#but like…. its not real none of this is real. clear sky as a character is just abuse apologia man pain whining for the authors | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

anon-drabble · 1 year

Text

beneath the branches

some fluff for our boy jumin! this idea attacked me last night as i was trying to sleep and wouldn’t let me rest.

we all know jumin loved visiting the cherry farm. what if it wasn’t just the cherries there he had his eye on?

jumin is a touch out of character to me but i just love awkard-in-love jumin so that’s what i wrote lol.

ao3 | ko-fi | twitter | masterpost

The scene laid out before Jumin was one he knew well. The cherry farm in the early morning was a frequent stop for Jumin. After all, he did business with them and was fond of the land in his own way. It seemed peaceful most days. Just acres of land laid out. Very few buildings and none that pierced the sky. Not like his own penthouse. The city had its charms but on the farm, Jumin just felt lighter, like life itself was less of a burden. His chest rose and fell with each breath and every time he inhaled, it seemed easier than the last. Like he was renewing himself and freeing himself of the many bonds that held him tight. Too tight to move, at times. In short, the cherry farm was the only real combination of business and pleasure that Jumin knew. The cat projects were fun diversions but there was always pressure to be profitable, to make it worthwhile. He knew his privilege of being the CEO’s son and that the only reason he could do any cat projects was because of his position. The cherry farm was easier. It was an established contract, something known to be beneficial. It made things easier.

As he crested the familiar hill that led to the facility that served as the main hub for the farm, he shielded his eyes from the sun. He glanced to the right, where the hills held countless trees. Each tree carefully cultivated and cared for by the farmhands. But he wasn’t truly looking at the trees. His steps slowed as his eyes scanned the spaces between, where the shadows hid a great deal but spears of sunlight would still reach the ground in a few spots. But Jumin was looking for movement. He saw a pair of legs move between the trees but the body was still hidden. But then she emerged and she smiled and waved at Jumin, as she always did.

She was beautiful, if he were one to notice such a thing. Most times, he didn’t see how beautiful any particular woman was. He simply didn’t care. But for her, it was impossible to miss. She never looked like the women Jumin usually saw. She wasn’t buried under layers and layers of makeup. Her clothes were simple, her shoes practical. But she had a natural radiance. The way her smile just felt like a ray of light itself. Her bright brown eyes always echoed the smile on her face. On that day, her muscular arms were bare. She must have been working since much earlier in the morning as it wasn’t that warm.

Jumin didn’t feel himself sigh in relief at seeing her. He didn’t notice the way her smile made him feel warm. He lifted his hand to give her a stiff wave and she retreated back to the trees. He resumed his walk to the large building ahead, pretending he hadn’t purposely slowed down just for a chance to see her. His trips to the cherry farm were for business purposes, not for some woman he barely knew. He wasn’t like his father. He didn’t make such foolish decisions or allow any women to sway him in any way.

The building ahead was partly a large barn, partly a warehouse, with a portion being the actual home of the owners of the farm. That was separated from the busiest parts of the building but it was clear to see the original roots of each part of the building. As Jumin approached, he saw an older man walk out the door and towards Jumin. He had a large, friendly smile.

“Hello, hello! Welcome!” the man exclaimed as he rushed towards Jumin.

“Hello, Mr. Pin,” Jumin said calmly as he reached the man.

“Please, please, I’ve told you! Call me Sang. We’re practically family now!” the man vigorously shook Jumin’s hand. “We have great stock from this harvest for you! But I thought you weren’t to pick up until next month?”

“That’s correct. I came in the hopes of expanding our partnership. We have recently acquired a supply vendor, one that could easily be paired with a gardening venture. I thought we’d speak about selling snippings of your trees or other crops you have,” Jumin explained.

Sang thought for only a moment. “I believe we can probably reach an agreement for that. We will have to adjust our fields if you wish to sell cuttings. They need to be propagated a certain way. We will have to dedicate a portion of the land to this project.”

Jumin nodded. “We can detail everything in the contract. Once I get back, we will draft the documents and we can fully outline this venture.”

“We can discuss this then. Come, come, see our harvest! Take some home with you! I guarantee our cherries will make your girl fall in love on the spot!”

