

i've been working for a while on a story where sokka comes to train with piandao post-war. piandao keeps giving him artistic projects because he feels uncomfortable teaching swordplay in peacetime, but sokka was hoping for action as a distraction from his thoughts and is annoyed and confused that piandao's making him think and process his feelings. meanwhile, zuko keeps trying to get him to come to the palace as an advisor and sokka wants to help but doesn't know if he wants to stay in the fire nation long term. also jeong jeong is there.

Unpopular opinion

i never know how to answer this type of question for minor characters. there isn't enough discussion to create a majority opinion to disagree with. if i disagree with a minor character opinion, i'm probably just disagreeing with one person. every opinion is unpopular.

so i'll just take this space to once again lament the sad state of the sokka&piandao tag on ao3. my true unpopular opinion is that fandom should shut up about zuko and stop giving him sokka's father figures

Favorite relationship

in canon he only has one meaningful relationship, and that's with sokka (NOT zuko). and i love it, and have already elaborated on it.

noncanonically, jeong jeong. y'all know this. heartbreaking divorce despite never being married. the dynamic of nonbender who wanted to be a firebender and a firebender who hates his firebending. a bickering old married couple. implied/referenced homophobia ao3 tag. you know.

Favorite headcanon

idk if it's my fave exactly but just recently i was working on the ofmd au and i decided that the way i'm going to deal with him being more competant than stede is to make him bad at sailing. he's really skilled at other things but the only reason they haven't capsized is sokka and katara's water tribe know-how and he's also gotten seasick multiple times. meanwhile jeong jeong, ex-admiral of the fire nation navy, is an extremely skilled sailor and becoming a pirate when he left his nation actually made sense and piandao you're a fucking idiot. basically he thinks piandao is stede (clueless rich idiot) while ed thinks stede is piandao (elegant wealthy Artist). but of course piandao decided piracy was going to be his rebellion because he suspected that's what jeong jeong did so really coming on his ship and insisting on staying because "you'll get yourself killed" is actually playing right into piandao's hands. haha you WILL fall back in love with your ex

but even outside the au i DO think it's funny to imagine that piandao has something he's shitty at. he's the perfect skilled master in canon so if i'm going to develop him more i have to give him some flaws, right?

anyway sorry this took so long i am not normal about this man

#ask #nina's personal log #piandao

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night-will-fall · 3 years

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ok i have a quick rant on the Darkling/Darklina/Shadow and Bone trilogy i have to get out. i genuinely feel she let down his character, alina’s character, and in general the whole arc of the narrative.

**i want to clarify first that I am not anti Leigh. i’ve tagged that per someone’s request, but the truth is i simply feel that anybody who decides to put a story out there in the world, or any kind of writing, will be subject to criticism. that’s part of writing, it’s part of art, and it’s just part of creation and the real world, no matter your intentions or motivations for your piece. just like this post—it should be subject to criticism, too. that’s how discussion happens and people learn. it’s not an attack on the original writer because the writer is not their work. i love Leigh and her choice to put her stories out in the world, even if i disagree with some of the choices she made. it’s only because of her that we get to have these conversations about our favorite characters in the first place. (I also don’t think it’s fair to her and all the work she put into SEVEN novels to reduce the decisions she made about her characters and plots to ‘coping’ — just my two cents. I’m sure her trauma influenced her work, it’s hard to imagine otherwise. but I doubt she or anyone else would vouch for people refusing to critique their work because of something she went through that does not define her.)**

the problem i have with Leigh’s writing of the Darkling is that after Shadow & Bone, it was so forced. she wrote him doing all of these implausibly horrible things after the fans started to like him to force it down our throats that he was the irredeemable villain. and yet when he was first introduced, i was so hopeful that this character called ‘the Darkling’, a shadow summoner and master of darkness, wouldn’t fall into the predictably, disappointingly easy trope of evil as darkness and good as light. so when she did exactly that, it felt like a betrayal of the character after he had already begun to take on a life and heart of his own. we connected to him. and she did her very best to sever that connection in favor of an emotionally manipulative boy who did almost nothing to help alina grow. Mal actually hindered and harmed her growth, constantly guilting her for having wants, desires, and feelings of her own that didn’t revolve around him, whereas the Darkling never wanted her to be anything but herself. he, like her, was capable of seeing the bigger picture, whereas Mal was an absurdly selfish and bizarre character that cared about none of that (and didn’t even “want” alina until she was famous and desired ?!! like come on). i sincerely can’t believe he was intended to be the love interest we connected with and rooted for.

and i know she likely had personal reasons for characterizing Aleksander the way she did, possibly attempting to embody anecdotal experiences with a specific person who did her harm in her own life, but with this character it felt unnatural and forced. she basically ignored of all of his character’s potential as a complex, nuanced human tortured by watching generations of his people’s pain, trauma, exploitation, murder, etc. (even if it was true that he had eroded morally/emotionally because of the mervost and centuries of standing witness to these atrocities), ironically dismissing his potential to grow in a story that was supposed to be all about growth (another narrative failure i won’t get into here). not to mention that his mission’s intent wasn’t even inherently evil (morally grey at worst, which is so much more compelling than pure evil anyway, which makes it extra disappointing that she bungled this), and by the end of the series all of his completely valid points just went unaddressed and people continued to suffer for it. his attempts to solve that problem were simplistically reduced and deemed as plain ‘evil’, with very few people recognizing the deep empathy and collective pain that drove his actions—something that alina actually did understand.

i feel bad for him. that’s why i like him and that’s why i like Darklina. he deserved better, and so did alina. their chemistry was so eloquently written (and portrayed in the show) and i truly believe they could’ve helped each other grow. but we never got a chance to see or explore that because of how Bardugo’s personal feelings obscured the natural direction of her characters’ development, ultimately doing a serious disservice to her narrative (she does this a few times — prioritizes certain plotlines and actions that she wants to include even if they don’t align with the natural progression of the story). she tries to make us believe certain things and feel certain ways about her characters and plot points in opposition of the simple truth that they just don’t fit. alina’s character essentially ends up right where she started with only a few slight differences, one of them being the loss of power, which was something that made her uniquely, intrinsically her, and was cruelly ripped away in a nonsensical punishment for what? daring to trust? daring to break away from the insecure hold Mal had over her, and constantly used against her? daring to grow and learn? daring to delve deeper into her own power as a Grisha? daring to connect with the Darkling and the nobility of his motives? it was all around just a sad and disappointing direction to take a story that had so much potential to be powerful and different.

[not to mention all of the beautiful balance in the light/shadow trope, the star-crossed lovers torn apart by situational and ideological conflict, the novelty of their powers and their mirroring inabilities to “fit in” or find others like them, like. come ON, that could have been so great. ugh. just to abandon it all for dusty, insecure Malware. pls.]

ok end rant. thank you if you read my heated word vomit.

#rant #shadow and bone #sab #darklina #the darkling #alina starkov #the darkling x alina #the darkling x alina starkov #thats why i spend so much time writing him emotionally in my own fics #and i try to give alina more agency and more room to grow #because theyre just OWED that #in my opinion #ok im done #anti Mal #anti Malina #anti Leigh Bardugo

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goldheartedsky · 3 years

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I told myself I wasn’t going to make a post like this—that I wasn’t going to stoop to the level of making call-out posts—but I really can’t stay silent after what has happened in the last day or so.

The TOG fandom has a serious issue with excusing antisemitism and allowing people who have painfully hurt marginalized groups to continue to ignore, dismiss, and refuse to acknowledge their limits of intersectionality in regards to social justice. I have seen it myself, been on the receiving end of it, and have talked to other Jews in this fandom about what’s been going on and it needs to start being addressed.

Now, I’m not going to name names or tag people (mainly because I have been blocked by almost all of them for this very issue) but if you message me I will gladly tell you the users involved in this. Also, if you have doubts of any of this’s validity and would like screenshots, feel free to reach out to me here or via Discord and I will share them.

A lot of this started when a member of the All&More server had brought up the scientific and medical “discoveries” during the torture and medical experimentation that took place during the Third Reich and how a lot of the origin of it isn’t taught. LR made a comment saying that “we are three-dimensional creatures who are stuck moving forward in time and can’t go back” and added that not using the research won’t make past horrors not happen. When the original user added that there has been a movement in medicine for removing Nazi scientists names off discoveries and that progress was slow moving, she deflected the conversation onto herself, saying “Not using research won’t make my family not harmed by the Japanese” and then immediately pivoted into admitting that, from what she understood, there weren’t any particularly valid scientific discoveries made by them. She then said, in regards to said Nazi atrocities, “Take it, learn about it, put it in context, and then own it and transform it.”

A Jewish member of A&M voiced their discomfort about possibly taking medicine that was a direct result of the murder of their grandparents and other relatives, to which LR said, “Still stuck in the 3rd dimension, still moving forward in time.” I brought up the fact that medicine was built on antisemitism and racism and that starting over would be better than a lot of the procedures we have now. There is a longstanding issue in medicine of disregarding black pain and so much of what we have now is created by eugenicists—including Nazi scientists. There is still a lot of Jewish trauma due to medical experimentation and that is oftentimes dismissed.

LR then made a flippant comment about “Does this count as Godwin’s Law?”—which is about how all internet discussions lead to someone being compared to Nazis/Hitler. When called out on the inappropriateness of the comment, she did not respond and was backed up by one of the mods of the server. There was no apology made nor an acknowledgment about the casual antisemitism of the comments she made and the dismissal of Jewish trauma/pain.

Now, fast forward a couple months when I was contacted by a third party who had not been in the server at the time but had joined and heard about what LR had said there. H said they were friends with LR and had concerns about antisemitism and would like my perspective. I explained what had happened and offered screenshots if they would like them, which they did. They thanked me and apologized that it got to a point that I felt unsafe in the server and had to leave, which I appreciated.

A couple weeks later they reached out to me again and offered to broker a conversation between LR and myself because the situation wasn’t sitting well with them. I was skeptical (because I had been blocked at that point) and didn’t have a lot of hope that this conversation would actually take place but I felt a responsibility to try and be the bigger person and deal with what had been said head on, so I agreed to sit down and have a discussion with her as long as there was a third party in the chat as well—given our history.

After a couple weeks of back and forth with H and hearing that LR had said that she would “think about it”, she finally agreed. I was asked for a time and date and I gave my availability and was told she would be asked for the same. A couple days later, I was suddenly told LR would only be comfortable with this conversation if H acted as a “literal go-between” with us copy-pasting our responses in their DMs so we can “sit with the message and everyone can get to them when they can” rather than it being a session with an actual back and forth and was asked if I was okay with that. I honestly said no, because this was supposed to be a situation where she and I sat down and discussed what she said in the server, not a back and forth message relay where the conversation got dragged out for days or weeks or however long it was going to take. I said if she was serious about meeting me halfway on this, she needed to be able to sit down and actually talk.

H copy-pasted my response to LR and came back that she had backed out of the conversation, which part of me had expected from the beginning—even though all I wanted from this sit down was for her to understand how hurtful the antisemitic comments were and an apology.

These comments that were made in the server are not a secret. It’s pretty well known what was said and again, these were all on record, not privately made in some DM. She has still not owned up to the comments she said, nor has she ever apologized for them. She has ignored message after message about them and blocked more people than I can count. Many of the people defending her when the discourse begins have also been messaged about the comments she’s said and also either block people or ignore the messages completely and refuse to acknowledge them.

Now, this being said, in the most recent conversation about fandom racism, someone brought up the post that was made reducing users on ao3 to faceless, nameless numbers without saying who they were, what they had done, and how they were specifically contributing to the problem of racism in this fandom. They made the comparison of other situations like HR looking at pay stats to see how to fire and included “Nazis, capitalists, and colonizers.”

This is not an invalid argument. There have been other Jews in the fandom who specifically voiced feeling uncomfortable for the exact same reason. However, another person, LT, decided to specifically make a post calling the OP out and drag them for having the audacity to liken it to the Shoah (which, mind you, this person is not Jewish nor did they decide to capitalize Shoah or the Holocaust as they should have). She received a reply saying, “you’re offended by antisemitism? Here’s LR’s (someone LT has agreed with multiple times over racism in fandom) track record of antisemitic comments” which outlined everything I delved into previously.

LT said that they were “unaware of this incident until a couple days ago” but agreed that it was an upsetting display of casual dismissal of Jewish pain and hoped that LR had apologized. She was then called out for being aware of it and still continuing to reblog LR’s posts even after knowing about the comments and was linked to my post clarifying that LR had not apologized and refused a discussion about it, to which LT said that she had gotten “quite a different version outlined in the post linked and corroborated by a third party” and “felt uncomfortable” making a value judgement, insinuating that I was not being truthful about my side of the story.

I messaged LT off-anon and said that I was not lying nor over-exaggerating about what had happened in the server or about the following discussion about trying to broker a conversation with LR, and was immediately blocked by her. I am also not the only Jew who has sent her messages about this topic, only to have their messages ignored.

Now, am I surprised that I was immediately blocked after voicing my issues with what LT had said in that post? No.

She has a history of making antisemitic comments, most of which happened during the brunt of the Israel/Palestine discussion happening, which included statements such as “You cannot be considered indigenous if you hold a position of power”, that, despite having been displaced for 2,000 years, the Jewish diaspora was “integrated” into their respective communities (a wholly untrue statement), as well as linked to and promoted a website with extremely antisemitic articles including one about “Spartan Jews” and how Israeli Jews are violent to “send messages to their deprived self-esteem” that they won’t be victims again. Half of the comments on the site’s front page included such hits as “Death to all Jews” and “Wow, I had no idea this was happening—I guess it is true that Jews control the world and the mass media.” This website was repeated in multiple posts as “unbiased” and “a good resource” for other people to truly know what was going on.

Jewish dissent on the content of some posts and that website went unacknowledged and dismissed.

Being that LT is a relatively big user in the TOG fandom, her posts got circulated frequently. Seeing things like that touted as unbiased was extremely triggering for me and multiple Jews in this fandom that I’ve spoken to.

Now, the reason I made this post in particular was because I have seen a lot of echoing of the sentiment: “no matter how much you disagree with their sentiment, aligning yourself with racists is...well aligning yourself with racists.”

This statement NEEDS to become intersectional. If we are criticizing the work of people because of who they hold company with, why does that end at racism? If we are going to have a discussion about racism in this fandom, why are we letting it come from people who have openly said antisemitic things, people who have stood by them and supported them in silence, and people who have silenced Jewish voices speaking up about this issue.

These are not separate issues. This is a really good post regarding the white washing of Jews in social justice discussion and it comes full circle into the medical experimentation discussion. Jews were not seen as white during the Holocaust. The Nazis were trying to cleanse the Aryan race because they did not view Jews as white. They experimented on them because they did not view them as white and, thus, disposable.

Every Jewish diasporic community is still vulnerable. Even though the US has half the world’s Jews, over 50% of the religiously based hate crimes are consistently anti-Jewish even though Jews make up 2% of the population. Chinese Jews are still holding their holiday celebrations in secret due to government crackdowns. The attempted genocide of Beta Israel was less than 50 years ago. Across the Middle East and North Africa, Jewish communities are barely hanging on after centuries of attempted destruction. These are not just Jewish issues but racial issues as well because when people make the sweeping generalization of “Jew” and they only mean white-passing Ashkenazi Jews, it erases so much of our community.

I absolutely agree that this fandom needs to have a discussion about race and portrayal in fic and what we can do better moving forward—and I want to see that done—but we also need to acknowledge what so many people starting this discussion have said and the marginalized groups they have hurt along the way. I see these posts come across my dashboard and know exactly who they're coming from and what they think of people like me. If we are going to say, “No matter how much you disagree with their sentiment, aligning yourself with racists is aligning yourself with racists,” then we NEED to be saying, “If you are aligning yourself with antisemites, you’re aligning yourself with antisemites.”

We all need to move forward. But that means moving forward together. Jews included.

#i just really needed to get this off my chest #I really don’t want to start shit but some of this has been bothering me for months and I can’t stay quiet anymore #I’m just so tired #intersectionality includes Jews pass it on

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antigonick · 3 years

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FIVE CHARACTER TROPES

RULES: List five tropes applicable to your character, then tag others to do the same. (Tropes Wiki), repost / do not reblog.

(okay apparently it’s a Una day today, let’s do this).

tagged by @forestcreatures and @impossible-rat-babies ♡ thank you, I’ve been losing my mind on TV tropes for a full hour. Tagging @ace-of-kings @mihqorio @heartbrreak and @ardellian if you want to!

Una.

FALLEN HERO / ANTI-HERO / FACE-HEEL TURN Not all villains are born. Some are made, and none are more tragic than the Fallen Hero. As the name implies, the Fallen Hero used to be a hero before doing a Face–Heel Turn. They may even have been an Ideal Hero or another equally optimistic archetype, up until the moment when they suffered something bad enough for them to lose all faith in good and idealism, be it the loss of a loved one, too many good deeds coming back to bite them hard, betrayal by someone they trusted the most, too much distrust from those who should have been allies, or some other faith-shattering event. It might even be a drawn out process of seduction to The Dark Side or fall from grace. Some Evil Old Folks happened to be this type in their younger days.

What they choose to do about it determines what they become:

If they retreat into themselves and fight evil mercilessly to dull the pain, they become an Anti-Hero, though if this fight is motivated by vengeance, they may run the risk of becoming like the very monsters they have sworn to destroy.

DETERMINATOR

A character — good or evil, male or female, young or old — who never gives up. Ever. No matter what.

There is no stopping the Determinator. They do not understand tact. They do not Know When to Fold 'Em, and it's a waste of time to tell them the odds. No one can reason with them. They'll do whatever they have to without question. No price is too great to pay for success, up to and including their own life. Do not expect them to realize they might be better off letting it go, even if they can barely stand. If you're ever kidnapped or lost with no hope of rescue, they'll be the one who will find you. Their adversaries will shout, in exasperated rage, "Why Won't You Die?!". For them, there is no line between "perseverance" and "insanity."

The nobility of their goal is not necessarily proportionate to their persistence. This is just as often an obsessive rival with a grudge as it is a hero on a chivalrous quest, and where their willpower ultimately leads them will depend both on their role and on where the work stands on the Sliding Scale of Idealism vs. Cynicism.

TELL ME HOW YOU FIGHT

and I will tell you what you are. You can tell a lot about a person by the way he fights. This is when a character's fighting style reflects his personality or methodology. Similar to Weapon of Choice except here, it's not so much what you use as how you use it.

• Suicidal Tactics: Character launches forward, not caring about leaving himself wide open to attack. It is a style appropriate for Blood Knight, a Death Seeker, a Leeroy Jenkins or a Berserker. Could be an Action Bomb.

• Self-Imposed Challenge: Character eschews weapons when everyone else uses them, or otherwise limits his power (and it may not be by choice); appropriate for a Proud Warrior Race Guy or variety of Martial Pacifist or "smiling, wrinkly old man" types. May be used by Blood Knights or Worthy Opponentswho can't get a satisfying fight any other way, which shows deserved overconfidence. May be fond of saying I Am Not Left-Handed.

• Fights Like a Normal: If a superpowered character prefers good old martial arts, then either he is too arrogant (villain) or afraid (hero) to use his powers, or he might simply find "normal" skills more enjoyable (either hero or villain).

• Close-Range Combatant: The character in this case is strong, confident and/or reckless, shining on hand-to-hand combat and often overlapping with the suicidal tactics described above, but with an emphasis on this character's lack of reach being a potentially crippling weakness.

ENEMY WITHIN

A specific form of Split Personality. Maybe the Body Horror became a bit too fused with someone. Maybe the Unstoppable Rage is getting... too unstoppable. Perhaps The Atoner's past is taking on a life of its own. Either way, the enemy is behind the hero's eyes, and its time is coming when it can take over. Until then, it'll do all it can to control him and get him to give in to its Horror Hunger. The thing to stress most is that the Enemy Within is the hero. He or she cannot simply exorcise it out. Often the Enemy Within is the cause of the powers that the hero has that allows them to do what they do. With Great Power Comes Great Insanity, remember?Often, since Evil Is Cool and Evil Feels Good, other characters may realize the danger before the hero and need to convince him.

SHE WHO FIGHTS MONSTERS

Usually, not quite a villain, but they act antagonistically enough that they're little better. Something has happened to our Fallen Hero: his village was destroyed, his friends killed, his puppy roasted on an open spit, his bike stolen, whatever. All that matters is that It's Personal, and he feels that the law just isn't suitable enough (or has become too corrupt and ignorant) to be of any use to him in settling the matter. He may justify his actions by claiming that it's Justice he's after, not vengeance, but anyone with half a brain can easily see that he's out for Revenge... unfortunately, we can also see that the more he hunts the cause of his woes, the more he takes on the villain's personality and mannerisms—something that our "hero" is too blinded by his single-minded goal to realize.

Our avenger may have good intentions—the fiend may well be too dangerous to be kept alive—but ultimately, his obsession with dealing out due punishment (or worse) and his refusal to think about what he's doing twists him into a monster just as bad as, or even worse than, the one he's hunting. And even before he gets to that point, it's nigh-impossible to turn him away; calling him out on it will be ignored or retaliated against. The Power of Friendship and The Power of Love were lost to him the moment the atrocity that sent him on his wild goose chasehappened; he feels that Team Spirit is just a hindrance, and that Love Is a Weakness that he can't afford to have.

Also includes, but not limited to (can you tell I’m cheating yet?): What You Are In The Dark, Beneath The Mask / Becoming The Mask, Escaped From the Lab / Become a Real Boy, Unreliable Narrator, No-Holds-Barred Beatdown, Berserk Button, Blood Knight / Knight Templar / Death Seeker / in Harm’s Way, Don’t You Dare Pity Me!, Heroic Sacrifice, Cute Bruiser, Mugging The Monster, Jerk With a Heart of Gold, Sir Swears-A-Lot, Telepathy, Love is a Weakness, Mind Rape, Roaring Rampage of Revenge, Humans Are the Real Monsters, The Power of Hate, and, indulgently, Birds of a Feather, Interplay of Sex and Violence, In Love With Your Carnage, Undying Loyalty, The Only One Allowed to Defeat You, I Know Your True Name.

#DONE. GOD.#kendall mwah you make my brain sizzle #u #about fallen hero

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thetravelerwrites · 3 years

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Courtship of the Headless King: Chapter Two

Rating: General Audiences Fandoms: 忘却の首と姫 | Boukyaku no Shirushi to Hime | The Princess and The Forgotten Head Relationship: Female Human/Male Headless King Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Political Marriage, Power Dynamic, Headless King Content Warnings: Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Abductions Words: 4448

Lilya conducts her marriage interview with His Majesty. Please reblog and leave feedback!

There was a tense moment in which no one moved. The triplets and the king’s attendants watched apprehensively as Lilya stood there, taking in the sight she was seeing. Slowly, she took a step forward, and then another, and stopped right in front of the desk.

“Does that hurt?” Lilya asked softly.

The king actually took a small step backward, clearly not expecting this. For a moment, no one knew how to react to her question. After a minute of heavy silence, His Majesty picked up a pad of paper that lay on the desk in front of him and began to write.

~No, it doesn’t hurt.~

“Oh, that’s a relief,” Lilya said, placing a hand over her heart. “I’ve seen people lose their heads before; it always looked like it hurt terribly.”

The king began to write again. ~You were present during such barbaric acts?~

Lilya nodded shakily. “The royal family in Tritsia was captured during the war and were forced to witness many terrible things. Able-bodied countrymen were rounded up and executed en masse in a horrible show of power, even if they were just farmers or merchants. We were made to watch them all.”

All five attendants exchanged looks of horror.

~That must have been harrowing. How old were you when this happened?~

“It started when I was ten, after my father was killed, and carried on until Couliea claimed our land for themselves three years ago. I helped dig a fair number graves during that time.”

~How old are you now?~

“Nineteen, Your Majesty,” Lilya said.

Conversation died briefly, but after a moment, the king began to write again.

~Would you like to sit down?~

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Lilya said. Raba brought a chair for her and she took a seat. His Majesty waved his hand, and all five of the attendants bowed and left the room, closing the door behind them. Peridot winked at them as she exited.

~Are you not afraid of me?~ His Majesty asked.

“Not really, no,” Lilya replied. “After all that’s happened, I’m not afraid of very much anymore. Should I be scared?”

~This meeting marks three thousand, six hundred and sixty-two marriage interviews that I’ve conducted. You are the first and only woman who has seen me and not screamed, run, fainted, vomited, burst into hysterics, or begged me to let them go, fearful that I’d eat them or some other nonsense.~

“How awful. I couldn’t imagine someone treating you so cruelly. Why would they even come if they didn’t want to?”

~Pressure from their families. The political gain of a union with Banfarie would be a boon to any country on the continent. The appeal of that power and influence drives people to do things they don’t want to do. Either the women would cry hysterically and run away, or they would swallow their disgust and force themselves to conduct the interviews as if it were normal, all the while looking as if the idea of marrying me made them sick.~

“That was terribly rude of them,” Lilya replied, incensed.

His Majesty’s shoulders shook slightly, and Lilya thought he might be laughing.

~In all fairness to them, I am unusual and a little frightening.~

“That’s no excuse! So what if you’re a bit different? That’s no reason to make such a fuss. How would they like it if people acted that way around them? I know my feelings would be hurt. They should have been more considerate.”

His Majesty was completely still for a full minute. Lilya was beginning to wonder if he was alright, when he started to write again.

~You’re rather unusual, aren’t you?~

Lilya laughed good-naturedly. “I suppose so.” She looked at the paper and pen in his hand thoughtfully. “It must be difficult for you to communicate sometimes. I know most people of royal or noble birth are required to learn to read and write, but even in a prosperous nation like this one, many people are illiterate. Do you have trouble communicating with your staff?”

He moved his shoulders in such a way that it put Lilya in mind of someone shaking their head.

~No, since most of my staff are made up of fairies and spirits, my magic allows me to communicate telepathically with them. If needed, they can convey my thoughts to others.~

“Oh, I see! That’s how you spoke to Raba when the door was closed.”

~Yes.~

“Do you know any of the signing languages? Perhaps we could talk that way.”

His Majesty visibly perked up and began gesturing.

“Oh! No, I’m sorry, I don’t know the signing languages, I just meant that I’d be willing to learn it so that we could communicate easier with each other.”

He stopped signing, but he didn’t seem disappointed. Rather the opposite, he seemed touched.

~You’d be willing to learn an entire language just to be able to talk to me?~

“Well, yes. After all, if you accept me, I’d also need to learn this country’s native language to talk to the citizens. Adding another language to my curriculum wouldn’t be so bad.” She leaned forward a little, and His Majesty leaned back, as if intimidated. “This may be an impertinent question and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but may I ask how you lost your head?”

~It’s alright. I removed it myself.~

Lilya looked both horrified and impressed. “Whatever for?”

He paused for a moment before writing again, and this time he wrote out an extended statement.

~I was the son of a concubine who died during my birth. Apparently, I resembled her very much and did not take after my father, the king, at all. The queen’s children, my half-siblings, bullied me relentlessly, often questioning the legitimacy of my birth and whether or not I was indeed my father’s son. They spread rumors about me and my mother, which eventually got back to my father. He also began to question my birthright and threatened to send me into exile. In anger, I somehow managed to pry off my own head and throw it into the Aurora. I think I’d meant to end my own life, but I survived somehow. When my father saw this display of my magical power, he reversed his position and put me first in line for the throne, even though he had four sons by the queen who were all older than me. I was crowned king the following year, and the year after, my father passed away.~

“How old where you when you became king?”

~Twenty-two.~

“How old are you now?”

~One hundred and sixty years old.~

Lilya’s eyes widened in shock.

~Does my age upset you?~

“No, not at all, it’s just…” She frowned in sympathy but fell silent. It must be lonely to have lived alone for so long, she thought to herself.

~I have not aged since I lost my head. I think the magic of the Aurora is what keeps me alive.~

“That’s incredible,” Lilya breathed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing happening.”

~My family has always been strange.~

Lilya chuckled a little. “How are you able to see and hear without a head?”

~Magic. It’s hard to explain to in simple terms, but I don’t see or hear in the same way as normal humans. It’s more of a perception of the wavelengths created by light, shadow, and sound by my whole body instead of my head. I can perceive those sensations similarly to true sight and hearing, but it’s not quite the same.~

“That’s fascinating,” She said, leaning closer. “May I ask you something else that might be a little personal?”

He seemed to laugh again. ~More so than you have already done? Please do.~

“You’ve only been conducting marriage interviews for the last sixty years, right? That means you had already been ruling for almost eighty years without a queen. Why did you suddenly start looking for a wife?”

~My attendants began to pressure me to marry and sire an heir.~

“Is that the only reason?”

~What other reason would there be?~

“Weren’t you lonely?”

His Majesty’s hands were motionless and he seemed to be thinking.

~Perhaps.~

Then he fell still again, as if he didn’t know what else to say.

Lilya smiled a little. “You don’t enjoy these interviews, do you, my Lord?”

He gave another shoulder-shake of laughter. ~No, not at all. I believe this may have been the longest conversation I’ve had with a human woman in my entire life.~

“Oh, goodness,” Lilya said, holding a hand to her mouth in surprise. “I hope I haven’t bored you, my Lord.”

~Not in the slightest. This has been surprisingly pleasant.~

“Oh good,” She said, relieved.

~You’ve asked me a fair number of questions. May I ask you something in return?~

“Of course, My Lord.”

~What is one thing you wish for more than anything?~

Lilya looked out of the far window and thought about the question. She had never spent much time wishing for anything, knowing that wishes did little to affect reality. After all, she had wished for her father back numerous times, and for the terrible atrocities committed against her country to stop, and that had never happened. The only thing she really wished for was the safety of her people, but how could she achieve that?

“Walls,” She said suddenly.

~Walls?~

“The borders of my homeland have no defenses. People from outside the kingdom come in and steal food, destroy crops, take livestock, and even abduct people right out of the fields, and we have nothing to stop them. My land grows smaller every day because people just come in and take whatever they like, whenever they like. I wish we could do more to protect ourselves, but we have no military or security forces. Walls would be just as effective as guards, perhaps more so.”

You care very much about your home and people, at your own expense, it seems.

“Yes,” Lilya said, clutching the pendant on her neck. “I… I sold the tiara you sent to me so that I could feed the people affected by a famine on our southern border. It was a lovely gift and I was quite touched by it, Peridot even took this jewel off for me to keep,” She pulled it up to show him. “But… my people needed food more than I needed a crown. I hope you won’t be too disappointed in me, but… I didn’t want to lie or mislead you.”

~I see. He sat quietly, as if in thought. Very well. It will be done. I’ll have construction teams sent out to Tritsia right away.~

Lilya looked up in shock. “Wha… You’re Majesty! I wasn’t… I didn’t mean…”

~I know you didn’t. It is my gift to you for your understanding and patience. This has been one of the most enjoyable mornings I’ve had in many years. That alone is worth giving you some peace of mind.~

He stood up and made for the door. Overwhelmed by his generosity and on the verge of tears, Lilya jumped out of her chair as his Majesty passed her.

“I’ll marry you!”

His Majesty stopped dead in his tracks and turned. He hadn’t brought the paper with him so he couldn’t respond, but he was rooted to the spot as if frozen.

“This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me or my people. How could I possibly refuse?”

This spurred him to action. He walked briskly back to the desk and wrote on the notepad.

~I didn’t do it to buy your cooperation,~ He protested. ~It’s only a gift, nothing more. I expected for us to continue the interview after I made the arrangements. You don’t have to accept because you feel obligated to repay me.~

“No, that’s not it at all!” Lilya protested. “I don’t know what all those women saw when they looked at you, but it can’t be the same thing I see.”

~What is it that you see?~

She took a deep breath and attempt to gather her thoughts into a coherent fashion. “Maybe when they saw you, you reminded them of a storm that covered the sky at night, full of destructive power, and it made them afraid. But… all I can see when I look at you is what’s behind the storm.”

~Which is?~

“You’re the stars, not the storm. Your Majesty, you’re the light that shines when the storm passes.” She shook her head and laid it in her hands, unable to keep her overwhelmed tears from spilling. “Oh, I don’t even know if I’m making sense. But, Your Majesty, please believe me when I tell you that I don’t just want to marry you because I feel as if I’m in your debt, even though I most certainly am in your debt. I want to marry you because… I… I just do! I don’t even know how to explain it properly. I just… I would be happy to be your wife and honored to be your queen. If that’s what you want.”

~Wouldn’t you be happier marrying a normal man?~

“My Lord, I had no thoughts of marrying at all before I received your summons. If I did marry, it would most likely have been someone my family chose for me. With you, I get a choice. And I’ve chosen you.”

Slowly, he wrote, ~Are you sure?~

“Yes, I’m certain.”

~Then why are you crying?~

“Because I’m happy,” She replied, her voice shuddering as she laughed.

He held out his hand to her. ~You truly mean this? You’re accepting the proposal?~

“Yes,” She replied, taking his hand. “I’ll marry you right now if you want.”

He seemed to chuckle. ~It is enough that you said yes freely and without reservation. I am pleased.~

He turned toward the door, and it flew open after a moment, and all five of the attendants stood there with their mouths hanging open, staring at the pair holding hands. He must have told them the good news telepathically.

“Sire, congratulations!” Larima said. “It’s about time one of these women saw sense!”

“Larima, hold you’re tongue!” Aquamarine said, boxing one of his ears.

“His Majesty says that the wedding will have to be soon,” Raba told Lilya. “He regrets to have to rush it, but there is a political upheaval brewing to the west that he must take care of. He honestly hadn’t expected you to accept, so he hadn’t canceled his plans to intervene.”

“That’s quite alright,” Lilya said, grinning a little giddily. I can’t believe it! I’m really getting married! “I understand his Majesty must be terribly busy. I don’t mind if the wedding is soon. Oh!” She turned back to the king. “Can my family attend the wedding? I promised that I’d keep in touch with them, and I’d like them to meet you. Would that be alright?”

“He says that would be fine, except he’s worried that your family will not like him, which doesn’t normally bother him, but that it may cause trouble for you,” Raba said.

“It’s fine, I’ll explain everything to them. Thank you, Your Majesty!”

Lilya threw her arms around His Majesty’s waist, hugging him. He went completely still and his body tensed under hers, as if he were at the mercy of a pack of rabid dogs. Lilya, sensing his discomfort, released him immediately.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep! I was just so excited that I acted without thinking.”

If a headless person could gulp, His Majesty would have done so. He straightened his lace collar and waved his hand.

“He says it’s alright, he was just startled,” Peridot said. “He also says that as his chosen queen, your word is equal to his. You may give any order you wish and the staff with follow it without hesitation.”

“I understand, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

He bowed deeply in response, his arm across his chest as a show of respect.

Peridot clapped her hands eagerly. “Come now, princess! There’s much to do to get ready for the wedding and only a short amount of time to do it!”

The triplets led Lilya from the room, tittering happily. Once the door closed behind them, the king fell into a chair as if exhausted.

She’s like a whirlwind, He said to Raba and Larima. I am completely at her mercy.

“I’ve never seen you like this, My Lord,” Raba said. “She must have made one hell of a first impression.”

That is an understatement. Send a letter to her family inviting them to the wedding. It’ll make her happy to see them.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Larima said. “But… are you sure she’s the one? In all these years, after all those interviews, are you sure you’ve found your queen?”

It’s her; I knew it the moment I saw her, the second I heard her voice.

“The second she didn’t scream, you mean, sire?” Larima said. Raba flicked him in the forehead.

I’ve spent sixty years… no, much longer than that, looking for her. I’m not going to wait anymore. Begin preparations for the wedding immediately.

“Yes, My Lord.”

It took only a week for the preparations to be complete, seeing as the wedding would be a small affair. His Majesty said he would give Lilya any kind of wedding she wanted, no matter the expense, but she said all she wanted was for her family to be there and nothing else. All that was left now was to wait for Lilya’s family to arrive.

She hadn’t seen his Majesty since the interview, but she knew he had to have been incredibly busy. He was the monarch of a vast empire, after all, and he genuinely didn’t think he’d be getting married so soon.

A day before her family was due to arrive, a dress appeared in her quarters. It was gorgeous; a white, princess cut ball gown with a sheer layer of silk over the top painted with pink roses. The neckline was a low square-cut and it had half-sleeves with lace frills. On top of the mannequin holding it was a lace veil that trailed the ground and glittered as though it was woven from diamonds.

“Oh, how beautiful!” Lilya said. “Is this for me?”

“Yes, it’s your wedding gown,” Aquamarine said. “His Majesty had it sent down for a fitting.”

“It’s lovely,” She breathed, daring to reach out and touch the fabric, though it looked so delicate that it might disintegrate under her fingertips.

“Here, let us help you,” Garnet said, beginning to untie the laces.

Garnet, Aquarmarine, and Peridot assisted Lilya in putting the dress on. Though it fit like a glove around the waist, the skirt was just slightly too long. The sisters assured her it was a quick and easy fix.

That night, she was alone in her room looking at the dress, newly tailored and ready to be worn, and began to get anxious.

“What if I trip and tear it?” She fretted. “A dress like this couldn’t have been made in just a few days, no matter how many seamstresses worked on it; The lace on the train alone would have taken months to tat. It must be some kind of imperial heirloom. What would I do if I destroyed it? Would His Majesty be angry or cancel the wedding? What if he decides he doesn’t want a klutz for a wife?” Lilya scrubbed her face and sighed forcefully. “I need some air.”

She went to the long gable windows and unlatched one side, letting it swing open. The night air was cool and refreshing, and the aroma of the nearby gardens was soothing.

As she was about to close the window again, a wild gust of wind rushed in and caught up the veil, blowing it out of the window.

“No!” Lilya yelled, throwing her foot out of the window and jumping to the ground. It was a good thing her room was on the ground floor. She chased the veil across the lawn until it eventually got caught in the branches of a tree.

“Oh, come on!” She groused. The branched were too high for her to reach, so she was going to have to climb the tree in her nightgown to get it back. It didn’t help that there were no low branches for her to grab on, so she was basically going to have to shimmy up the trunk. How dignified.