“You know I do not have anyone. However, I will gladly take fresh cherries home. They are the most delicious when I come here directly.”

Sang clapped his hands. “Perfect! Yes!” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Jiya! Are you around?” he yelled into the trees.

Jumin tried not to react to the shouting in his ears. But when she emerged from the trees again, Jumin couldn’t help but stare a bit. She smiled at him again and he felt a lump form in his throat.

“Mr. Jumin here would like our best cherries! I told him we’d show our harvests!”

Jiya nodded and pulled out her phone. She pulled up something and consulted it for a moment. “Field 17 yielded the most. But I would suggest we bring Mr. Han to Field 12, I believe he will appreciate those.”

“Jiya has taken over our record-keeping. My mind can’t keep up with it these days. She’s got it all stored in that phone there.”

“That is very practical,” Jumin said approvingly.

“Ha! In my day, we just knew it in our bones. Now we have to rely on those things for everything!” Sang laughed but he was already leading the way through the trees.

Jumin and Jiya followed only a second later. Though Sang was older, he still moved quickly, so full of life. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Han. Appa didn’t tell me you were coming or we would have prepared a basket that you could bring home with you.”

Though they knew each other, they hadn’t spoken that many times before. Jumin’s dealings had mostly been with Sang, as he was the owner. But now, if Jiya was actually working on the farm, would they possibly have more interactions? “I did not tell him. I happened to have time and he had mentioned a fruitful harvest so I thought I’d come myself.” They continued walking, Sang still ahead and frequently chattering to other workers they passed. “Are you considering staying with the farm, now?” Jumin suddenly asked.

Jiya looked surprised by the question. “Oh, um…” she stammered.

“Your father mentioned that he thought you might prefer to leave and find a different job,” Jumin said hastily.

She smiled and he instantly relaxed. “Ah, I’m sorry. I know he wants me to run the farm once he dies but… Well, I’m still not sure what I’ll do.” Jumin nodded. “I do love it here, though. I wouldn’t want to leave but there’s…” she trailed off again and awkwardly fidgeted with her hands. “I just don’t know yet.”

Jumin thought for a moment. “There are many options for you. The world is not simply one place but many people, places, and experiences.” She looked at him and smiled. She seemed relieved that he understood what she didn’t say. “My world is very different but I find this place to be one of my favorites.”

Jiya laughed and Jumin’s stomach did a flip. He denied it every time it happened. Just a coincidence. It had nothing to do with Jiya. “Someday I want to see a city. I don’t think I’d be happy living in one but just to see it.”

Immediately, Jumin considered inviting her for the contract signing as Sang would have to come to C&R to sign the new contract. But then he thought of seeing Jiya in such an environment and got a little sad. So he said nothing.

The rest of the walk through the trees was mostly silent, with Sang and Jumin occasionally speaking. Eventually, they crested a hill with more trees laid out all around them. Jumin could not tell any difference between the rows, nor where one field ended and another began. But this was not his world. Sang and Jiya knew this but they could not navigate the double-speak and the carefully-worded promises that in truth promised nothing of the business world. Their lives were here. And no matter how many times Jumin might visit, it was always just a visit and he’d soon enough have to return back to his world. He glanced over at Jiya and wished his life might change. But he refused to acknowledge that and kept it locked in his heart. Where his other impossible dreams lived.

Now in the proper area, Sang and Jiya led Jumin down the rows of trees, speaking of all manner of things, such as the bark of each tree, the way the leaves had grown in a certain direction All things apparently led to more delicious cherries but Jumin did not know agriculture and many of their explanations would be forgotten on his flight home. At the base of some trees was a basket of cherries recently picked. But Jumin could see many cherries still on the branches. Jiya reached above her head and pulled down a bundle of fresh cherries from the nearest tree. She held them out for both Sang and Jumin. Jumin took the fruit carefully. He certainly didn’t intend for their fingers to touch as much as they did. Jiya didn’t seem to care about the brush of their hands. Of course she wouldn’t. It wasn’t intentional. As they ate their cherries, a man approached and called Sang over to attend to a matter in a nearby shed. He left and Jumin purposely avoided looking at Jiya. It had been morning when he arrived, though it was now the afternoon. The sun was less angled through the trunks of the trees and more overhead. It led to deeper shadows at ground level.