“Okay,” She said, taking a breath before she started up. One foot, one hand, over and over. It seemed to take ages, and when she looked down, it was as if she hadn’t moved at all. “Ugh, I shouldn’t have stopped working in the stables. I have no core strength anymore.”

She was nearly at the lower-most branch when her foot slipped and she lost her grip, falling from the tree. She expected to hit the ground pretty hard, but she fell onto something soft. Looking around, she realized to her horror that His Majesty, was on his back underneath her, having broken her fall. He was dressed in a casual white buttoned-up shirt and simple black slacks, likely his sleepwear.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry!” She said, scrambling to get off of him. “Are you alright?”

He pulled out a small pad of paper from the inside of his shirt and a fountain pen.

~I’m fine. Are you alright? Why were you climbing a tree at this hour?~

“My veil,” She replied, pointing at the branches. “It flew out of the window. I was trying to get it back down.”

~Why didn’t you call the sisters?~

She laughed a little self-consciously. “I panicked. I was scared that I’d tear it and you’d be upset with me.”

~I wouldn’t be upset over such a trivial thing. It’s just a piece of fabric.~

“How did you know I was out here?”

~I saw you from the window of my suite. I was worried you would hurt yourself or that you were running away.~

She was a little alarmed. “Were you chasing me down to bring me back?”

~No, I was going to watch over you until you got somewhere safe. Don’t worry, you’re free to change your mind at any time. I wouldn’t hold that against you.~

“Oh,” She said, surprised. “Your Majesty, I have no intention on going back on my decision. I meant it when I said I’m happy to be your bride. You feel the same, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood up and easily reached the branch with the veil. He was quite a bit taller than she was. Pulling it down carefully, he folded it and handed it back to her.

“Sorry to have caused you trouble,” She said, worried by his silence. “I’m afraid you’re bride-to-be is a little clumsy.”

~It’s nothing. Let’s go back.~ He held out his hand for her to stand up, and she took it, feeling sad.

He doesn’t want to marry me, She thought. He’s just doing it because I’m the only one who didn’t refuse him. I like him very much, but he doesn’t feel anything for me. That’s not fair to him.

The triplets met them back at the castle and escorted her back to her room. His Majesty left her in their care with a bow and went back to his quarters.

“Just call us next time, My Lady!” Garnet said. “His Majesty would be devastated if anything happened to you.”

“He might be inconvenienced, but I think devastated might be too strong a word,” She said. “He doesn’t even really want to marry me, he just thinks he has to.”

Peridot scoffed. “Why on earth would you think such a thing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m just the only person who accepted. I’ve only seen him once since the marriage interview, and that’s because he was rescuing me from a fall. He doesn’t really want to be with me.”

“My Lady, that’s absurd, of course he wants to marry you!”

“How can you be sure?”

“Look,” Aquamarine said as they reached her room. She opened the door and lay the veil back on the mannequin with the dress. “You see this? Where do you think it came from?”

“It’s an heirloom, right? Something that’s been in the royal family forever? It couldn’t have been made just for me, there wasn’t enough time for that.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Garnet said. “His Majesty himself made this gown for you.”

“He did?” Lilya exclaimed, looking more carefully at the gown.

“Yes, with his magic. Do you know what he said to us when we were waiting outside of the office door after you agreed to marry him?”

“What?”

“’She said yes!’ he said. Every interview before always ended the same. He would tell us, ‘I don’t like her’ or ‘she’s lying’ or ‘she looks like she’s going to pass out, take her back to her room and let her go home’ or ‘why do they keep sending these women with dirty souls to me?’ He always sounded so dejected. But when you accepted, he was so excited. I’ve never heard him sound so happy.”

“Miss Lilya, you must understand,” Peridot said. “His Majesty’s mother died when he was born, and he was raised by nurses. In truth, he grew up never knowing the love of another person. Now as a man, he has no idea how to express affection for others. Until now, it’s never come up as a problem, but he sincerely wants you to be happy.” She pointed at the dress as an example, and then to the pad of paper on her desk. “You see those notebooks?”

“Yes?”

“Ordinarily, those would only be in one place: and His Majesty’s office, since that is the only place His Majesty meets with people who can’t hear him telepathically. But now, every single room in the castle has a notebook, just in case you’d like to talk to him. He’s doing everything he knows how to do to make it comfortable and easy for you, he’s just operating outside of his, admittedly, vast expertise. Give him some time. He’s very intelligent, if a little dense and insensitive. He’ll learn.”

Lilya smiled softly, touched. “I had no idea.” She pulled the sisters in for a hug. “You’re right, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. His Majesty and I don’t know each other well, for all that we’ll be married in a few days. I think when he gets back from the diplomatic trip, we should spend time rectifying that.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Aquamarine said.

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience! To help me continue creating, please consider becoming a Patron or donating directly to my PayPal!

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

51 notes · View notes

asahipleaseloveme · 3 years

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I Could Have Dance All Night ~ Nishinoya

Nishinoya x reader

Warnings: None; let me know if I missed something, please.

Word Count: 1.2k

Author's Note: I hope you enjoy this! I really enjoyed writing it. Feedback is appreciated :)

Tagging: @goldenshoyo

Based on "I Could Have Danced All Night" from My Fair Lady

Bed! Bed! I couldn't go to bed My head's too light to try to set it down

I could have danced all night And still have begged for more I could have spread my wings And done a thousand things

You had sworn after the last time you went to a club with your friend that you would never go again. The last encounter you had was less than ideal. The man had no rhythm and no game, to be frank. He had gotten so sloshed that he spilled not one, but two drinks all over you and found it funny. He even had the audacity to ask for your number and when you two could meet again. “Hard pass,” you told him with ice in your voice. He shrugged and went to find another victim of his antics.

And yet, here you were again. Maybe hoping that this time would be different and praying you would not bump into that man again.

“C’mon ______, this time will be different. I promise! Just loosen up and keep an open mind. If you see that idiot, you can just avoid him, ya know?” Your friend was always able to keep a positive attitude and it’s the reason why you agreed to come with her to this place again, despite your worries.

Standing at the bar sipping on your favorite cocktail, you scoped the dance floor. There looked to be a few potential people out there. Until you saw him. He was like a firecracker. Chaotic, but so beautiful. He clearly knew what he was doing. You couldn’t help but to gawk at him.

“Oh, wow,” you whispered to yourself.

It was almost as if he heard you, because he looked you right in your eyes. Your eyes locked and you felt an immediate connection. When he didn’t break the contact, you could feel your face turn red. You were the first to break your eyes away. You had turned back to the bar to set your empty drink down. You were trying to wave the bartender down, when you felt a hand brush against your shoulder and a raspy voice call out.

“Hey, I saw you from the dance floor. What’re you doing over here by yourself? Come dance with me!”

You turned to see that it was the man you had been staring at. He was even more handsome up close. You both shared the same eye level. After last time, you said you would not do this again, but something about him seemed so genuine. He held his hand out, waiting for yours. Your hand seemed to move of it’s own free will and you found yourself being dragged out onto the dance floor.

Right as you were in the middle, one of the more popular songs came on and the dance floor seemed to be more crowded than it was just a few moments ago. People were bumping up against you and you were starting to get a little flustered.

“Hey, just keep your eyes on me,” the man said with a seriousness on his face. “I won’t let you get lost in the crowd.”

He pulled your body into his. He was smooth and kept with the tempo of the song perfectly. His swagger was starting to rub off onto you, because you began keeping time with the song. Your bodies were syncing up perfectly.

You were at this for hours. You and him were laughing and giving each other endearing glances.

It was the last song of the night and you two were sorry that you had to be parted. Your friend had managed to (finally) find you.

“_____, I’ve been looking for you!” She shouted as she grabbed your hand and dragged you out of the club.

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

Nishinoya was on cloud 9. He got back to his apartment and just had to tell his roommate all about this magical encounter.

He swung open the door of his roommate and flipped the light switch.

“Asahi! Wake up, man. I have to tell you about this girl I met at the club tonight!”

Asahi grumbled and turned to face his friend.

“Noya, can’t this wait until the morning, dude. What time is it?” He looked at the clock.

“It’s 3:45 am, dude, it’s technically the morning. But I promise you can go back to sleep after I tell you about her. She was so beautiful, man. I can’t describe it. We locked eyes and I could feel an immediate connection. She could dance, too! It’s like our bodies were meant to dance together.”

“That’s great. Now, please shut up and go to bed,” Asahi said in a low tone.

“Oh, but I can’t Asahi! I just wanted to keep dancing with her!” He was pacing back and forth as he spoke. “I don’t know, man. I’ve danced with other girls before, but this one was different. She had rhythm and we flowed so well together. I felt like I could do anything. I just-”

A pillow hit him square in the face before he could finish what he was about to say.

“If you really liked her so much, then just call her tomorrow, dude. I’m sure if you feel this way about her, she could feel the same way too. Just please, get some sleep and call her tomorrow,” the tired roommate pleaded.

Nishinoya clutched the pillow, a wave of sadness flooded over him.

“OH MY GOD. Asahiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, I forgot to get her phone number!” Tears started to roll down his face. “I never even caught her name. And I never gave her mine! How could I be so stupid, oh my god!”

“Noya, please calm it down. Just go back to the club tomorrow or next week or something. I’m sure she’ll be there again. Now, please. Please. Go to bed,” Asahi said, placing his other pillow over his head in hopes to drown out the cries of his disheartened roommate.

“I can’t just go to bed and forget the atrocity that I’ve just commited, Asahi. I’ve just blown the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Agh!” He let out a frustrated sigh.

“Wait, I know. I’ll just go back to the club tomorrow! Maybe she’ll be there again!” Nishinoya shouted like he just came up with the best idea.

“Sounds great, Noya. Now is it time for you to get out?” Asahi was more than ready for his friend to get out and let him sleep.

“But what if she doesn’t go back tomorrow, what will I do? How am I supposed to find her? What can I do?”

Asahi sighed and finally got up to escort Noya to the living room. Nishinoya continued blabbering on about what he would do if he never saw you again.

“You said it yourself, man. Just go back to the club tomorrow night. I’m sure you two will dance the night away again,” Asahi tried to reassure his friend.

Nishinoya looked at his roommate with puppy dog eyes. “Do you really think so, Asahi?”

“Yes. You danced all night tonight. I’m sure you could dance all night, every night with this girl.”

A smile replaced the frown upon Noya’s face. Asahi always understood him.

“Just don’t forget to get her name and number next time, dummy.”

#nishinoya x reader #nishinoya yuu x reader #nishinoya #haikyuu!#haikyuu! drabble #nishinoya drabble #Karasuno and Broadway #i had a lot of fun writing this one

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gingersnap-propaganda · 4 years

Text

Top 10 Moshlings That Deserve a License to Kill

#10: Peppy

It's no secret that this rad little dude loves doing sick stunts, and when stunts happen, sometimes accidents do too. I don't think Peppy would ever deliberately kill someone, but one of these days a stunt is going to go South, and when that happens, I don't want him to be charged with moshslaughter! Because I only think Peppy should have a license to kill for liability coverage rather than because I think he'd put the it to good use, he comes in at #10.

#9: White Fang

Listen, I'm not actually sure if White Fang would make good use of the license or not, but the little dude literally bit off a man's entire hand. Listen I know that apparently it was because "he thought it was some sausages", but are you sure that was the case? Are you really sure he didn't intentionally create Strangeglove's villian orgin story? Again listen, this is all just speculation, it might have been an accident! But what I'm saying is that if it wasn't, just imagine what future villians he could inspire if given permission to kill freely without legal repercussion. Because this is all purely speculation and White Fang could just be some normie who doesn't fantasize about causing murder and mayhem, he only earns a spot at #9.

#8: Boomer

Boomer is a sweet little boy and would NEVER do anything wrong, but if someone where to wrong him, and God damn those who would even dare think about committing such a heinous crime, Boomer should be allowed to kill them, without mercy. In fact he should be allowed to kill anyone. Because giving Boomer a license to kill is pretty obvious and wouldn't necessarily be all the interesting, Boomer ranks it at #8.

#7: I.G.G.Y.

We can't stop him. We've tried to stop him. So, so many innocent lives, lost trying to detain this man. At this point, more lives would be saved if we just let him do what he wants. Let's just hope he doesn't go after the orphans again..... God save us all...... Oh and yeah, this earns him #7 or whatever.

#6: Mr Snoodle

Have you ever seen this man doodle doodle doodle? Self explanatory, #6.

#5: Raffy

Let him kill. Let Him Kill. LET HIM KILL. L̶E̶T̴ ̶H̶I̸M̷ ̴K̸I̶L̸L̵.̴ L̶̝̗̤̘̺̄̈̏̃̚Ȩ̶̻̪͇̀͊̔͛͠T̴̛̪̣̒̕ ̴̳̺͇͇͚͌H̶̗̦̩̉I̸̪̹͐̊̈́M̸̰̱̂ ̴̿ͅK̴̬͙̱̬̂I̴̝̙͒̅̀L̵̹̼̈́̅̈́L̶̝̣̬̯̟̆͑̂.̴̮͌ L̶͈̠͍͙̲̈̒͑̀̉͆̓̄̊͛͊͘E̴̦̘̻͙̻̐́̎͆̑̓́̈́͌̇͛͊̚͘͜͜͝ͅT̸̨̢̢̢̻̟̙̤͖͔̱͍̔̋̇͗̐̓̇̂̔̀͝͝͝͝ͅ ̶̡̛͔̤̝̟̙͓̤̼̠̊́̍̾̈̂̾̈́͑̔͘͝H̵̨̢͇̩͕̘̹̹̮̩̻͕͖̟̙̟̠͕̞̮͉̭̙̣͇̲̀̐̓́̊͆̔̈́̾̇̓̌̈́́͊̀́͑̎̇̏̾̕̕͜͝I̷̢̛̛̼͖̻̣̹̱̦̘̘͚͎̋̀̉̓͌͊̾̓̋͐̅͗̒͐̐̈́͌̌͑̌̃̓̃͘ͅM̷̱̗͉̭͙̩͍͕͂̋̒̍̑̃̆̋ͅ ̶̬̜̱̤̦̱͗͊̔́̓͒͊̅͘͠ͅK̷̢̨̰̥̲̮̱̽͌̀̓́͒̔̂̑̍̈́̈́͑̑̀̆̏̍͆̊̌͝͠Į̴̨̛͓̟̦͖͔̖̲͍̺͔͈͙̹̲̭̩̟̜͇̬͚̾͒̽̈̒͋̑̀͗̇͐̃́̔̐̿̊̊̎͗͛͘͝͠͝L̵̡̨͙͍̭͎͇̰̟̣̂̃̀̍̕L̵͔͙͓̈́̆͑̅̇̈̾̏͋͒̃͋̽̽̓͂͗̇̑̾̇́̐̀̚͝. Ļ̵̛̛̛̜̫͙͔̬̽̂̓̐̈́͗͂̀́͌̓̀̐͋̉͐̑̈͐̔͂͌̇̑̇̏̿̔̽̋͗̍̆̇͐̀̈́͋̌͗͋̎̕͝͝͝͝Ę̶̛̛͍̪͙͉̠͓̻̆̂͆̿̌̅̀̑̓̌͐͌̀̎̑̊̍͒̈́̾͆̀̈́͋͐̔̃̔̅̽͋͐̐̐̽̓͂̃́͗͆͑͆́͛͘̚͠͝ͅŤ̶̛͓͈̻̥͈̣̮͚̇̒̒̍̍̈̇̈́͒̂̿̈́̌̒̊̑̒͒̽͂̆̽͌̄̅̑̐̀͘͠͝͝ ̶̨̡̡̡̛̛̛̛̘̺̤̯̹̞͙̗̘̳̬̲̠̘̠̩͉̬̺͍̦͔̗̘̣͇͎̗͙͖̹̼̭̹͇̙͋͂͑̇̽̾͛̾̂̎̈́́̓̎͌͗̅̓͂̆̆̋̇̾́͆̂̆̉̓́̔̏͂̇̍͆̈́͊̅̏̏͗̀͂̾̀̍̽͂̐̂̈́̾͗̆͌̊̽̕͘̕͘͘̚̚͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅH̵̡̨̨̨̧̛̛͈̥̞͍̬̥͚̭̙̰̙̬̟̙͉̰̼̱̹͎̞̘͕͉͙̖̙̮̖̤̲͚͕̜̯̻̹̬̟̮͕̻͙̲̩̖͔̦̠̳͈̱̠̺̙̜͚̦͚̱̣͚͉͐͒̐̾̓̇͛̒͋͊͐̓̀͐̑̈́̊́̔̓̎̾́̊̓̀͊̔̀̈́͒̾̈́̎̆̋͂͊͗̏̋̊̾̋̐̂̊̓̈̎̂͌̾̃̀̈́̔̕̚̚̕̕͜͠͝Į̴̢̧̧̧̛̛̛̣͉̟̫̟͖̟̪̫͎̦̻͈̭͖͓̗̥͈͕̤͇̘̖̙̲̼̩̱͕͙̫̬͎̩̝̭̠͇͚͇̘̯̪̮̗͎̺̘̜̙͍̯̱̼̣͚͍̫̼̪̦̥̹̘͖͍͍̦͌͊̑͐̌̾͐̇̆̿́̊̃̄̐͛̓͋̌̐̀̄̂̍̊́̈́̔̓̒̓̓̉̾͌́͊̀̈́̉̃͑͐͊̔̎̐̀̈́̓̓́̆̀̔̉͗̾̎͂́͐̍̊̽́̓́͊̒͘͘͘͘͜͜͝͝͠ͅͅM̴̧̧̡̨̨̡̢̛͇͕͔͓̙̘͍͖̥̺̮̰͓̥̲͍̲̮͈͓̗̟̖̠̳͉̠͕̩̤̰̦̖͍̗̻̰̖̮͈̼̥̯͔̳̰͚̮͉̝͈̟̙̥̣͖̩̤͉͈̙̱̪͉͚̤̤̅̿͂́̌̅̐͐̓̒̄̒̎̊͐̌̉̈̅̒̎̎͗̒͗͛̒͌̿͆̋̓̕͝͠ͅͅ ̷̡̨̢̨̧̛̛̛̺͚̠͖̠̝̦̭͈͈̝͉̦̺̗̩̯͍͈̦̥͚̙̣̳͍͓̪̯̯̳͇̱̯̬͍̘̟̩͇͓͉͈̰̲̖̞͉̬̱̫̤̳̦̝̰͂͑̂̒̑̈́̓͑́̔́́̾̿̓̋̀̂̈́̇̒̇̉̃͆͂͆̄̾͑̈́̔͛̾̊̽̈̅͒̀̉̉̀̍̃͋̂̽̓͐̕̕͘̚͜͝͝͠͝͠͠Ķ̵̢̧̡̡̨͚͍̪̜̱̰̲̟̻̱͇͙̜͕͈̙̱̲͓̪̝̖̞͇̤͎̻̼̰͖̪̬̫̻̰̞̱̤͚̥̘̙̥̭͖̬̤̹͚̼̩̭̖̯̲͚̲̮̼̟̭̪̝̜̗̄̓̒̂́̔̿̊̈̐͗͋̌͋̀̽̋͗͆͑̍͛́̍̈͛̎̚͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅĮ̷̹̬͎̗̖̞̒̓̆̅̀̿́̃̾͋̎̅̔̔͂̒̐̀͒̽́̕̚͠L̵̢̡̧̨̧̨̡̨̡̛̛̻͓̟͉̮̼̻͕̹̺̪͙̳̹͖͕͉̥͔̙͇̗̩̪͖̩͓̥͓̳̘͙̻̹̟͎͉̞̦͎̮̳̙̦̣̹͓̫̰͙̙̳̦̫̥̙̻̰͈͍͙̀̇̂̄͋́͒̆̍͒́̆̽͛̈̎̀͆͌̀͗̀̽̐̓͒̅̈́͗̓̓͗̎͊̈̇̋͌͒̇͛͆͂̆̐̆͊̃̓̄̌̒̌̋̕͘͜͜͠͝ͅͅͅͅL̷̡̡̧̧̢̡̛̙͙͍͈͉͚̣̘̯̪͙̯̤͙̩̞̞͓̜͚̭̬̞̫̠̮̣̘̣̠̠͖̼͙͍̖̯̻̣͙̝̳͂̐̀̊̓̌̉̄̔̎̍̊̆̀̌̄̇̌̐̋̿͒̓̍̐͗͛̇͆̆͗͛̾̀̇̑̄̎̈́̀͋̕͘͜ͅͅ.̶̠̠̠̯̰̩̳͉͔̗̬̰͍͓̗̼͉̯̼͇͇͚̮̫͙̣͖̺̩͍̻͎̗̻̘͔͉͎̬̩̘͎̫̮̭̞͈̼̫̯͗̎̉̇͗̉̀͐̋͊̈́̎̈́͊͋̈̑̾̋̈́͋͛̊̀̀̏̀̅̓͌̎͂͑̃̇̈́̉͋̐̋͋̚̚͘̚̕͘̕͝͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅ

#4: Gingersnap

Wait, #4? What happened to #5?? Umm, hold up guys, let me check my notes here.. #10, #9, #8, #7, #6... where's #5? Well, sorry about that guys, but it looks like I've misplaced my notes here for #5, guess it's going to really be a "Top 9" list. Aw beans, sorry to disappoint....

Well moving on, you know I had to put my darling boy on this list!!! As you all know, Gingersnap is a man of the people and an enemy of the bourgeoisie, so you know that'd he'd use his license to dispose of billionaires like Jeff Begross and Elon Mush. I will admit that I am a bit biased towards Gingersnap's entry on this list, which is why I put him in a #4 to assure that I'm trying to remain somewhat objective.

#3: Jen

(yes this is the best image I could find of him, I'm sorry)

Okay, so a judge's job is to decide who is innocent or guilty, right? Who better to decide who deserves to live and who deserves to die? Actually now that I think about it, wouldn't all law enforcement be more effective if we let judges take over the police's job? Think about it, rather than having to go through the process of arresting someone only to have to take them to court afterwards, the judge can decide right then and there if the person should be arrested or not, and carry out the conviction immediately. It would save so much time! Anyways, I think that although Jen would be logically the best moshling to receive a license to kill, however responsible murder is not particularly interesting, thus placing him in at #3.

#2: Dustbin Beaver

Dustbin Beaver should have a license to kill for one reason only: so he can throttle Zack Binspin to death with his bare hands. Zack Binspin has taken Everything away from Dustbin, from his music career, to title of Moptop Tweenybop. He even profited off of it by making it a song! The Audacity. Dustbin👏deserves👏vengeance👏. Dustbin Beaver would definitely make effective use of the license, even if it'd be only for one purpose, which earns him a spot at #2.

#1: Weegul

Look deeply into Weegul's eyes and tell me what you see. Ah, do you see it? The intense desire for extreme violence. Weegul is a good law-abiding citizen, and would never break a law, but if the law no longer applied to them, they would commit horrific atrocities beyond human imagination. Imagine the incident with I.G.G.Y. at the orphanage and multiply that by 10⁹⁹⁹⁹. Yeah. "But wait!" you might be saying, "why would you want this? What the ever loving fuck is wrong with you?" and to that I say, you're not my therapist lmao. I want my reality to, for once, become more horrifying than my own imagination, and this might be the only way of accomplishing that, which is why I placed Weegul at #1.

I hope you enjoyed this top 10 list! Feel free to tell me which moshlings you think deserve a license to kill, either in the tags, replies, my inbox or whatever! As usual, like, reblog and follow for more top 10 lists in the future, and if you have any suggestions, feel free to let me know!

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superhusbands4ever · 3 years

Text

The Chain - Chapter 2/15

Now to check in with The Bad Batch.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Full Work | AO3 Link

Fandom: The Bad Batch (Star Wars)

Characters: Crosshair, Hunter, Howzer, Rex, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, Omega, Various Clones

Relationships: Crosshair & Howzer, Crosshair & Rex, Crosshair & The Bad Batch, Crosshair & Omega, Hunter & Rex, Hunter & Omega

Additional Tags: Crosshair Redemption, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Found Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary: One year after the events of The Bad Batch, Crosshair struggles to reconcile his choice with the harsh truth of the world around him. He finds enlightenment in the most unlikely of places and realizes he may have made the wrong decision. But is it too late to do something about it?

Two years after the events of The Bad Batch, Rex reluctantly agrees to allow Hunter and his squad to help him rescue a man who's been captured by the Empire, an Imperial double agent who's cover has been blown. What Hunter thought to be a simple extraction ends up having far greater consequences for their squad than he could have ever anticipated.

At any moment the decision you make can change the course of your life forever.

- Tony Robbins

“How much longer until we’re there?”

Hunter turned from the navicomputer to look at the young girl beside him.

“We should be dropping out of hyperspace in a few minutes, so not much longer,” he said, fiddling with buttons on the computer. “You should go ahead and get your stuff ready for when we land.”

“Okay,” she smiled, bouncing on the balls of her feet excitedly. “I can’t wait to see Rex. I want to show him how much better I’ve gotten with my bow.”

Hunter smiled. “I’m sure he’s excited to see you, too. It’s been awhile.”

She nodded, skipping away to her room to gather her things.

She’d grown so much since the day the Batch met her on Kamino two and a half years ago. Sometimes Hunter wondered if maybe Omega did actually have advanced aging with how quickly she’d shot up in so short a time.

Before where the top of her head had only come up to his chest, now she was tall enough to lean her head on his shoulder when standing together (though the others teased that had more to do with his own height than Omega’s.) Her hair was longer too, down to her shoulders in a frizzy mess of blonde curls. Her face had lost some of the baby fat she’d had nearly three years ago, and she was slowly but surely looking less like the awkward child they’d saved from the Empire, and more like the young teen that she was becoming.

She’d settled into her place in their squad much more comfortably now, too. Going on supply runs and various jobs for Cid would be impossible without her — she factored into all of their plans, worked fearlessly and flawlessly with the others, and had become so proficient with her bow it made Hunter’s chest ache when he watched her.

Her confident shooting and various games on missions with Wrecker reminded him so much of their missing family member it hurt. They hadn’t seen nor heard from Crosshair at all in the two years since they’d left him on Kamino. Since he left us, he tried to remind himself. He made his choice.

Their squad worked their hardest to stay under the Empire’s radar since Tipoca City, picking and choosing jobs that weren’t too risky, that didn’t grant too much exposure. Rex was right that day on Ord Mantell — being dead in the eyes of the Empire had its advantages. Especially when that meant the leftover bounties from the Kaminoans on Omega disappeared. From what Tech could glean from Imperial channels, as far as the Empire was concerned, the sole survivor of the destruction of Tipoca City was Commander CT-9904. The longer it stayed that way the better.

They couldn’t figure out why Crosshair would protect them, would lie and tell the Empire that they had perished in the bombardment. They thought maybe it was only a matter of time before they were caught out, before Crosshair’s anger at them got the better of him and he let it slip that they were still out there somewhere in the galaxy. But as a month turned into six, six months turned to a year, and a year turned to two with no Imperial bounties on their heads, they began to accept that maybe this was Crosshair’s last gift to them. A chance to survive the Empire, at least by him not giving them away.

Hunter would be lying if he said that knowledge hadn’t given him hope. That maybe his little brother, who’d slept in his bunk during bad storms as a cadet and gave him Lula to hold when the sensory overload got too bad, was still in there somewhere. That the cold, angry, and jaded man they’d seen on Kamino wasn’t all that was left of their kih’vod.

Nowadays he wasn’t so sure. As far as they knew, Crosshair was still with the Empire. And with each day as the Empire’s list of crimes and atrocities grew, Hunter’s hope for his little brother realizing his mistake and coming home to them dwindled. Maybe Tech was right. Crosshair was severe and unyielding and nothing could change that. Crosshair had made his choice.

This… is who I am.

Maybe this was who Crosshair had been all along, much as it pained him to consider.

The navicomputer beeped and pulled him from his ruminations just as the ship shuttered, dropping out of hyperspace in the Yavin system.

He stood and walked toward the cockpit, watching as the forest moon in front of them grew larger as they grew closer.

“Entering atmo shortly,” Tech announced, pressing buttons on the dash. “We should be landing at the base momentarily.”

“It’ll be good to see Rex again,” Echo said, stretching his arms above his head. “I wonder if he’s found any more clones since we were here last.”

“He seemed optimistic last time we talked,” Hunter agreed. “There were more clones than I expected there already a few months ago.”

“Rex is a proficient and effective leader,” Tech added as he brought the ship down through the clouds, “it is not surprising that he would have decent success on his mission.”

“I just wish we could help him more than doing the occasional supply drop,” Echo said. “It feels wrong to not be helping with the vode. To not be joining the fight.”

“Keeping off of the Empire's radar is more important right now,” Hunter reminded his brother for what felt like the hundredth time, “which we can’t do if we’re running rebel missions to help clones defect from the Empire.”

“I know, I know,” Echo grumbled, crossing his arms petulantly. He sighed. “I just…”

Hunter laid his hand on Echo’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I know.”

“Beginning landing sequence now,” Tech called as he flipped the landing gear.

As the ship touched down on the landing pad hidden away from the base in the trees, a loud crash came from the back racks, followed by twin groans.

Hunter squinted back at the pair. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” Omega and Wrecker both shouted back.

Omega stepped out of the hold, bow strapped to her back, fiddling with the strap of her pauldron. She saw Hunter looking at her and smiled brightly and innocently at him, moving to stand in front of Wrecker as he rushed to clean up the knocked over crates. Hunter rolled his eyes.

Soon after the five of them were offloaded and walking through the trees toward the base. It didn’t take long to reach - as they drew closer Hunter felt worry stirring in his chest at the sounds of raised voices, scraping crates, and the general sounds of chaos that, in his experience, indicated something bad was happening.

He sped up a bit, the others following behind him, and he heard them all make their own noises of concern as they drew close enough to the base for the others to hear.

A couple of Regs standing at the entrance of the hangar bay moved forward as if to stop them, but waved them through once Hunter pulled off his helmet.

“Captain’s inside,” he said, nodding to the chaotic scene behind him.

They all walked inside slowly, Omega jumping out of the way of a frantic looking nat-born woman, the upper half of her jumpsuit tied around her waist, waving a datapad threateningly and shouting at someone on top of the freighter in the middle of the room.

“What’s going on here?” Wrecker grumbled as they watched clone and nat-born alike clamber around, gathering supplies and loading them into the freighter.

Hunter’s brow quirked as he watched two men load a crate of explosives while another loaded a crate of ammunition onto the ship.

“It would appear they are prepping for an urgent mission,” Tech said, adjusting his giggles as they watched the chaos.

“We just commed Rex an hour ago and he said everything was fine,” Echo looked toward the group, concerned.

“Hello boys!”

They all turned at the sound of a familiar voice and watched Gregor walk toward them, fully armored, with a wave and a grin on his face.

“And lady,” he added once he was next to them, smiling down at Omega and offering her a high five which she accepted.

“What’s the hustle for, Gregor?”

“Bit of an emergency came up in the last hour or so,” Gregor said with a sigh, face falling into a serious expression as he looked around. “One of Rex’s main operatives sent out a distress signal. Looks like he’s been busted and needs extraction.”

“I didn’t know Rex ran stealth ops,” Hunter said, surprised.

“Oh, he doesn’t. But this one is a bit of a special case,” Gregor explained. “He’s had a man playing double agent in the Empire for about a year now. He’s the guy who’s been helping us save all these clones.”

Glancing around, Hunter couldn’t help but be impressed. He knew Rex had made it his mission to fight the Empire and save all the regs he could, but Hunter hadn’t realized just how many Rex had managed to accumulate even since they were last on base four months ago. There had to be dozens of clones just in the hangar bay. Who knew how many were in the rest of the base.

“One man helped smuggle all these clones out?” Hunter asked, surprised.

“Them and more,” Gregor nodded. “Even helped some get their chips out first.”

“And now the Empire’s figured him out.”

“Aye, vod,” Gregor sighed. “Rex wants to try and extract him as soon as we can. He’s done so much for us… we don’t leave men behind.”

Hunter nodded, very carefully ignoring the way Echo shifted at his back.

“Trooper! Make sure you load a couple emergency field kits and a med scanner into the cargo. I don’t know what sort of condition he’ll be in when we get to him.”

The group turned to watch as Rex rounded the freighter, fully kitted up in his customary 501st blue armor, helmet tucked under his arm. Captain Howzer followed close behind him, similarly decked out in full armor. Rex stood and directed a few of the troopers around before turning to the group huddled to the side of the chaos.

“Evening, Bad Batch,” he greeted as he walked closer, chuckling when Omega ran forward to wrap her arms around the man’s waist.

“Hey there, ‘Meg.”

Howzer nodded respectfully to Hunter and the others.

“What’s going on here, Rex?” Echo said as he stepped around Hunter.

“Emergency extraction,” Rex said simply, accepting the gentle kov’nyn from Echo when the man reached forward. “Bit of a sketchy situation. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

“Heard about your man,” Echo said, “how deep was he?”

“Very deep,” Rex sighed, expression pinched. “Hopefully we can get to him before, well….”

Hunter nodded as Rex trailed off. By this point, they were all familiar with the Empire’s idea of justice against those they felt had wronged them.

“We should head out,” Rex said, nodding at Howzer and Gregor. The two saluted and Gregor slid his helmet on. “It’s a couple hours to Daro and I don’t want to waste any more time.”

Hunter started. “Wait, Daro--?”

“Rex, wait!”

The group turned to watch as a rather gaunt looking clone with a handlebar moustache ran up to the three captains.

“I’d like to request permission to go on this mission, sir,” he said, snapping breathlessly to attention and saluting.

Rex looked at the other clone with concern clear on his face.

‘I don’t know, Boil. You’ve only been here a couple of days, you should be taking time to recover--”

“I understand,” the clone - Boil - said, relaxing. “But I owe it to the Commander to help him. It’s my fault he got caught in the first place.”

“No it wasn’t,” Rex argued, reaching out and clapping Boil on the shoulder. “He knew the risks and it was his decision. Besides, you have no way of knowing--”

“That signal went out within days of getting me out,” Boil said quietly. “I know how high of a risk I was, but he did it anyway. I owe this to him.”

Rex held the other man’s gaze for a long moment before sighing and turning to Howzer.

“I hate to ask,” Rex began apologetically, “I know the two of you are close, but--”

“I’ll stay here,” Howzer agreed, reaching up to pull his helmet off. “Man the fort, as it were.”

He glanced over Rex’s shoulder at Hunter and the others before turning back to the other man.

“Just…” Howzer sighed, face pinched, “bring him back safe, okay?”

“That’s the plan,” Rex assured him as the two braced arms.

He unclipped his bucket from his belt and slid it over his head.

“Sorry to dash on you like this, boys,” Rex said, turning back to Hunter and the rest of their squad. “We’ll have to catch up another time.”

“I understand,” Hunter said, reaching forward to clasp the other clone’s hand. “Good luck on your--”

“We can go too!”

Everyone in the cluster turned to look at Omega, who pushed her way forward between Hunter and Boil to stand next to Rex.

“You can?”

“We can?”

Hunter and Rex glanced at each other before Hunter turned back to Omega.

“Yeah!” Omega insisted, looking imploringly at Hunter. “We’ve been to Daro and broke out Gregor before, you know the facility. You guys are trained in special ops, and if this guy is as important as Gregor says he is then they’re going to need all the help they can get.”

Rex glanced back at Gregor who shrugged.

“Omega,” Hunter sighed, “we can’t-- they’re going into a major Imperial base. If something happens and we get caught, we’ll be in serious trouble. The Empire thinks we’re dead and we need to keep it that way. Besides, Gregor knows the inside of that base better than any of us.”

“But we can help!” Omega argued, frustration clear on her face. “Whoever The Commander is has saved so many people, if our help gives Rex a better chance at saving him, I think we should do it!”

“Omega, we can’t risk--”

“We can’t run from the Empire forever, Hunter,” Omega said softly, grabbing Hunter’s hand.

“Besides, I--” she glanced over to Rex who had yet to speak, before turning and leaning closer to Hunter.

“I have a feeling about this mission,” Omega said quietly, eyes bright as she looked at her brother. “This feels right. I think this is where we’re supposed to be. I can’t explain it, but I… I think we need to do this.”

Hunter sighed, staring down at Omega’s hand on his.

He knew logically that their safety from the Empire wasn’t meant to last. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hide Omega and his squad from them forever. The Empire certainly wasn’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future, so running into them again was ultimately inevitable. It was hard enough keeping his squad away already, Echo arguing with him about helping Rex and the rebellion more and more as the Empire grew. Wrecker and Omega were starting to back Echo up whenever he and Hunter argued, so he knew it was only a matter of time.

He just thought they’d have more time than this. Two years was admittedly a long time to continue on without Imperial detection, but Hunter had been hopeful their peace could last a little bit longer. Omega may have been growing up quickly but she was still a kid. Kids shouldn’t need to worry about rebellions and Empires and bounties and missions and death.

Besides, this seemed like an unnecessary risk to Hunter. Whatever feeling Omega had about this mission, Hunter wasn’t getting it. It felt like a waste to risk their tentative peace and safety from the Empire on a rescue mission for some man they didn’t even know. No matter how impressive his work against the Empire was.

But as much as Omega was a bleeding heart about helping those in need, she was also stubborn as hell. A trait she shared with all the clones, really, but it had gotten worse in her time as a member of the Bad Batch.

Hunter looked back into Omega’s wide eyes and felt his resolve crumble. He sighed, glancing back to the rest of the squad. Tech and Wrecker looked impassive as they stared back at Hunter, likely waiting for him to make a decision and follow whatever option he chose. Echo was looking back at him with the same amount of hope, the same determined resolve that Omega had in her eyes and Hunter knew he was losing the battle here.

He sighed tiredly, turning back to Rex.

“Got room in that ship for five more, Captain?”