“So?” Jiya asked. “What do you think?”

Jumin had to consider for a moment before he realized she meant the cherry. “It was delicious. Very juicy,” he answered.

She grinned proudly. “I knew it! You always seemed to like the juicier ones the best. I was right to give you these.” She pulled another bundle down and pulled apart an equal share for herself and Jumin. “Not everyone likes the really juicy ones. My dad always said you wouldn’t like them because they’re messier.” As she spoke, Jumin bit into one and felt the cherry juice dribble down his chin. She laughed at the timing as she saw it happen. Jumin was relieved she wouldn’t see a blush in the shadows. In fact, was it darker now than before?

Jumin looked up at the sky between the leaves. “Is that a storm cloud?”

Jiya followed his gaze. “Oh, shoot, it is. Storms here come and go fast. There won’t be time to get inside but the trees should keep us dry.” Right on cue, the rain began. She huddled under the tree to remain dry. Jumin felt the rain hit his back and took a step forward. He was forced closer to the tree by the rain. Closer to Jiya. They stood very close now. She was looking up at him and he met her eyes. “It’ll be over soon,” she said softly. He nodded and noted her averting her eyes from his. She was acting almost shy now. While they weren’t friends, he’d never seen her so skittish around him.

The rain began to fall harder and both Jiya and Jumin took another step closer together. She quickly pushed a cherry into her mouth, desperate to act normal. The juice fell down her chin, just as it had done with Jumin a moment before. He wiped it with his thumb before he realized what he was doing. Jiya finally met his eyes again. “So… You still like it here even like this?” she asked, chuckling uneasily.

“Nothing is more beautiful than this,” he answered honestly.

And then he was kissing her. Neither of them had moved first but they came together at the same moment. He could taste the cherries on her lips. He felt her soft breath come out her nose. Her loose strands of hair tickled his face. He never wanted it to end. Eventually their lips parted but Jumin felt her slip her hand into his own. She smiled up at him a little and his heart thundered. There was no use denying anything now. There wasn’t much use for words between them. He could see that she was just as happy with the kiss. She lifted her head and shut her eyes in invitation and Jumin immediately obliged. Their lips met again, more purposefully this time. He felt her squeeze his hand and he reached around her back with his free hand, pulling her even closer. He felt her lips smile even as they kissed and he knew he was smiling too. Once again they parted and she still smiled at him.

She blushed a little, though it was nearly invisible in the shadows. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” she admitted.

“Kissing?” Jumin asked, confused.

She laughed a little. “No! We barely know each other, that’s all. I normally don’t kiss strangers. I don’t kiss anyone I’m not dating.”

Jumin squeezed her hand a little. “I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. If you wish, this can remain just between us and the cherry tree.”

Her face fell. Her hand released his and he let her go. Had she gotten the wrong idea? He didn’t want to rush her but he very much wanted more time with her. “I understand. It’s for the best,” she said quietly, taking a step away from Jumin. The rain was already slowing, the spell over them entirely broken.

Jumin watched her distance herself and he knew he’d done something wrong but he didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know what to say. “I don’t-” he began to say when Sang’s voice cut through the trees.

“These summer showers! They come so quickly!” Sang appeared before them again, seemingly oblivious to the awkward atmosphere. “Mr. Jumin, you are satisfied, yes? We have a delicious basket ready for you, whenever you are ready to leave. No rush, of course.”

“Excuse me, Appa, I should get back to my work,” Jiya interrupted and quickly left the two men.

Sang watched her walk away and slyly looked back at Jumin. He grinned and Jumin braced for the worst. “She only leaves that fast when she wants to hide something. You know, these cherries lead to love! I told you, share my cherries and any girl will be yours! Although I did not realize my daughter was your target, but there are worse men out there!” He laughed loudly, patting a hand on Jumin’s back.

“It is not like that,” Jumin protested but Sang wasn’t listening. Jumin cleared his throat and straightened his tie. He stood like the CEO he was. “You have the wrong idea. There is nothing between your daughter and me. I must get back but I look forward to our further business together.”