Rex was frozen in place as he stared back at Hunter. His body language gave no indication as to what he thought of this development, though the incredulous tone he’d used to question Omega indicated that this was not a turn of events he was planning, or even hoping, for. With his helmet on and staring blankly at him, Hunter had a hard time getting a read as to what the other man was thinking.

Rex’s head tilted just slightly to glance briefly at Howzer, who was standing to the side watching the exchange with a strangely intense look in his eyes.

“I don’t know if--”

“Please, Rex?” Omega said, stepping up to the older clone.

Rex shuffled under Omega’s intense gaze, a feeling Hunter was very familiar with. Finally he sighed, dropping his chin to his chest before turning back to Hunter.

“I don’t have time to argue about this— fine,” he said, ignoring Omega’s happy whoop. “But you have to do exactly as I say, okay? No matter what happens.”

If Hunter didn’t know any better he’d say the Captain sounded tense, almost nervous. Hunter nodded and heard the others agree as well.

Rex kept his gaze on Hunter for another moment before shaking his head and turning toward the freighter.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, commanding tone back as he barked orders at the men around them. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Hunter turned back and nodded at the rest of his squad, who all nodded and slipped their helmets back on their heads as they checked their gear.

“Good luck,” Hunter heard Howzer mutter to Rex, who just shook his head. Something told him they weren’t talking about the mission.

Together they followed Rex, Boil, and Gregor up the ramp of the freighter, Rex and Tech headed for the cockpit. As everyone else got strapped in and the engines on the ship started, Hunter couldn’t help but wonder if he was making the right choice.

Omega may have had a good feeling about this mission, but Hunter had a feeling this mission was going to change everything for them, and he wasn’t sure it was for the better.

#cady writes #the chain #the bad batch #tbb #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb crosshair #tbb hunter #tbb tech #tbb echo #tbb wrecker #tbb omega #captain rex #my fic

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scullydubois · 4 years

Text

Only the Light: Ch. 15

After shooting Mulder to prevent him from implicating himself in his father's murder, Scully takes Mulder & Melissa on a road trip to Albert Hosteen's Navajo reservation in New Mexico.

TW for mentions of guns/shooting, death, funerals

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

His eyes flutter open to some place like Heaven, which pisses him off cause that’s not supposed to exist, and if it does, then how in the hell did he make it here? A fiery-haired angel lays a gilded hand upon his chest, her touch made out of air. Tendrils of hair fall against her face, and Mulder wonders where one gets haircuts in Heaven.

He must be floating on a cloud, so close to the sun that it is stained an earthly golden-yellow. His sky accommodation is not as comfortable as all those Renaissance painters made it look, and for that he feels deceived. Is the soul so solid that it is weighed down, even in Heaven? And if it is, well, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of a soul?

He is fatigued, and it’s bullshit, in his opinion, that he could be dead and still feel anything but blissful numbness. He’s about to voice this particular grievance when he realizes where he is, and sure English is turning into a lingua franca of sorts, but something tells him that God isn’t spending his spare time teaching the angels the difference between too and to. So he keeps his mouth shut, unnerved by not knowing whether he’ll ever be able to speak his mind again.

“Hey,” a soft voice breathes, and he’s surprised to understand it, but not altogether upset. He tries to respond, but his tongue has tethered itself to the base of his mouth.

“Mulder…” the voice says, and it registers in his mind that it’s not an angel--not technically--but Dana Katherine Scully, and my god, what atrocity has dared to send her to Heaven so damn soon?

He coughs, then grumbles from deep in his throat. He’s got to be the most undignified person in this joint, and he can only hope his welcome dinner with God isn’t anytime soon. The angel’s hand that is actually his partner’s drifts over his forelock, her fingers guiding his hair back into its part.

“Mulder, can you hear me?”

He nods, hungry for some sense of things.

“You were shot, Mulder. By me. Because you were acting very stupid.”

She killed him?!? Maybe he shouldn’t be so shocked by this, but he can’t help himself. And she’s here too, so how did that happen? Murder-suicide?

Her hand sweeps his shoulder, and he looks down to see the space where her bullet must have pierced him. Patched up right above his heart. He didn’t expect to carry wounds into the afterlife.

Her eyes meet his, blue as ever. “I’ve been taking care of you, and you’ll be just fine.”

His lips form an O, but no sound follows.

“Let me get you some water.” Scully disappears from his line of sight, and he realizes that his cloud has a roof and an open door. You can’t see those from the ground.

Scully returns with a plastic water bottle. Deer Park, to be exact--another thing he didn’t expect to find in Heaven. She holds it to his lips, tilting the liquid gently into his mouth. He revels in it, vitality slowly being returned to him.

At last, his tongue functions as it should. “Where are we, Scully?” he asks, his voice creaky. He’s beginning to think it’s not Heaven after all, but the back of his partner’s Chevy. Which feels about as equally likely, if he’s honest.

“At a gas station In Texas, about two miles off I-40,” she answers, twisting the cap back on the bottle. “We’re headed to a Navajo reservation in New Mexico.”

Met with the realization that his life is not, in fact, over, Mulder tries to piece together the last moments he can remember. He squints, the sun outside the vehicle colliding with the darkness in his brain. He remembers a fever and a bed that was not his.

“Did I sleep in your bed?” he asks, fairly confident that more important things before and after have slipped his mind.

“You did indeed,” Scully replies. And before he can get to it--”Melissa and I shared.”

“Ah.” He pushes himself up, every muscle in his arms rebelling.

Scully pats his shoulder. “You should stay reclined.”

“I’m like a whale in a fish bowl back here,” he protests. And he’s not wrong, Scully knows this. To fit him in, she leaned his head against the driver’s side windowsill and let his bare feet push against the passenger side door, then said a silent prayer that there would be no potholes.

“Why can’t I come up front?” he whines. “I’ll lean the seat back.”

“Because Missy’s sitting there.”

Mulder glances into the front, his expectations of privacy shattered. Still, an empty passenger’s seat meets his gaze. “Well, where is she then?” he pesters, more pointed than intended.

Scully chuckles. You can put a hole in the man’s chest, but you can’t take the restlessness out of him. “She’s inside getting snacks.” Scully smiles at her partner, fondness flowing out in a way she rarely lets it. He’s been out for a couple days now--and while she was closely monitoring him and knew he was okay--she’s so glad that he has come back to her. “Do you want sunflower seeds?” she asks with a sparkle in her eyes.

He nods. “Sp--”

“Spitz.” The moments that have gotten them there, that have indebted her with that knowledge, flash through her mind. “I know.”

And it feels almost prophetic, to Mulder, that she does.

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

The plains of North Texas roll past them, headlights and moonlight meeting in a demure embrace. The two-lane road bears a great resemblance to many they’ve gone down in days past. There’s no one else in sight.

Mulder has been relieved of his back seat duties, taking Melissa’s place at the passenger side so she could get some sleep. He’s slipped on the shirt Scully swiped from his apartment, a Knicks 1990 tee that she must have found in the corner of the living room where he throws his dirty clothes. He wonders if she even packed anything for herself before she hightailed it out of the city.

He couldn’t have imagined that punching Skinner would lead to his father dead, him shot by his partner, and them on the run across the country. And yet, there’s no place he’d rather be. The desert gifting them with a stunningly clear night, he’s opened the car’s sunroof and kicked back to stare up at the stars. The radio having long turned to static, quiet permeates the car.

“I’d gladly live in the middle of nowhere if I got this view every night,” Mulder remarks, drinking in the night sky.

Scully glances at him. There’s a rogue part of her brain that hoped he’d be looking back at her. Alas, the sky is his mistress.

They continue barreling down the highway, about seven hours out from their destination. The speedometer reads 87 mph...Scully is prone to speeding when she can get away with it.

“Keep it up and we’ll beat the sunrise,” Mulder jests.

“That’s the plan.”

Mulder pulls his seat back into place, popping suddenly into Scully’s peripheral vision. “Hey Scully, can I ask you a question?”

“If I said no, would that stop you?”

“Negative.”

“Go on, then.”

“Setting aside the why--though I’d be interested in that, too--how exactly did you decide that shooting me near the heart would be the safest bet?...Unless you wanted to kill me.”

“Well, I was pretty certain I’d be able to remove the bullet with what you had in your apartment, since the wound isn’t near a bone. That also makes it easier to prevent infection.”

“So you either have an insane amount of confidence in your shot, or you don’t value me very much,” he quips.

Scully smirks. “Lucky for you, I consider target practice a great stress reliever.”

“Does the Bureau psychologist know that?”

She bats his arm playfully, the car swerving as she does.

“Hey, that’s no way to treat a patient. Now I know why you’re not practicing.”

“Oh, did I forget to mention…? I’ve decided that I prefer Dr. Scully to Special Agent Scully, so this is the last you’ll be hearing from me.”

Mulder chuckles, though the very idea that there could be any truth to that gives him a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. “There are millions of doctors out there,” he says, “and some of them aren’t even the cool type. Special Agent? That’s way sexier.”

“Oh, is that the metric we’re measuring at now?”

“That’s the metric I’m always measuring at,” he deadpans.

“Mmm.” Scully looks at the rearview mirror, her sister’s steady-breathed sleep reflecting back at her. Good. She’d never hear the end of it if Missy overheard this conversation.

Mulder rubs his eyes, the events prior to his blackout having flowed back to him through the waking hours. “I’m sure I’ll regret asking this,” he begins, “but am I a fugitive?”

Scully glances out the driver’s window, as if she were going to change lanes though there is nowhere to go and no one else around. “I took your weapon to ballistics and proved it wasn’t the one used in the murder.” She says it so casually, Mulder notices, distancing them from the fact that the victim was his father. “But you’re still the only one placed at the scene, and it doesn’t look good that you called the police then ran. Still, the evidence implies that it wasn’t you. Of course, there’ll be suspicion…”

“Especially since we’ve both disappeared…”

“Hey, we’re on FBI business,” Scully declares. “We didn’t go through the official channels, but this is related to the X-Files.”

“Maybe Skinner will believe that if he hears it from you.”

“That’s what I’m banking on.”

Mulder smiles. She’s using her reputation to pull off a ruse. And damn, does that turn him on.

He breathes in the scents of the car--the McDonalds fries they bought with Melissa’s credit card (just to be safe), his own eau de cologne from three days without a shower, but, above all, Scully’s sweetness. Her, just...her. A hint of strawberry, a swipe of gardenia perfume, and her honey-suckle skin. Smoke was never a fitting scent for her, and he is glad she has given it up.

“I’m guessing it’s safe to say you never caught up to Krycek,” Mulder mutters, balling up the fast-food straw paper and tossing it in the air. “Unless you’ve got him in the trunk.”

Scully shakes her head. “No stowaways besides you. He ran off after I shot and catching him wasn’t exactly my top priority.”

“So you do value my life…”

Scully flashes a brilliant but bashful smile. “You caught me.”

What a relationship they have. They are each other’s slayer and savior; a cut of the knife stitched by a meticulous hand. Hurt then healed on the other’s command.

“Fox…”

Mulder glances at the backseat. He finds Melissa sound asleep, snoring softly, and his gaze snaps back to the other Scully in the car. What glitch in the universe has led her to address him by his dreaded name?

He has never been so sure as in this moment---his partner is an otherworldly being, something supernatural. Not an alien, nothing so sinister...but perhaps the angel he imagined, or a fairy who has guided mankind for millennia, or a genie granting his wishes in freeze-frames. She looks through him...not in a way which makes him invisible, but one that takes the physical aspect out of it entirely. She sees his soul. He knows this.

“Fox,” she continues, layering on the vulnerability, “I’m sorry about your father. I know you loved him, above it all.”

Mulder pinches the bridge of his nose. “Something like that...I don’t know, honestly, that he ever loved me.” He looks at his lap. “He spent his last breath asking for forgiveness. You have to wonder what he’s done with his life to end up there.”

“It all becomes clear at the end,” Scully responds, not so much a hypothesis as a statement of fact, drawn from experience. “His regrets caught up to him, and he loathed some things he did while cursing himself for the things he left undone...And in that moment, an apology was all he could do to right some wrongs.”

Mulder looks at her through the corner of his eye, somewhat disturbed by the oracle she has become. “He asked me to forgive him,” Mulder replies. “That’s not the same as an apology.”

“Isn’t it, though?’

Mulder crosses his arms over his chest, the lumpy gauze of his wound rubbing him through his shirt. “Well, first of all, he didn’t even specify what I was supposed to forgive him for, so I don’t see how that can yield any sort of apology. And the very fact that was saying it at the end of his life means that it wasn’t actually about soothing my feelings, but lessening his guilt. Really, it didn’t have a damn thing to do with me.”

“So you’re saying it was a selfish apology, and that doesn’t count.”

“Exactly.”

“So do apologies only work if the recipient accepts them?” Scully interjects. “Is there no value in the attempt?”

Mulder bites his lip.

“I’m not trying to play devil’s advocate,” she clarifies. “I’m genuinely curious about what you think.”

He sighs. “I think...what matters is not necessarily if the apology is accepted, but the intent of it. Like in this case, it was ill-timed, and so I don’t accept it. Maybe if he had said it to me ten years ago, it would have mattered, even if I were too stubborn to accept it at the time.”

“So if your father had apologized to you ten years ago, you would accept it now that he’s dead…?”

Mulder shrugs. “I think I’d realize that he actually meant it, and so I should cut him some slack.”

“Interesting.” Scully says nothing else, keeping her attention straight ahead.

Mulder smirks. “You don’t agree with me, do you?”

She pulls her lips into a tightly-knitted line. “No, no, that makes sense. I just think there are instances when a poorly-timed apology is accepted, and what then? Is the inevitable misunderstanding that will result the recipient’s fault for being so naive? Or do they get to place all the blame on the dishonest person?”

“How about a little bit of both, ey? Spread the blame out nice and evenly. A sprinkle there, a pinch here...”

Scully cracks a smile. Of course he’d make this conversation dirty. “You know, you scare me sometimes, Mulder.”

And just like that, they’re back to his preferred name. He lets out a sideways smile. “Yeah? Why?”

“Because I think that maybe you’re truly crazy, you’re not just faking it.”

He laughs, deep and sudden. Pulled from the trenches of his being. “Glad to hear it,” he snickers. “Glad to hear it.”

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

As the motorcycle rumbles over the desert dust, Scully wonders how she could be so stupid. Barely out of psychosis and she sends Mulder to a burial ground. She didn’t intend for it to be his final resting place.

Eric had tried to warn him before the helicopter men, as he called them when describing the scene to Scully and Melissa, burned the place. But Mulder couldn’t hear him over the whirl of the blades--that’s what Eric suspected. As he recounted to the girls, the smoking man had threatened him, had laid a grotesque hand on him and forced him to show the way back to his house. They interrogated his father Albert and bruised and bloodied him. The conclusion, all around, was that nobody knew where Mulder was. Regardless of whether he had burned in that boxcar or somehow disappeared into the desert beforehand, he was gone.

Scully has a pretty clear idea of who’s responsible, and she wishes she had a helicopter she could ram into their dumb black helicopter to wipe them off the face of the Earth... and prevent them from wiping anyone else off the face of the Earth. Thwarting their ambitions will have to be enough.

But how? Desert heat mixes with smoldering ash as she stands over what’s left of the boxcar, making the moment unbearable. It is obvious to her that if Mulder was still in the boxcar when the ignitor went off, he is now dead. No human can survive that magnitude of burning--he would, in fact, be incinerated. Not a piece of him left behind, identifiable even to Scully’s trained eye.

And if he wasn’t in the boxcar, if he heard the helicopter and gave himself over to the desert? What then? Surely he would have found his way back to where she was standing by now. Surely she’d be able to see him, hear him, touch him. There’d be proof he was something more than ashes. Maybe even, he might have made it back to the motel. But Melissa is keeping watch, and she hasn’t said a word. Missy would not play games about this.

Logic prevailing, as it often does with her, Scully lets Eric drive her back to the motel. If he’s not here, then he’s there. And if he’s not there then--well, she knows. And isn’t it just like Mulder to leave her enough evidence to point one way without giving her the proof she needs to conclude? She imagines a funeral sans a body and shutters.

When they get back to the motel and Missy opens the door and she is alone in the room, Scully is not surprised. She is shattered. It’s like learning the day you’ll die, then waking up on that day and recoiling at the calendar. What will be cannot be stopped. Not by any power of persuasion. Any.

She wants to scream, cry, file a personal complaint with God. Instead, she walks through the door, thanks Eric for his help, then asks her sister what she wants for dinner. Scully’s not hungry--she rarely is these days, and how could she be at a time like this?--but Melissa, she’s human, and she’s been waiting around all day, and all they have in the room is a quarter-full bag of gummy worms, so yeah, Scully decides, Missy probably is hungry. And that’s something she can take care of.

Missy looks at her sister like--well, like she said she just saw an alien. “Dana, you’re not well.” Then, after getting no reaction--”It’s okay to be upset.”

Scully throws her blazer over a chair. ”I didn’t say I wasn’t upset.”

Missy sits down on the bed and pats the space next to her. “Come on, let’s talk about it.”

Scully throws her hands in the air. “He’s gone, Melissa, what else can I say?” She paces through the room. “If he was in the box car, he burned to death. And if he wasn’t, then shouldn’t we have found him by now?”

“Not necessarily,” Missy counters. “Albert told me about the Anasazi, a tribe that lived here hundreds of years ago.”

“I know, I know. They disappeared, historians have no explanation for it.”

‘“That’s what they say. But, honestly, Dana--nothing disappears without a trace. Mulder included.”

Scully shoots her a look. “So what is your explanation? That he was abducted, despite there being multiple witnesses who didn’t see a thing?”

“He called you, he said he saw something in the boxcar.”

Scully nods. “Bodies...lots of them. He said they didn’t look human. And they all had smallpox vaccination scars.”

“What do you make of that?”

Scully shrugs. “I don’t know, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the Anasazi.”

“So why did the men burn the boxcar?”

“It could have been because Mulder was in there, and they wanted to kill him. Or because what’s in there was damning to them.”

Missy bites her lip. “Did the boxcar blow up?”

“No, but it’s still smoldering.”

“Could you go in tomorrow and take a look? See what you can find?”

“Missy, I doubt there’s anything left. And besides, I’ve already ignored about thirty calls from Director Skinner. I need to get back to DC...I’m lucky if I’ll still have a job.”

“Fuck the job. Think of Mulder.”

“I need to consider both if I’m actually to uncover any of the conspiracies that Mulder--and his father and so many others--died as a result of.”

Melissa frowns. Dana’s already counting her partner out...that’s hard to come back from, being christened as a corpse. She sighs. ”Alright, I’m going to preface this by saying that I truly don’t believe that Mulder’s dead, and I know you will find him.”

Scully’s eyes narrow, intrigued by her sister’s shift in tone. “Okay…”

“There’s a technique that I learned from my therapist friend,” Missy begins, already setting off alarm bells in Scully’s head, “that is meant to help process complicated feelings about a person.”

Scully purses her lips as Missy continues--”It’s used to find clarity and--if it’s someone you’ve lost, literally or metaphorically--to give closure. I think it would help you establish a clear motivation to keep up your work on the X-Files.”

Scully’s forehead creases right between the eyebrows. “I just told you, I have one.”