That silenced Sang as Jumin was usually far more polite and not so cold. Sang led Jumin back to the road and watched him leave. Jumin had returned to “normal” after announcing that he was leaving but Sang was still suspicious.

It took many months to ready the contract for the next venture with the cherry farm. As soon as it was ready, Jumin made arrangements for Sang to travel to C&R to sign the contract. The day of the signing, Jumin was waiting in the meeting room for Sang to arrive. Jaehee had gone down to the ground floor to welcome him and bring him to the meeting when he arrived. As the door opened, Sang entered first and Jumin had already extended his hand to shake Sang’s when Jiya entered behind him, with Jaehee following. Jumin faltered a moment when he saw Jiya as he had not expected her. Sang, however, was his usual loud self and took Jumin’s hand as he greeted him.

“So good to see you again! We are very excited to begin this new side of things! We have prepared our fields already, isn’t that right, Jiya?”

Jumin’s gaze had not left her since she entered but she briefly met his eyes. “Yes, Appa. The land is ready to begin for next planting season.” The spell on Jumin finally broke and he composed himself from the shock and looked to Sang to address him.

Sang grinned with a slightly mischievous glint in his eye. “Jiya has agreed to step up at the farm and she will be overseeing our finances and business partnerships now,” he said with a knowing smile at Jumin. “So I brought her as she will need to sign as well.”

Inside, Jumin’s mind was racing. He could hardly even hear what was happening around him but he knew he couldn’t dwell on her too much. But suddenly he was back on the farm, underneath the cherry tree, her lips kissing his, her body heat against his. He remembered every detail, though he’d tried to forget. Thankfully a part of Jumin the businessman was still there, and he heard himself speaking though he didn’t remember forming the words himself. “I am glad you decided to stay with the farm,” he said, echoing his words to Jiya on that day.

“My father convinced me. I couldn’t leave after all. It’s too beautiful,” she said and Jumin scanned her face. Had she meant to say the same thing he had that day? But she remained unreadable.

The actual signing lasted for some time as there were many pages and they had to adjust some portions for Jiya’s new position. However, they soon finished. Sang pushed the cap back onto his pen as Jaehee signed, acting as notary for the deal. Once she finished, he stood. “Miss Kang, please help an old man out, Is there a restroom I can use? Can you please show me?”

“Of course, sir. Right this way.” Jaehee led him out of the room, leaving Jumin and Jiya alone.

Jiya gathered her things and her father’s belongings as they were planning to leave now that the signing was done.

But Jumin couldn’t let her go without saying anything. “So how does the city compare? To what you thought?” he asked, immediately regretting the words. He’d wanted to apologize as he was quite certain whatever had gone wrong between them was his fault.

Jiya looked towards the windows in the meeting room. “It’s a lot like what I expected,” she said. She walked over to the window. She was next to Jumin but he knew that hadn’t been her intent. She just wanted a better view of the window. “The people are exactly what I thought they’d be like.”

“Were you treated poorly?” Jumin asked, worry in his voice. Had someone said something rude to her?

She actually smiled and Jumin’s knees threatened to buckle. She looked so differently from how she looked on the farm. She had makeup on this time. Her clothes were clean and pressed, if plain. Her hair, which was usually up and out of her face on the farm, was down now, falling past her shoulders. She was still the most gorgeous woman Jumin had ever seen. “No. I was talking about you,” she said with a laugh.

Jumin frowned, trying to discern what she possibly meant by those words.

“You know, my dad is convinced something happened between us when you last visited. I told him nothing did but he seemed like he knew,” she said.

“I assure you, I did not tell him. He suggested something similar as I was leaving but I told him he was wrong. I thought you would prefer him not to know.”

“You’re right about that,” she said. “What happened between us…”

“I need to apologize for my behavior. I had the wrong idea. I thought perhaps you felt as I did that day and I should not have kissed you so suddenly,” Jumin was suddenly blurting out. He was not the type to ramble but he had to try to explain to her.

Jiya turned to face Jumin. “I wasn’t upset that you kissed me,” she interrupted, confused as to why he was saying that. “I was upset that you brushed it off so quickly. I told you I didn’t usually kiss unless I was dating a guy. I wanted you to ask me out. But you basically said it was just a kiss. You’ve probably kissed a dozen girls on a dozen other farms so it didn’t mean much to you but it meant more to me. But I wanted to clear the air because if we have to work together, I don’t want you to think I’m interested in you like that. I am not a fling and I’m not going to be treated like one.”