“Yes, but if you go back to Washington, bureaucracy’s gonna get in the way of all of that. That’s why you drove out here in the first place, isn’t it? To avoid bureaucracy and push forward with the case?”

“I suppose,” Scully mumbles.

“And that’s exactly what Mulder would have done, and that’s what he would want you to do now.”

“This is beginning to sound like one of those ‘if x jumped off a bridge, would you?’ scenarios,” Scully retorts.

“But with the opposite sentiment,” Melissa clarifies. “You and Mulder have never been closer to finding the truth. Now do you want to hear my suggestion or not?”

Hands on her hips, Scully’s silence commands Missy to continue.

“Let me remind you that Mulder is not dead, and this is just an exercise.”

Scully nods, more to keep her moving than in agreement.

“I want you to write a eulogy for him.”

Scully’s mouth drops open in protest. “And this is going to advance the investigation how?”

“By giving you emotional clarity. Essentially, you’ll realize how much he means to you, and it will push you to do whatever you can to complete the investigation.”

Scully scoffs. “You act like I don’t even like him or something.”

“You like him, but you’re afraid of imitating him. There’s a lack of...respect for his methods. And they’re the only way this case is gonna get solved.”

Scully crosses her arms. “Gee, apparently you should have gone to Quantico in my place.” It’s not that she’s afraid, per say, but that she doesn’t think Mulder’s unconventional approach will work. Two plus years in and she still believes herself more than him. She wishes she didn’t.

“You don’t have to read the eulogy out loud,” Missy coos, knowing full well that she’ll be sneaking around during the night to get her hands on it when her sister refuses to share.

“Wow, thanks. That makes me feel a lot better,” Scully groans.

Melissa squeezes her sister’s shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay. You’ll find him, and this will help you know what to say when you do.”

Scully leans into the hug. “For the record, I think this is insane, alright? I’m only doing it because it’s getting too late to search the desert.”

“Understood.” Missy stands up. “Oh, and to answer your question, Albert invited us over for a traditional tribal feast at his house.”

“What?”

“You asked what I wanted for dinner. Those are our plans.”

“Oh.” Scully looks at her lap. It seems unfair to have to face the world at a time like this. Especially when her head is plagued with thoughts about what she would--will?--say at her partner’s funeral. And still, she continues.

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

Crowding around Albert’s dining table, the party finishes the last bites left on their plates. It has been a long day--or days, more accurately--and the desolate black sky outside makes Scully feel like it’s 4am, though the clock only reads 7. She blinks toward her company, trying to remain present.

“I am thankful we could share this meal,” Albert says, nodding to Scully and her sister. “It is not often we get outsiders here, and even less often that we’re able to indulge in the foods of our ancestors.”

Missy reaches for the final piece of fry bread, biting into it daintily.

“There’s not a lot here,” Albert tells them, eyes downcast. “Nowadays, we take what we can get, and that means eating to survive...your processed foods and non-perishables have become the staples of our diets.”

Scully tries not to frown. “Well, we’re very glad that you prepared this for us. It was delicious,” she says, trying to inject enthusiasm into her downtrodden heart.

“Yes, thank you very much,” Missy affirms.

Albert casts his eyes in Scully’s direction. A shadow falls over her. From where, she is not certain.

“You are hurting, but you do not need to be. What is yours will find you. There is no such thing as disappearance.”

Scully pulls her lips into a solemn smile. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“It is the truth. The desert acts in its own way, and it is never wrong.”

Scully nods, trying to believe him. Trying to have faith. “Thank you, Albert.”

From across the table, he extends his palms toward her. “Pray with me.”

She clasps his hands and closes her eyes. Prayer is not normally something she engages in with others around, but neither is grief.

Albert begins speaking in the language written on the Defense Department files. She doesn’t understand the words, but his sincerity transcends semantics. The spirit of faith--the spirit of God--is there.

She has been thinking lately of faith. The faith she has been feeling is not that of Sunday mornings and ‘forgive me Father for I have sinned.’ It’s something else entirely, something that has compelled her to do things she would never do... until she looked down at her hands and she was doing them.

So many transgressions to count, and yet she hesitates to even call them that. Injured her partner--a suspected fugitive--to keep him from implicating himself, tapped her sister as her sidekick to take him halfway across the country, and deserted her duties at the FBI, all in favor of the truth.

Maybe truth is faith that good will prevail.

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

When Scully sits down that night with the motel notepad and a pen, she becomes a conduit for everything she couldn’t say out loud. She copies the entire Mulder file from her brain, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t capture any of his essence, the unique flavor of humanity that he bravely faced the world with which made him so...him.

It is then that Scully realizes you can know all the details of someone’s life without ever really knowing them, and that scares her because she gets the inkling that she has never truly let Mulder in--though he has opened up to her--and what if he dies feeling like he never got further than the young woman whose physics thesis he read? That’s not fair, not when she knows him so well.

She takes a breath and puts the pen down. She can’t compose Mulder to life. Resurrection doesn’t work that way. What she can do--and what she realizes is what every person does in this situation, and there must be something wrong with her because it wasn’t her first instinct--is write about how the man she knows (knew?) made her feel. About the impact his life had on her life.

Her vision blurs as she works to consolidate her unauthorized biography of Fox William Mulder into a passage that suggests the joy their partnership brought into her life. Though Missy said she wouldn’t have to share, Scully can’t shake the feeling that she will need this at some point in time, that having a eulogy on call might not be such a bad idea. It’s a terrible thought, but a truth every agent knows. After all, she and Mulder witnessed each other writing their wills, and that was considered a customary work duty. Nothing is out of reach.

And so she wrote as if she’ll have to read it one day, letting her emotions flow within the confines of her finely tuned self-awareness. The end product turns out somewhat more sentimental than she envisioned, but she caps her pen and walks away, giving herself permission to take up space.

--Fox William Mulder--

As he despised being called by his first name, I must take the liberty of referring to my partner as Mulder one last time. I was lucky to know him. Not as Spooky or the alien-obsessed man in the basement, but for who he truly was. Nothing was more important to Mulder than the truth. And the truest truth I know about him is that he loved his sister, and he wanted justice for her. It’s what he spent his life on, and ultimately, what he sacrificed it for. I am honored to have played any role in his mission, and I hope to continue it in his memory.

If there’s one piece of Mulder that I hope to carry with me for the rest of my life, it’s his tenacity. Mulder never, never let any obstacle get in his way. I can’t tell you how many times I wasn’t sure where he was, only to learn that he had flown to the ends of the Earth to investigate whatever lead he found promising that day. I doubt that I’ll ever encounter anyone who lives up to the passion and determination he contained within him. And it’s a shame because the world needs that...The world needed him.

I needed him too. He challenged me in ways I never dreamed of. Sometimes I wanted to pull my hair out, but mostly, I just kept thinking about how boring my life would be if I never met him. And now...I don’t know what’s next. There were so many possible futures ahead for us and the X-Files. This isn’t just a eulogy for Mulder, it’s a eulogy for all that could have been. He was my best friend. There’s nothing more I can say.

When she reads it back the next morning, she falls to her knees in conversation with God, pleading for a miracle to bring the man she has finally realized she loves back into her life.

#this got tender as hell #truly a labor of love <3 #thank you for reading as always #only the light fic #missy and scully fic #the x-files #txf fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #melissa scully #mine

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silvadraconis · 3 years

Text

Choking Fears

A one shot between Silva and Dantes, and about avoiding nightmares

(Tagging @panyum )

"Accomplice" A short call as a figure rises up out of the shadows at their feet "Ah. he's looking for me. right" Dantes only ever called Silva Accomplice, they were both his master, but the name of Accomplice was given to Silva alone Just as she was the only one allowed to call him Edmond Her and Guada swap places, having retired to their room after a bout of training in the sim. She takes a bit of a breath and faces the aforementioned Count who's looking at her with an impassive gaze She gives a bit of a sheepish wave "Hello, you called for me?" she had a feeling she knew what this was about, though she hoped she was wrong

A subtle shift of his form as he fully comes out of the shadows, before taking a seat in a chair and crossing his legs "May I ask where you've been lately?" "Oh crap, this is not about the training, fuckkk" she had assumed he was here to chastise her and Guada for being reckless in the sim today, tackling enemies on their own as Silva gave Guada advice But turns out she was quite wrong on that account She gives him a confused look that's almost perfectly done "What do you mean, I'm kinda stuck to Guada I'm usually not too far away" she chuckles a bit He gives her a knowing look "You know very well that's not what I meant. You haven't been sleeping lately, and even I can't seem to track you down, where have you been going?" He'd never admit it, but it bothered him that she was harder to find than Guada when she decided to go wandering off, something about the way her soul was tied to his other masters that made things difficult. Not that he was that worried about her in the grand scheme of things(he lied to himself). He knew she was fully capable as she continued to remind him She huffs a sigh and sits on the bed, looking so very different in posture from Guada despite it being the same body. At least he never had any issues in telling them apart like that, they were both so very distinctive in the way they moved and acted. "Edmond, I don't exactly need to sleep, and I'm a ghost, I'm fine I assure you" He narrows his eyes at her a bit She's deflecting, as she often tries to do when he confronts her at first with these sorts of things, convinced she's some sort of burden still He closes his eyes for a moment before opening them and regarding her with a piercing gaze that causes her to shift slightly "Hmph, and how many times have we talked about how despite being a ghost rest is needed?" She rubs the back of her neck, a tic that gives her away despite her trying to deflect "I mean, yes, but-" He asks her bluntly "How bad have they been as of late? They must be hounding you quite severely to cause you to avoid sleep to such a degree" He's seen the horrid nightmares that plague her mind, the terrible memories that filled his blackened rage filled heart to the brim with hate for those who did this to her If it wasn't for the fact that the world was currently burnt to ash, he'd have already done something about the people responsible for such atrocities She stills, going into that unnatural silence as a reflex. He waits patiently for her to answer, knowing that pressing her is not the way to get her to talk usually After a few moment she finds her speaking voice again and answers quietly "It's not those ones that are, bad recently." she looks to the ground in embarrassment Ah. that would explain why she'd been avoiding him in particular then. He sighs a bit "Silva, it matters not the hell I drag you out of, I promised you I'd come when you called. You're my accomplice, and I won't abandon you in any hell, be they real or ones of your own making" She rubs the back of her neck again, curling in on herself a bit "Edmond I, it's not fair to you though. I'm constantly having nightmares as it is, and those one are…" "Are what? Nothing more than shadows and fabricated hells, you've made it through them before, and I would never leave you to traverse such hells alone, be they real or imagined" She looks at him now, brown eyes piercing straight back "I know you won't! That's what I mean! You deserve rest too! You're constantly saving me from my nightmares, and those ones in particular are so hard to drag me out of, it's not right!" His eyes flash back with some of that rage, not at her but at her situation "Are you saying it's right then to let you deal with them alone? We're partners Silva. No one deserves to face such hells alone" She rubs her arms and looks at the ground Finally some of her walls are starting to crack, and he can feel her through the bond again Worry, care, concern, and behind it all, the sticky cloying feeling of fear coating everything Suddenly he there instead of the chair, sitting behind her, and wrapping her in his cloak

For reasons that he initially couldn't fathom, she felt safe with him, despite who and what he was. He's seen his masters charge at wild manticors and spriggans, face down impossible odds without so much as a trickle of fear, and if there was they pushed past it just the same. But this cloying fear was stopping his Accomplice in her tracks, preventing her from resting, from relying on him like she used to She starts in surprise at him suddenly being behind her "Edmond! Hey what are you doing?! I'm fine its just-" Her voice dies in her throat as he looks at her, with eyes demanding honesty and a soft smile He chuckles a bit "Kuhaha, you know Accomplice, your stubbornness is as much a virtue as it is a detriment sometimes. But you know that I too share in the same determination. So what is it that has you so fearful? What is it that keeps you from calling out to me and resting like you should?" He suspects the answer already, but he wants to hear it from her. If she truly wanted to keep hiding it he wouldn't press her She looks to the ground again, avoiding his gaze Her will is crumbling though as he holds her steadfast, and finally after a long moment she sighs "It terrifies me, those nightmares. Moreso than the regular ones, there's something about that place that, clings to me" She shivers a bit in his grip, and he tightens his hold on her "I get, worried, that...maybe this time will be the time I wont find my way out" He tilts her head with his hand gently, getting her to look at him "My beloved Accomplice, are you saying you don't trust me to find you?" "N-no that's not! Shadow I'm not saying-" she tries to backpedal but fails to do so He smiles, his sharp teeth glinting as he looks at her "Kuhaha, then surely there is nothing to fear? There is nothing wrong with being afraid, but allowing such fear to consume you helps nothing. Nomatter what prison your soul falls into my Accomplice, I swear I will find you. Do you trust me to find you? Do you trust in me to wait for me?" She sighs and leans into him "Of course I do Edmond but, that's part of the problem. You help me so much, I want you to get some rest too" He sighs and pulls off his hat, plopping it on her head "Hmph, well, I'd certainly be getting more rest if I wasn't concerned with finding where exactly you go off too, even Robin Hood couldn't find you these past few nights." He had gone to Robin when he failed to find her, him seeming to have a knack at tracking her down, but even he had been coming up empty handed "Ah. That, I-" she flushes a bit in embarrassment, not having considered that fact at all He chuckles again, sensing that he had swiftly flattened her arguments in one fell blow "Kuhaha, so, will you stop hiding away now? Else I'll be forced to bring in reinforcements, including a certain detective, as much as I am loath to give him the satisfaction of solving this mystery" She blanches at that a bit. She knows damn well Sherlock could sus out where she went, cause of freakin course he could She tries to rally herself and offers a counter argument "What if I just tell you where I am? That'd solve both problems yeah?" He looks at her flatly "No. You need rest. Would you prefer I go and find Hektor to get him to convince you along with me?" She looks at him in protest "Hey! Now you're just trying to gang up on me!" "Kuhahaha, if it takes an army to force your stubbornness to listen than an army I shall raise my Accomplice" He tightens his hold on her, looking at her with a smile and eyes full of that determined gleam She sighs and leans her head against his shoulder "Fine, I surrender. But only cause you and everyone else in this damned Chaldea are stubborn as hell too" He chuckles "As I expected from my beloved Accomplice, you know how to pick your battles. Now then, where is it that you're going off to?" She gets a cheeky grin of her own "Nuh uh, that's my secret to keep, I'll rest don't worry. But I'm keeping my hidey hold for future use" He frowns as he looks at her, then sighs, realizing that while he may have won this battle he may have lost the war on this one She chuckles in victory and he looks at her with a wide grin, his eyes getting the slightest trickle of flames "Kuhahah! So be it then my Accomplice! Next time you decide to use such a place I'll find you even then!" She grins and laughs with him "We'll just have to see won't we my Shadow?" He grins widely and plucks his hat off of her head, putting it back on "Kuhaha, see we shall. There's not a prison or place I cannot break into. I have followed you into the depths of hell and the void itself, I will surely find you next time!"

#mastersona #silva #edmond dantes #fate grand order #if tumblr could stop f'ing up my formatting thatd be great

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kae-karo · 3 years

Note

"how will you survive" and kaeya!

i am so sorry this prompted SO much angst asdkljsdjklfjkls (send me one of these prompts and a genshin character!)

hands of fate - T - 2k

tags: zhongli & kaeya enemies to allies, introspection, mentions of killing but nobody dies, lots of guilt, lil bit of tartali mention

[read on ao3]

In all his time on Teyvat since that dark night, Zhongli has not encountered a descendant of Khaenri’ah. Perhaps fate skewed heavily in his favor, or perhaps fate is not so kind a force to give him that reprieve when it intends only to return for him, to bring him to his knees.

He wishes - and perhaps it is a naive, belated thing to wish - that he had ventured a little farther from the borders of Liyue before today. That he had happened upon the famed winery some ten or so years ago, that he’d encountered the child of Khaenri’ah that stands before him now.

That bares his teeth in a smirk that does not feel lighthearted. And could not be, he chides himself - a child of Khaenri’ah, one that grew up in its festering remains, that was taught the truth about the archons. A child steeped in resentment - how could he be anything but burdened?

Zhongli cannot blame him.

“You were there,” he says, too casual. Kaeya, a Khaenri’ahn name. Zhongli dips his head.

“I was.”

“And you did nothing.” Not a question.

“I was bound by my gnosis.” An excuse. Behind his eyes, Khaenri’ah burns, a destruction wrought upon thousands of innocent people for the act of few, and still an act that did not warrant such merciless slaughter. Zhongli does not deserve excuses.

“You chose your path,” Kaeya says, as cool as the ice he’s used to freeze Zhongli here, on his knees. He could break free, of course. Kaeya does not hold the same power that he does - but is it fair of him to deny fate? To deny Kaeya what he so very righteously deserves?

Perhaps his contract was never with the Tsaritsa. Never something so small, so minute in the face of the hands of fate. Perhaps his contract has always been far larger than that, far more sinister. Far more binding than a gnosis, than the promise of the powers of Celestia at his fingertips.

Cool metal tips Zhongli’s chin up, and he lifts his gaze to meet Kaeya’s - one blue eye, one black, entirely corrupted by the Abyss that has long since consumed Khaenri’ah. Would he be anything different, if Zhongli had found him? How many times can he shift the hands of fate to his bidding, to his selfish desires?

Never enough, he knows. They will always find a way back to him.

“I should kill you for what you did.” He sounds bored as he speaks, and Zhongli wants to know, rather suddenly: is his emotionless tone borne from years of coping with that anger, that hatred for the gods who abandoned him? Or is it borne of something deeper, something far more sinister?

Would it matter, in the end? If there was a time that Zhongli might’ve stepped outside Liyue’s borders, that he might’ve happened upon Kaeya living in Mondstadt, could he have changed this outcome?

Would he have? It is not in his nature to involve himself heavily, even in Liyue. To do so in another archon’s territory would have certainly been a breach of well-established boundaries.

“I would not begrudge you that decision,” Zhongli says carefully, and holds Kaeya’s stare. Feels again the press of cool metal under his chin. It’s grown warmer over time, as the ice holding him captive begins to creep under his skin.

Kaeya huffs out a breath, lowers his sword.

“You’re certainly taking all the fun out of this,” he grumbles, more to himself than to Zhongli, and Zhongli tips his head. Thinks of Childe, and lets that spark warm his chest for a moment. Hopes a distant hope that Childe is safe, that he is not in danger at the moment. Or, rather, that he is in a danger he can handle, for Zhongli would never dare to underestimate him.

“I apologize.”

“Why?” A scoff, and Kaeya tips his head in Zhongli’s direction. “It’s far too late for an apology to make much of a difference. Won’t bring anyone back.”

“I am aware.” What he does not say: I watched thousands die at the hands of angry gods. Thousands of your people, and I stood aside and did nothing to stop it. Did not even fight the control that held me still, though it could not force me to partake in the slaughter.

Kaeya huffs out an irritated breath, and Zhongli inhales as much as the rigid ice will allow. He is no stranger to death, though he’s gone quite a while without its presence hovering nearby. And yet, he cannot blame Kaeya for this anger, for this hatred. How to mourn a culture torn from Teyvat before he’d even been born? How to grieve for thousands dead when he had not been there to see their slaughter?

Perhaps it was inevitable, the hands of fate guiding them to this moment. For Zhongli can grieve, can mourn in a way that Kaeya cannot, and Kaeya in a way that Zhongli cannot. Fate that drew them together, so that their sorrow might mean something more.

“I expected an eons-old god to beg for his life,” Kaeya adds aloud, but quieter. Less of this show he’s been putting on, and Zhongli sees the pain beneath the surface - the true pain, the kind of hurt he’s borne through his life, not the distant kind for people he never knew himself.

What a lonely existence, to be the last of one’s kind. To be set so thoroughly apart from all others, what a burden to bear. To find no home, to feel out of place even in the home built for oneself. Zhongli does not want to take away from the right that Kaeya has to experience his pain, but a part of Zhongli’s heart goes out, calls out for him to say that he understands.

That he feels the same, in so very many ways.

“I have lived a very long time, but I do not think the world would stop turning if I no longer walked Teyvat.” He chooses his words carefully, and does not think of broken contracts sworn to those he holds dearest.

I will see you again. A promise to Childe sworn in shared breaths under warm covers.

I will always protect you. Another, to Xiao, dear Xiao, his ever-vigilant yaksha.

It pains Zhongli to think that they might suffer for his absence, that they might grieve. The world may not cease its turning, but the ache in his heart for their sadness…

But they are not alone any longer - Zhongli has watched them find others to depend upon, others to share in their sorrows should something irreversible happen tonight. And he has been afforded an opportunity he might not otherwise see: to give Kaeya some peace, to bring a kind of amends to the very last of Khaenri’ah. It is not the worst way to leave the world behind.

“Well, that dulls the revenge aspect of this quite a bit, doesn’t it,” Kaeya says, quiet and- and rather lackluster, for all his earlier enthusiasm. Pain flickers through his features with each movement, cracks in the glacial ice of his expression, and Zhongli exhales slowly.

“You watched the destruction of an entire civilization,” Kaeya hisses under his breath, low and forceful, and Zhongli dips his head. Wonders at this repetition - is it for Zhongli, now, or for himself? Which of them does he wish to remind of the atrocities that Zhongli was complicit in?

“And there is nothing I will ever be able to do to atone for the pain I enabled.” He lets his eyes drift shut, sees the ruins of Khaenri’ah, hears the screams and wails and feels the tears that’d fallen unbidden from his eyes even as he stood utterly still, even as he did not fight to protect the innocent.

So very long...for so very long, Zhongli fought through the Archon war for a promised peace. Perhaps some might’ve called him soft for how his heart ached in those horrible, horrible hours of Khaenri’ah’s massacre. Perhaps he is not the rigid, unfeeling stone he once was.

His eyes flick open at the clattering of metal on wood, surprised to find Kaeya’s hand limp at his side, his sword at his feet. Surprised more to feel the drip of water against his skin, the gradual loosening of the ice’s hold on his body.

It melts away around him, and the weight of his body returns without the ice supporting it. The weight of his heart drags him further, though, and he slumps, bows over with the ache of it in his chest. His hands press into the wood, unfeeling for the ice that’d encased them. He sees blood that is not there, blood of thousands upon thousands, and does not feel the sick warmth of it.

“You can help.”

Kaeya’s voice is quiet, broken. Zhongli knows without asking what his words truly mean, what he requests of Zhongli.

“I am nothing in the face of Celestia,” he says quickly - not out of fear, but out of warning. He will not be the asset that Kaeya hopes him to be. “But if it will bring you peace-”

“It won’t.” Kaeya’s back remains turned, but his words cut through as sharply as his sword. When he finally faces Zhongli again, a bitter smile touches his lips. “But I have no one else left, and I would rather not die alone.”

Ah, a feeling that Zhongli knows well. And yet, he considers with a strange spark of amusement, he has not yet come face to face with his final end.

Inside his head, Childe grins at him. Demands another fight, for he is ever the insatiable warrior. Xiao dips his head to Zhongli, but never so low as that first time. When he lifts it, a smile touches the corner of his lips. Something like hope glows in Zhongli’s chest - if fate demands his life, he will fight it tooth and nail. Force it to give him one more chance to see those he loves so dearly.

“I owe you and your people far more than my life could repay-” This he knows with grave certainty. “But,” he adds as he stands - on shaking legs, with frozen limbs - “I have made promises I cannot break, and so I will fight with you against Celestia itself.”

Kaeya’s brows furrow minutely.

“You made me no such promise.” His tone speaks of caution, and Zhongli cannot blame him. He wonders, too, if Kaeya wishes to reach for his sword.

But he remains still, and Zhongli’s lip ticks up at the corner as he exhales a short breath - on another day, in another life, it might be amusement that sparks his reaction, but now, it is only a desperate kind of hope.

“No, but I promised others that I would return,” Kaeya’s brows lift, “and return I must, for what is a god of contracts if he cannot keep his word?”

“That’s rather bold, when you couldn’t manage to stand up to Celestia the last time,” Kaeya says with a quirked brow, now, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “What was it you just said? That you’re nothing in the face of Celestia?”

A bitter, stinging sort of dread worms its way through Zhongli’s chest. A fear he hasn’t felt in many years, fear that he might not escape this battle alive. Fear that he will leave Childe and Xiao behind with no warning. That he will break their hearts.

“How will you survive?” Kaeya asks, but his voice is not so harsh this time. His gaze looks distant, too, and Zhongli wonders if he is not as alone as he claims.

“I will do whatever it takes, as I presume you will.” He will rely on every tactic he has left untouched for eons, will fight bitterly and without remorse. Will be selfish for the sake of others - for Kaeya, for Khaenri’ah, and for Childe and Xiao. For his own heart, and for theirs.

Kaeya’s eyes narrow at him, and Zhongli holds his stare.

“Very well, god of contracts.” Kaeya extends a hand, and Zhongli reaches out in turn. Finds Kaeya’s palm warm in spite of the ice that he wields. “I believe we have a deal.”

#genshin #genshin impact #kaeya #zhongli #genshin fic #prompts

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the-odd-job · 4 years

Text

Up in Flames chapter 14 - Tear Into You (Ashes Part 2)

Warnings: Major Character Death, Chose Not to Use Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Relationships: Megatron/Sunstreaker, Megatron/Sideswipe, Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Characters: Sunstreaker, Megatron Additional Tags: Dubcon, Mechpreg, Sticky Words: 5342

Am I beautiful As I tear you to pieces? Am I beautiful? Even at my ugliest, you always say I'm beautiful As you tear me to pieces You are beautiful Even at your ugliest, I always say You're beautiful and sick like me

— In This Moment – Sick Like Me

( Previous )

It turned into a public event, as little of a surprise as that was. They were gladiators. Fighting for show was what they did, even if the glory days of the Pits were long gone, brought down by Megatron himself.

But gone or not, their world was still familiar to most of the Decepticon army. There were many among their ranks that could appreciate a good showdown between skilled fighters—and Sunstreaker quite enjoyed providing shows of that nature. Didn’t he deserve to be the center of attention, both for what he was and what he could do?

And Megatron as his opponent only did him justice. Could he win? Probably not. Megatron had beaten him every time they had ever fought, rightfully proving himself superior no matter the circumstances.

Would he still give it his best go? Pit yeah. Anything less would’ve been nothing but an embarrassment. As much as winning was the goal, so was entertaining, and testing yourself, pushing yourself to your limit in front of so many appreciative optics.

And this side of the war definitely could appreciate real fights like the Autobots never did. The Autobots were more concerned with not going overt with the damage inflicted during sparring, and real fights were supposed to be off the table entirely, as little as Sunstreaker had ever followed that rule.

The Decepticons didn’t have such concerns. They were a violent bunch and seemed to only consider the injuries racked up as inevitable, without seeing any reason to change their actions because someone or other got hurt and required repairs. Part of life, no? Nothing more, nothing less. No reason to make a number out of it. With continued access to Cybertron, they didn't even need to worry about resources—aside from the ever elusive energon—as the Autobots did.

That suited Sunstreaker just fine, as did the fact no one thought twice about him suffering injuries the same as everyone else, despite the fact he was carrying. The only reason anyone spent time having second thoughts before fighting him was his sheer proven prowess. He could scrap most of the mecha on either side of the war. Did you really want to mess with him?

Megatron didn’t need to worry about things like that, though. Sunstreaker could provide him with a good fight, and he would do so, but Megatron’s strength and ability exceeded even his own. Everyone knew that.

Didn’t stop Sunstreaker from immediately agreeing to the suggestion of another no holds barred fight, and that saw them here, in the training room with the majority of the Decepticon army on Earth standing aside, optics sharp on them. Megatron’s sword was extended and Sunstreaker held his own thermal sword, ready to carve his fragging name in the warlord’s armor. As much as they were both weapons just by existing… Well, additional aids were damage multipliers, weren’t they? They evened the odds a little, allowed for greater damage on both sides. That came in quite handy.

Especially now. Megatron was, in frame, more of a weapon than he was. Once upon a time Sunstreaker would have considered them equal as far as their armaments went, but since then, he’d lost his claws, his fangs, his edges—things Megatron still retained because who would dare try to take those from him.

Didn’t matter. Sunstreaker still knew how to hit and how to tear, blunt digits or not, and he damn well knew how to handle a sword. Maybe he was at a disadvantage, maybe he was the underdog—then let it be so. It wouldn’t stop him from giving as good as he got.

“Haven’t we done this enough times already?” Sunstreaker asked as Megatron nodded at him, inviting him to make the first move. He did, rushing the warlord, dodging the blade that moved to intercept him, although he couldn’t break through Megatron’s defense enough to actually land a hit. Neither did he receive a hit either, though, dancing out of the way of Megatron’s attack on light pedes.

“Do you complain?” Megatron asked in return, moving on him, but Sunstreaker moved with him, staying just half a step ahead. Enough to save him until he could try to take an opening.

It didn’t work. Megatron blocked him, and wasn’t it satisfying to feel like his skill was truly matched, like he’d be made to work for every attack he could possibly land.

Sunstreaker’s mouth tugged into a smirk. “No. Why would I ever say no to a chance of slagging you? Fragging well deserve it, at least.”

“Do I now?” the tyrant rumbled in amusement, sending Sunstreaker stumbling back with a strike of his sword, cutting too deep into his plating. Megatron moved to a follow up attack in one fluent motion, but Sunstreaker wasn’t there anymore when it was supposed to reach him, moving out of the way like quicksilver.

“Damn well. Or did you forget everything you’ve done?” Sunstreaker’s sword connected with Megatron’s side, too shallow, a second before he had to dodge again. There was no way it would’ve been that easy, anyway.

He’d be disappointed if it was. Megatron was supposed to be better than that, and he was.

“How large of a scale are we talking about, here?” Megatron humored him. Sunstreaker could surmise what he meant. There was many a mech who would take an issue with the whole war Megatron had thrust Cybertron into—the atrocities he’d committed in the name of his cause. Genocide.

Did Sunstreaker think he deserved an ass kicking for all that? He should have. He had been an Autobot, a faction whose entire purpose was to oppose Megatron and everything he did and wanted to do. It was that insignia that still painted his chest, scratched out now. Why was he ever one of the red faction if he didn’t think Megatron deserved to pay for his supposed crimes?

They knew already.

What, then? Did he think Megatron had been right all along, justified in what he did? All the death he’d caused, the innocent he’d killed? What did he think of that?

“Scale of my goddamn life,” Sunstreaker growled, jumping out of the way of Megatron’s slash that would have beyond hurt had it connected, and taking his chances with an attack of his own. It landed. Muted satisfaction burst in his spark. The sparklet in his chamber vibrated, its excitement joining his own.

This was right. Fighting, testing his mettle, against its sire too, proving to it and to himself once again that Megatron was powerful enough to be considered beyond desirable for the role.

“Hm. And everything else I’ve done?” the tyrant asked from him. Why? Was he genuinely curious?

Or was he testing him? Megatron wanted him to fight. Not just like this—blades clashing against each other before one broke through, sharp cuts from Megatron’s, searing slashes from Sunstreaker's—but in the war. For him. Was this an attempt at gauging his current stance on the whole matter?

“You didn’t do any of that to me,” came Sunstreaker’s answer. He dove past Megatron’s defense again, and this time his sword sank deep into Megatron’s side, as much as the warlord knew how to angle himself to reduce the severity of the damage. Getting out of the way of the retaliation was as important as delivering hurt, but he only managed that with a hair’s breadth away from the harm Megatron wanted to inflict on him.

Good enough, all the same.

“Selfish,” Megatron commented, but it didn’t sound like an accusation as it would’ve been coming from any Autobot. More just an… Observation.

“You know it,” Sunstreaker grinned, unrepentant. As if it wasn’t common knowledge Sunstreaker didn’t really give a crap about anyone but himself. More reasons for the Autobots to dislike him. They put so much weight on altruism, Optimus in particular. Oh, all the talks he had gotten for putting himself first, at the cost of others.

Hadn’t really worked, any of those chastisements. He was yet to see the error of his ways.

“And what of all the good I’ve brought upon your life?” Megatron went on to ask. Sunstreaker frowned a second before he was too slow and received a strike that sliced clean through his armor. He ignored the ache of the cut in favor of dodging to the side, away from Megatron’s follow up attack. But, if he’d hoped to take the chance to deliver an attack of his own, Megatron was quick to squash those dreams.

“What fucking good?” Sunstreaker growled after he’d gathered his bearings and they were back to their scheduled dancing, injuries, wounds on both of them slowly piling up. “You destroyed it.”

“As was necessary. I freed you from the Autobots,” came Megatron’s argument, delivered in time with a feign Sunstreaker didn’t recognize as such, followed by a fast attack that landed and had him reeling and scrambling out of the way for a precious second that ended with a cut on Megatron when the tyrant was a little too slow to turn to face him.

Sunstreaker couldn’t really disagree with Megatron on this one, though. He growled again instead, veering to the side quickly enough to deliver another attack that landed almost as it was intended to before Megatron could force him away.

“Ends justify the means, huh?” Sunstreaker asked after he’d dodged again, diving right back in the next moment to deliver a vicious strike upon the larger mech. “Waltz right in, announce my crimes to the whole damn world, but that’s fine because it would roast me out of the Autobots?” Fragger.

“Do you disagree it was for the best?” Megatron asked from him, then moved far faster than he had any right to. Sunstreaker couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough and Megatron’s blade sank into his armor, leaving yet another gaping tear behind.

But not deep enough to bleed. Yet.

“What does it matter? A little too late to go back, now,” Sunstreaker hissed back. Whatever he thought of it wouldn’t change things anymore. There was no fixing what Megatron had done.

“But not too late to move forward,” the tyrant said—and why the slag did Sunstreaker feel like they were again circling back to the matter of would he or would he not fight? He couldn’t go back to being an Autobot, not after everything… Not that he really wanted to, either.

Did he want to be Neutral, then? Denounce his planet and his species for the sake of being outside the fight, picking no side?

Or would he rather continue fighting?

“You’re not really winning me over,” he growled at Megatron all the same, performing one attack, another… But the third was blocked and countered. Sunstreaker was forced to backpedal fast as he could manage, his engine revving in aggravation.

“You’re as stubborn as they come,” Megatron snarled back at him. Sunstreaker chuckled, twice so when he managed to turn the tables for a moment and jam his sword into a gap in Megatron’s armor.

“You’re only now noticing that?” he purred at the warlord even as he was forced to take a step back again, then another, and another before he could slip to Megatron’s side. But no, even that didn’t work. This time there was blood when Megatron swept his sword into him, deep enough to nick fuel lines. Sunstreaker could feel the wetness running down his internals, but he made damn sure Megatron’s plating melted under his own sword before he dodged out of the way. Wouldn’t do to give Megatron a chance to do something even worse, but there was no fragging way Sunstreaker was going to get the bastard get away with slag, either.

Now all he needed to do was return to the favor for real and have Megatron’s blood drip along his frame as Sunstreaker’s was.

“Hardly. Headstrong—it’s one of your more attractive qualities.”

This time Sunstreaker laughed outright, although he didn’t let it distract him from the fight, weaving his frame out of the way of Megatron’s attacks. The sparkling was pulsing urgently, growing even more excited at the feeling of his amusement.

And it was amusement. Pleasure, too, though no surprise. Maybe there should’ve been some, with the trouble his stubbornness had caused Megatron. Lack of cooperation and whatnot.

But Sunstreaker was a creature of confidence that some said he took to a sick level. True to that form, “Do I even have any unattractive qualities?” Sunstreaker asked.

“I think you answered that question yourself,” Megatron responded, his field flaring with faint mirth of his own. Sunstreaker growled at the suggestion behind the words—that his self-regard went over the top and that wasn’t a positive quality.

Well, frag that. The insecure wastes of space just couldn’t understand the comfort of loving yourself.

Sunstreaker dismissed Megatron’s opinion entirely with, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And nearly got his arm cut off for not reading Megatron’s movement fast enough. That, though, wasn’t enough to distract either of them from their conversation.

“I won’t claim it’s not refreshing, as well,” Megatron conceded in time with Sunstreaker moving in, dodging past the tyrant’s attempted block and– Ah, now there was blood from Megatron too. His blade cut deep and true before Megatron could jerk out of the way. Sunstreaker didn’t let him go so easily, even if he paid for his second attack with a deep groove on his own armor.

But the pain was rewarding. He’d earned it.

And now that they were both bloodied, it felt like the fight was really starting. No Pit fight should be dry; it just wasn’t entertaining without spilled energon tainting the ground. Sunstreaker vowed that Megatron’s blood would pool on the floor before they were done—and acknowledged that his own would likely join it in no small amount. If it didn’t, what were they even doing this for?

So he pressed his attack, no matter how Megatron gave no quarter—no matter how he had to work to evade the injuries that would’ve otherwise piled on him in truly painful amounts. But frag, what else was he supposed to do? He didn’t want to do anything else. All he wanted was to dance on that blade’s edge, feel it every time he was too slow and it scraped along his body.

But also every time Megatron wasn’t fast enough and it was Sunstreaker’s sword that dug into him. Blood, they both wanted that—and they both got it.

“So what you’re really saying–” Sunstreaker continued, bringing his sword to block Megatron’s when it came down at him, and taking just that moment to meet the warlord’s optics. Sunstreaker smirked. “–Is that I have no unattractive qualities.” Even the one Megatron named he only rescinded by calling it refreshing in the next moment.

What surprise was it, though? He was beautiful, physically—but he also embodied so many of the things their city had admired, in his behavior and personality. The Autobots had never appreciated his spirit. He was unyielding, ruthless, comfortable with himself, oft violent, temperamental. He wasn’t a pushover. He knew his worth and demanded others acknowledge it too.

He wasn’t a meek little thing like the Autobots would’ve wanted him to be. He wasn’t humble, he wasn’t good.

He was everything an Autobot shouldn’t be, but everything a Kaonite should be—and could it be that he was what a Decepticon should be, too?

Maybe.

“You love to flatter yourself, don’t you?” Megatron rumbled. Slice, cut. Sunstreaker could feel the pain, relished in it.