Jumin was stunned by her words. That wasn’t at all what he’d interpreted from their conversation that day. That was why she’d been upset? Because she thought Jumin was like his father? He felt sick to his stomach. He shook his head. “You misunderstood. I thought you did not want to move so fast so I wanted to assure you we could take it slowly or not at all, if that was what you wanted. I…” He felt a lump in his throat form at his words. “I knew I liked you and wished to know you better and I wanted you to know that I was not going to rush you at all.” He sighed. “I am sorry I gave you the wrong idea. I wish I had spoken more clearly as there was nothing I wanted more than to know you. And now I can see that our moment has passed due to my blunder.”

Jiya took a step towards Jumin and looked up at him. “Who said our chance was gone?” When he met her eyes, she smiled a little. “We’re going to be working together more often now. We’ll naturally get to know each other that way, right?”

Jumin shook his head. “I didn’t mean in that way…” he said, feeling helpless.

“I know,” she said softly. She reached forward and took Jumin’s hand, just as she had done that day. “I’ll tell you again. I don’t kiss unless I’m dating someone,” She was looking up at him, her eyes silently urging him to take the hint this time.

“Would you…like to have dinner with me?” Jumin asked, not quite sure what was happening except that it seemed to be what she wanted him to say. And it was what he wanted to do, to be with her.

She smiled up at him. “It’s about time you asked,” she gently teased.

#mystic messenger #jumin han #jumin/mc #jumin x mc #jumin/oc #jumin x oc #fluff fic #jumin han fluff #mysme #mysme fanfic #jumin han fanfic #a writing egg #i totally forgot that the actual cherry farm character in the game had a daughter #i love being accidentally close to canon lol

21 notes · View notes

specialagentartemis · 1 year

Text

Top 5 Most Horrifying Cubicle Stories: A Fanfic Rec List

For @sickbaysaturdays, this seems like SUCH a fun event. Something the Murderbot Diaries fandom does very well is exploring the inherent horrors of Being A SecUnit, and part of that is dependence on cubicles for medical treatment. It's sort of a sickbay, but more dehumanizing! (De-person-izing?)

So here are some of my favorite horrifying cubicle repair stories.

Cubicle Cough by Skeletalcat

1,172 words. OCs, no canon characters. Not Rated, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings. Corporation Rim employee POV.

Relevant tags: Sick Character, Despair.

All the secunits did it. They walked their strict, stoic patrols in perfect harmony, only ever interrupted by a quick uncomfortable clearing of their throats. Their helmets muffled the little noise into a sharp huff. None of my co-workers seemed to mind. I began thinking maybe constructs always did it, I just had never heard it over the chaos of my old contract. It was a shame, because, besides the coughing, the only other sound was blissful white noise.

The PINNACLE of the Despair December form, in my opinion. Short, sharp, horrifying in its implications. The SecUnits all catch a disease through the cubicle. One tech decides to do something to fix that.

2. Repair by Alex van Gore (avg)

1,887 words. Teen and Up, Graphic Depictions of Violence Cubicle Repair. Cubicle POV.

Relevant tags: Medical Horror, Robot gore, Identity issues, Body Horror, Body Modification.

A cubicle tries to fix what does not want to be fixed - a SecUnit, newly rogue, not yet Murderbot.

Screaming internally forever about this one. The cubicle is trying so hard to repair this SecUnit that’s not reading right! The visceral descriptions, the poetry of the gore, the pain of being put back together, the way the cubicle is so earnestly helping and believes itself to be safe. Horrific! Beautiful! The gore is real!

3. Trapped by Skits

397 words. General Audiences, Major Character Death (OC). SecUnit OC POV.

Despair December 2021 #3: Locked in a Cubicle It was getting colder.

Perfect sad little ficlet. A cubicle is supposed to be safe… and isn’t, necessarily.

4. Release by Alex van Gore (avg)

1,060 words. Teen and Up, Graphic Depictions of Violence Cubicle Repair. Cubicle POV.