Ignored it. Delivered it. Megatron ignored it too, showing no signs of feeling his injuries any more than Sunstreaker was. They both possessed well trained pain tolerances, and when nothing vital had been severed yet… Well, there was no reason to act on the pain they were both feeling, and that was multiplying with every moment, with every time one of them couldn’t block or dodge and paid for it.

Blood was beginning to flow faster, attacks on old wounds cutting deeper than the first pass had. Hurting more, too, as their frames informed them of the mounting damage.

Fragging right. Bring it on, give more, back down none.

Sunstreaker’s fans were running faster as the exertion began to build its effects, excitement and emotion only adding to the mess. He could hear the murmur of the Decepticons watching them, but ignored it with age old professionalism. Distractions weren’t acceptable.

Especially not now, with Megatron as intent on bringing him down as Sunstreaker was on not allowing that.

“Is it flattery if it’s just speaking the truth?” he asked, twisting his frame out of the way and into Megatron, bringing his sword to where it would fragging well hurt. And he was hurt in return, and so it went.

Had he still had his claws, he would’ve used those on the tyrant too. He could picture all the ways he could’ve employed them in tandem with his sword, dig them in preexisting wounds, tear every time he was within reach, accentuate the use of his blade and add to the damage he could deliver.

Because Megatron was definitely putting his claws to use, and every time they scratched into him, Sunstreaker envied him for still having them. They drew more blood from him, tore at his armor, bent it, built atop the wounds already littering him.

More and more blood, but it wasn’t just his. His sword damaged near as many lines on Megatron as what were being cut in his own frame. Pink was dribbling from the seams of their armors, all the way to the floor it began to slick.

Better not lose your footing.

“Do you truly think yourself flawless?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Megatron growled at him, and it was just insanity when the warlord stepped forward, right where Sunstreaker could drive his blade through his abdomen–

Only to misread Megatron’s intent and have the back of his helm grabbed. “You’re lucky you have your looks. Your attitude would be very tiresome otherwise,” Megatron growled lowly at him. Sunstreaker wasn’t sure if anyone else could even hear him—or if anyone else was meant to hear him.

But where Megatron could have caught him tight enough to crush… He didn’t. In fact, Sunstreaker was able to pull himself free and retreat a couple of steps away. “I don’t think you mind my attitude as much as you say you do,” he grinned before he dove right back in. Their swords clashed, then they didn’t, then they cut—more blood joined the mess on the floor, more armor was mutilated. Char from the heat of Sunstreaker’s sword tainted the edges of Megatron’s injuries; the edges of Sunstreaker’s wounds were ragged where Megatron’s had torn deeper into them.

Deep, shallow, it all hurt, all piled on top of each other and itself until important parts were reached after all this time, when even their thick plating wasn’t enough to protect them anymore. The engine in Sunstreaker’s left arm suffered under Megatron’s sword—Sunstreaker switched his sword to his right hand. Megatron’s engine was rattling where Sunstreaker had managed to sink his sword into it. Something in his leg was severed, giving the tyrant a limp.

Yet that wasn’t enough to noticeably slow either of them down—not enough to end their fight so soon.

But it was entering its twilight phase all the same. They could only carry on for so long at the pace they were building injuries on each other. Their ventilations turned more ragged, both from the heat that built in their systems, as well as the damage their vents suffered along with the rest of their frames. The floor was painted in pink; it was harder to not slip on the steps they took, back and forth. Harder yet for Sunstreaker as the one who had to move more, when he couldn’t possibly accept the same amount of damage Megatron could put up with if it meant hurting Sunstreaker worse.

And oh, he was hurting. His injuries throbbed at him in time with the rapid pulse of his spark—his excitement, the sparkling’s excitement, his thrill, the sparkling’s thrill merging together until there was more emotion than Sunstreaker could have ever managed on his own. His frame was on the verge of lagging dangerously, too, as much as he could force it into full cooperation for now.

Megatron was only doing better to an extent, but it was still becoming obvious he was gaining the upper hand, his size and durability simply surpassing Sunstreaker’s—and Sunstreaker couldn’t make up for it by causing more damage than what was being caused on him. Quite the opposite.

Didn’t matter. What mattered was that Megatron had a limp, there was terrible grinding coming from his right arm with every motion he forced it into, and he was bleeding more than just a little. Sunstreaker had done that to him. His armor was split in so many places. He could almost feel Megatron’s injuries as phantom sensations on top of his own.

Never let it be said he had gone down easily. Never let it be said he hadn’t hurt Megatron.

But go down he did. Megatron drove his sword through his abdomen first when Sunstreaker made just one mistake, too slow to get out of the way. Blood gushed forth when energon lines were cut well and proper, but that alone wouldn’t have been enough to down him. No, Sunstreaker merely backed away from his impalement, fast as he could, but before he was free… Megatron yanked his sword sideways.

Sunstreaker gasped when it tore through far too much machinery, his armor barely enough to stop Megatron’s strength before he would have halfway cut him in two.

Even that wasn’t serious enough to bring him down on its own, but it forced him to reorient himself from the damage warnings that, along with the simple pain, clued him in on quite a few parts that stopped working entirely, and others yet that were verging on that point.

He took too long with that, was distracted for too many precious seconds. He jerked away when Megatron kicked at him, but that only put him in the path of the blunt impact of the hilt of Megatron’s sword to his face.

Was he steady on his pedes, he may have been able to overcome even that much.

He wasn’t.

His footing didn’t keep on the blood slicked floor and Sunstreaker came crashing down, landing hard with a grunt as nearly every damn part of his frame complained about the impact. Still, he would have tried to get to his pedes if Megatron hadn’t knelt on his fragging abdomen. Sunstreaker’s vocalizer glitched to static at the agony, thoroughly distracting him from the sword that pressed to his throat.

Decapitation. Not deadly, but more than incapacitating. Sunstreaker’s vents heaved as he tried to push the pain aside enough to focus on his predicament.

His optics eventually found Megatron’s, finding the tyrant staring down at him, his expression unreadable.

Everyone knew he had won, though. Sunstreaker only confirmed that with, “I yield,” spoken loud enough for the observers.

At once the gathered Decepticons broke into cheers and jeers, whooping for the high of a good fight, laughing both for the victory of their leader and for Sunstreaker’s loss. The sparkling shook along with the thrum of the cacophony of noise, dancing to the rapid rotation of Sunstreaker’s spark, asking for more still.

Was nothing enough?

Megatron’s sword disappeared back into his arm and his knee rose from Sunstreaker’s abdomen. Sunstreaker sucked in a sharp ventilation as the damaged parts were again realigned by the lack of pressure. Distracted by it, he jerked when Megatron’s servo came to his chin, taking a hold of it. Sunstreaker met his optics again as the tyrant traced his thumb along his lower lip. “Blood looks good on you,” Megatron commented.

Sunstreaker huffed a laugh. “Ditto.” It was what Megatron deserved, and no doubt the warlord thought the same of him. You know, for his attitude.

But here he was, with Megatron above him, straddling his frame now. Sunstreaker’s optics brightened and Megatron’s optical ridges rose inquisitively in response, right before Sunstreaker forced his aching frame into motion and arched up against the larger frame. Megatron didn’t need any time to understand, his optics coming to glow a little brighter too. His engine rumbled even as Sunstreaker had to fight his ventilations that wanted to again come fast and hard and ragged. Something to do with the pain in his frame, that he dedicated himself to ignoring in favor of locking into a staring contest with the tyrant.

Whose servo slipped between their frames, brushing against his valve cover. “In front of everyone?” Megatron growled at him.

Sunstreaker growled back. “You object?”

“Hardly.” He wasn’t given a chance to retract a damn thing this time. Megatron claws hooked into the seams of his valve panel as they had who knew how many times already, and like who knew how many times before, the cover was torn clean off.

The sting of that was completely eclipsed by everything else his frame was going through. He didn’t give a frag about it, he only cared about the digits that pushed into his valve without the obstruction in the way. It was as slick as the floor, lubricant making the entrance of Megatron’s claws a smooth glide. The headiness of the preceding fight wasn’t lost to either of them, and Sunstreaker’s ventilations were quick to speed up for reasons that had nothing to do with the aches of his frame.

The Decepticons had quickly caught on to the shift, and their cheers had rather changed in nature. Catcalls filled the air as well as dirty encouragements and lewd laughter. Clearly, they weren’t the prudish lot in the slightest.

Sunstreaker didn’t mind being the center of attention in this, either. Fighting, fucking, was there so much difference? Both were raw sports that laid you bare for others to see. Blood, internals—lubricant and transfluid, retracted covers. They weren’t so far removed.

Megatron was all on board with this, by all appearances. His digits thrust in and out until Sunstreaker was well and truly ready—as if he hadn’t been so all the while—only for the tyrant to release his spike and replace his digits with it.

Sunstreaker hiked his hips up for better angle as Megatron pushed into him, despite the pain of his midsection. He wasn’t about to let that stop him, no matter how the way Megatron fetched his spike only to slam back in made his vents hitch and vocalizer produce some more static.

Primus, it hurt. His abdomen loudly told him all about how it hated him right then, even as his valve sang its praises as Megatron set up a pace that was no less punishing than usual, only this time made all the more so by the multitude of injuries they both sported.

Megatron had to feel it too. There was no way he was unaffected by forcing his frame into motion like this, this fast, this violent, right after the bloodshed they’d just inflicted on each other.

But he didn’t let that slow him, and pits, Sunstreaker fragging well didn’t ask him to slow down, to go easy on him just because he was hurting.

No, Sunstreaker arched into him. Sunstreaker wove his arms behind the warlord’s neck and pulled him down as his damage warnings piled in even greater numbers on his HUD. As his frame informed him of how much more it was breaking under Megatron’s administrations, Sunstreaker pressed their lips together, moaning—no fake—when Megatron overtook him, his glossa slipping into his mouth, lips pressing tighter, and his hips pistoning harder, if that was even possible. It was stretch and fullness like always, the abuse of what felt like every last sensor in his valve.

Sunstreaker shuddered from pleasure and agony both until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. The sensations melded together until one only added to the other, and he fragging hurt, but he felt spectacular, his valve clenching as his frame was brutally driven towards completion.

He could taste Megatron’s own pain in his field. It was gratification, proof that he had fought well and true, but also, even more proof that Megatron wasn’t weak in any sense of the word. It didn’t matter he was aching, he was still willing and able to take his prize.

Neither of them was weak. The sparkling wouldn’t be weak either, not with creators like them.

And if it was despite that… Well, would they have any need for it? This wasn’t a world for the feeble. He wouldn’t accept that.

But it was unlikely to come to pass. It wasn’t weak in spark, not now, not ever, pushing at him, riding every exhilarating emotion, demanding that he feed it more of it. It was lively, it was gaining more mass with every passing day—it was thriving, healthy. Why would it change that course all of a sudden?

It wouldn’t, he was certain of that as it spun faster in its own rotation in time with the pleasure growing in his frame. He rocked into Megatron’s thrusts no matter the pain, bit down on the tyrant’s lip to another growl from him. A sharp jab of Megatron’s hips had Sunstreaker’s vents seizing when it jarred his injuries.

He wouldn’t have it any other way. His servo grasped the back of Megatron’s helm, locking him in place as the pleasure crested and he groaned against the warlord’s lips. Charge released from his frame and he tensed, further hurting himself, more warnings popping up on his HUD.

Fucking worth it. This was the way to feel, this was the way to live, and he was fragging done having anyone tell him otherwise.

By the continued racket around them, he was no further from his kin here than he had been in Kaon, in the Pits. The noise only increased when Megatron growled his own overload, jerking his hips into Sunstreaker to another pained hiss from him—whooping for their completion, for the sight of charge crackling across both their frames. It was a show from start to finish, all of it.

Never let them forget where Sunstreaker had come from—the very same place as so many of them.

He loosened his hold on Megatron and with another graze of sharp denta across his lips the tyrant pulled away from him until there was enough distance for their gazes to meet, amusement in Megatron’s optics… As well as something else. Sunstreaker couldn’t quite name it. Approval?

Ugh. Frag him and opinions. “Done already?” Sunstreaker growled at him, jabbing his digits into a deep gash on Megatron’s side and relishing in the jerk of the tyrant’s frame. Did that hurt?

Megatron responded by rather meaningfully tracing his damaged midsection, and just the threat of what he could do to injure him further had Sunstreaker snarling some more. “Mercy is so overrated, isn’t it?” the tyrant asked from him in return–

Before driving his claws into the gaping wound of his abdomen, in time with a harsh thrust into his valve. The dual pain on that one area of his frame had Sunstreaker’s helm snapping back against the floor, but he didn’t scream, only ground his denta together and groaned.

“Frag you,” he panted once he could will his optics open again, glaring at the tyrant now sporting an entirely benevolent smile. Megatron drew back… Thrust back in, and his claws remained in his abdomen. It was pain, plain and simple—but also satisfaction, the knowledge of what Megatron was ready and willing to do clouding Sunstreaker’s good sense.

“Backing down already?” Megatron wondered with an innocent tilt of his helm, as if he wasn’t aggravating already severe injuries.

Sunstreaker yanked on Megatron’s wounds a little harder this time, bending his plating until the tyrant was growling a warning at him.

The twin grinned. “Keep fucking dreaming.”

( Next )

#transformers #maccadam #sunstreaker #megatron #megasun #fic #2020 #ashes #up in flames

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gloynporslen · 4 years

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Managed to get this one finished well in advance! I'm quite pleased with that~ I only hope it's not terrible to read as a trade off for being finished early 😂

Day Twenty: Ugly Sweater

Pairing: m!Detective (Adrien Kingston) X m!F (Felix Hauville)

Note: Adrien and Felix are actually the primary focus of this one, even if the actual writing centers on Adrien and Mason!

Tagging: the ever lovely @lilyoffandoms

~~~*~~~*~~~

“And why do I have to wear this crap too?”

Mason mutters, his arms crossed over the obnoxious sweater that had been chosen for him. Adrien rolls his eyes at his grumpy posturing – as if was even possible to force the man into anything with his level of stubbornness.

“Because it’s what Felix wanted.” He calmly retorts, brushing down his own trappings as he ignores the disgusted scoff he receives.

“Oh for- You realise it’s you, not me, who wants to f-“

“Mason!” Nat scolds as she strolls past, stopping briefly to drop yet another box of decorations onto the growing pile before leaving, her own sweater far more tasteful than theirs.

“Look, I hate them too.” Adrien rolls his eyes at the unimpressed look of disbelief Mason shoots in his direction. “You know I’m not lying. Believe me, I really do. I don’t even celebrate Christmas. But-“

“You’re whipped.”

Mason nods sagely, ignoring Adrien’s scoff of disagreement.

“I am not- ” “He makes you soft.”

The teasing jab hits harder than either of them expected.

“Okay, what is with you all and saying that!?”

Mason blinks, his eyes meeting Adrien’s own with a shocked curiosity. Adrien only sighs in response, ignoring the raised eyebrow asking for an explanation that he doesn’t want to give.

“I’m not going soft. He doesn’t… I just…”

It’s rare for Adrien to stumble over his words, but how else is he meant to explain his thought process? How is he supposed to explain that he’s not soft... he just wants to see Felix happy because his smile makes him feel like everything’s alright? How can he possibly begin to explain that Felix’s happiness is what warms every part of his being? ‘Fuck,’ he thinks. ‘Felix does make me soft, doesn’t he.’ Adrien sighs loudly – as much as he denies it, he really is well aware that Felix shatters the tough guy, ice king exterior he’s spent the past few years building… but it’ll be a cold day in hell when he admits that he’s happier, weaker, softer than he has ever been just because he’s caught feelings for someone.

“I… care for him,” is the admittance he settles for. “And if wearing this god-awful sweater is what he wants, then that’s what I’ll do.” He barrels on, ignoring Mason’s growing smirk. “And quite frankly, the fact that you’re still wearing your own atrocity clearly shows that, even though you’re not in love with him like I am, you want to see him happy too.”

There’s a pause of pure silence as what he just said sinks in for them both, wide grey eyes meet another matching pair of wide grey eyes as the admittance hangs in the air. Neither are willing to break the silence, to acknowledge what’s just slipped out. A realisation hits Adrien, causing him to suddenly take in a breath, his eyes darting around the room as his ears strain to listen for any hint of the team returning. Mason places a firm hand on his shoulder and shakes his head, a silent reassurance that it was only him who heard. His hand drops as Adrien deflates - he’ll go to his grave before he admits there’s a hint of disappointment mixed in with the relief. It certainly would have been easier if-

Adrien clears his throat, pushing his shoulders back to project a surety he no longer feels in an attempt to get the conversation back on track. He won’t say aloud, they’re both well aware regardless, that he’s grateful Mason allows him to do so.

“The point remains that this is a temporary torture and we will tolerate it because to do so otherwise would make him upset.”

Mason scoffs at the formality in his tone, though a sparkle of amusement remains in his eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

Adrien glares half-heartedly at the snarky response, watching through narrowed eyes as Mason pulls out a cigarette. Nat’ll probably have a few choice words about the action, but that doesn’t stop him from inclining his head to ask for one of his own. However Mason just casually shrugs at the request as he lights up.

“It’s my last one.”

Adrien teasingly narrows his eyes with suspicion.

“Are you lying to me, Mase?”

“Yeah.”

Adrien chuckles at the instant confession. “Not even a moment’s hesitation, you ass.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to get my thanks from your lover for keeping you alive.”

The emphasis on ‘love’ earns him a swift punch to the arm, much to his amusement. The messing around is short lived though.

“Mason! What have I told you about smoking in here?” Nat makes her presence known as she returns with Felix and Ava in tow, the last of the ornaments cradled in their arms. “And have neither of you even bothered to start unpacking these? Honestly-” Her scolding quickly turns from Mason alone to target them both, Ava simply shrugging and sauntering away with a smile as she leaves Nat to continue despite the pleading gaze Adrien shot her. Adrien holds back the betrayed gasp, making a mental note to ensure Felix delivers his next report to her for him.

Adrien and Mason share a suffering look, both beginning to tune out Nat’s continued chastising, though Adrien swears they are both still listening to her grievances. Or at least, he is… sort of. Her voice gradually fades into the background as his eyes are drawn to Felix. He can already feel the smile beginning to creep onto his face watching the vampire rock back and forth on his heels, an eager smile bright on his handsome features. The bright smile only grows as he finally notices the two of them in the sweaters he’d chosen, and Adrien feels the warmth flush through him as he verifiably melts. Mason smirks, a soundless chuckle shaking his shoulders when Adrien’s elbow finds his ribs in response. His exasperated ‘shut up’ goes unspoken. His besotted smile remains.

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Thank you very much if you've made it this far! I hope it wasn't too much of a chore! Thank you, truly, for your time 💕

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#the wayhaven chronicles #25 (holi)days of wayhaven #25hwh #twc detective #adrien kingston #I upped my goal again for this one... and still went over 😅#I think this and the last Adrien piece are on par for me #I'm not sure how I feel about them...#That's what I get for writing the girls more than the guys in private I suppose 😂#porslenwritessometimes

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