Relevant tags: Rogue Cubicle, Blood and Gore, Medical Procedures, robot gore, Body Horror, Body Modification, Cubicle is trying its baby best

A cubicle is tasked to fix something it doesn't understand, and in trying to help the incomprehensible becomes rogue itself.

Less horrifying. Not not horrifying, but less. Sweet, almost cute, in a messed up way. (Still messed up in a very fun and creative way. Still Medical/Body Horror.) Cubicle wants to HELP. Cubicle knows what clients do to SecUnits :(

5. Hard Reset by Skits

2,538 words. Teen and Up, No Archive Warnings Apply. Murderbot POV.

Relevant tags: Memory Loss, Memory Alteration, Body Horror, Non-Consensual Body Modification.

Company technicians attempt to wipe the memory of a SecUnit that was involved in a war crime.

It resists.

Okay, most of the repair here isn’t actually done by the cubicle, but 1) a cubicle features and 2) it’s real good and DEEPLY creatively horrifying, so it counts!

Takes place in Skits’s “Reclaim the Sky” AU, but except for a few lines, reads as pretty canon-compliant as well, and does REALLY interesting things with SecUnit repair and how Murderbot might have been put in a position to hack its governor module in the first place.

Bonus: Unwound Assumptions by Thylacine_Wishes. Doesn’t actually take place in a cubicle at all (instead, it’s in ART’s MedSystem), but oh my GODDDDDDDDD the gore! The horror! The pain! EXQUISITELY done in the most disturbing and horrific way possible. I had to read this through my fingers like I was watching a horror movie and I mean that as praise. Graphic depictions of violence, Major character death, Medical horror to the highest degree. Three isn’t sapient and ART is going to prove it. I’ll let the tags speak for themselves: “Vivisection, Body Horror, to prove this machine isnt a person ill simply take it apart, Hurt No Comfort, okay but what IF other constructs arent sapient.”

Happy Sickbay Whump Saturday!

#Sickbay Saturdays #fanfic recs #The Murderbot Diaries #whump

26 notes · View notes

chernobog13 · 10 months

Text

Ultraman Blazar versus Taganular in episode #3, The Name is Earth Garon.

So SKaRD's kaiju-fighting mecha, Earth Garon (which looks like a Godzooky-fied version of Mechagodzilla), takes to the field for the first time, and fares about as well - or poorly, in this case - as I thought it would.

Ultraman Z already featured 3 kaiju-fighting mecha, so I don't know why Tsuburaya felt the need to repeat itself. Unless, of course, someone at Bandai said that they needed more robot toys.

Actually, given the prominence of the television ads for the Earth Garon figure since the very first episode, that's probably exactly what happened.

Still more team goofiness in this episode, making it clear that the more serious tone of the pilot episode was the exception and not the rule. Overall, though, I don't mind the lighter tone, as long as none of the characters go completely overboard like Tesshin Sakuma (Tadashi Mizuno) in Ultraman Trigger. That character did nothing but annoy me.

As for Taganular, the kaiju of the week, I'm still confused. After all the big build-up that it was going to explode and take out a huge chunk of real estate if not stopped, all the poor guy did was sneeze the energy harmlessly into the sky (for what reason we're never told). No harm, no foul. But Blazar goes ahead and kills Taganular anyway. What the heck kinda lesson is that teaching kids?

Blazar is starting to get on my nerves with his constant babbling. There have been Ultras in the past that have grunted a lot during battles, sometimes way too much, but Blazar takes the cake. And it doesn't help that no one can understand a word he says. Not a great thing for a series that has "communication" as its theme.

It was a nice touch to see Gento's wedding ring and the photo of his wife and son in his locker. I had read that he was married, but until now we had seen no evidence of that. There hasn't been a family man as an Ultra host since Ultraman: The Next, and I'm interested in seeing where the story goes with that.

#Ultraman #Ultraman Blazar #Taganular #kaiju #tokusatsu #suitmation #Tsuburaya Productions #Japanese superheroes

3 notes · View notes

queenclaudiabrown · 1 year

Text

Warmth

Fandom: The Lord of The Rings: The Rings of Power Pairing: Arondir x Bronwyn Content warnings: sickness, possibility of minor character death because of sickness, a Waldreg cameo, nothing much really Word count: 3,125 (Long) author's note: As of 3-2-23, it isn't posted yet, but this event will be referenced in my fanfiction Something Is Rotten In The Plains of Ithilien, with a little less detail. ‘Robat’ is an OC and may be mentioned in the fic. If you’re interested in that, keep an eye out for updates on that story (I’m working on it, honest). This is set several years before The Rings of Power, not long after Bronwyn moved to Tirharad from Hordern. Also, yes, ‘irater’ is a word.

Arondir had heard that a young woman and her much younger son had arrived in Tirharad a few months ago, but had not laid eyes on either of them as of yet.

Until today.

He did not recognize the woman striding determinedly toward him as he left Waldreg’s tavern, her eyes and hair the same color- the color of rich earth, like the soil he’d once buried seeds in in Beleriand- and her sapphire-colored garment caught in the wind. She marched up to him with a boldness that took him by surprise, as few ever spoke to him other than Waldreg, and ever fewer without contempt.

“I believe you are the one they call ‘Arondir’.” She said by way of greeting.

He dipped his head in a nod. “I am.”

“Bronwyn.” She introduced herself. She shifted uneasily for a moment before speaking again. “I have a favor to ask, and I do not ask it lightly. There is a man here who is very sick, and I do not think I can save him. there is an herb I need, but I have none left and I have searched the entire village and far around it. The first snows of this winter will be upon us any day now; there will be no more of the herb until spring. He cannot last that long.”

Arondir was concerned for the man in question. “Is it Elvish medicine you are asking of me?”

Bronwyn shook her head. “No. I- I do not know if the Elves would have any need of it, but I wanted to ask if there might be any of the herb in the tower.”

He had not expected that to be her request, but he had no reason to deny it. “Which herb?”

“Feverfew. Such little of it grows, and so much of it is needed. I will find a way to repay you, if I can.”

Arondir nodded. “I will search Ostirith, and if I find any, I will return immediately with it. Perhaps in its stead, you could try Athelas- Kingsfoil, that is- and nightshade?”

“I will try that. Thank you.”

She departed a moment later, walking quickly back toward the rest of the village. Arondir hastened his pace, and the moment he returned to the tower he began his search. The Elves had no real need of medicinal herbs, but it was likely they had a little of something in some corner or other.

It was late at night, the Moon shining bright and clear and high in the sky, by the time Arondir found the small pouch of dried feverfew. Stashing it under his breastplate for safekeeping, he departed from the tower, nearly running back to Tirharad to find Bronwyn.

He knew from Médhor’s reports which house she lived in, but when he reached it he saw neither candle nor hearth burning within. Walking around the exterior, he peered into the windows, and found one bed occupied by her son, the other empty. From there he quickly went to Waldreg’s home and pounded on the door.

Disgruntled, the Man wrenched the door open, holding a candlestick. “Elf?” He squinted at the Elf. “Whatever is it?” He demanded crossly.

“Bronwyn, the healer. Where is she? She is not in her home.”

“She’s with that ill farmer, I reckon.”

“What is his name?” Arondir pressed.

Waldreg looked all the irater by the second, but replied nonetheless. “It’s old Robat, son of-”

Arondir did not wait for the butcher to finish before striding off, heading for the other Man’s home. He knew where it was, on the far side of Tirharad. Within a few minutes, he had reached the farmer’s home, and his keen ears picked up the sounds of footsteps and a crackling fire within. He put his hand on the latch, and upon finding it open, he entered without knocking. “Bronwyn?” He called softly.

The very startled healer appeared a few moments later, holding a candlestick of her own as she stepped out of a room on the other side of the house. “Arondir?”

“Waldreg told me where you were.” He explained, crossing the house toward her as he produced the pouch. “Feverfew.”

Her eyes lit up, a spark not caused by the candlelight igniting in them. He recognized the emotion- hope. With cautious fingers, she took the pouch of brittle leaves out of his hand. “You found some.” She breathed in something akin to awe, looking up at him in gratitude.

“I came as soon as I had.” He told her. “Will it be enough?”

“It will have to be.”

He nodded. “What can I do to assist you?”

Bronwyn seemed surprised by his query, a disappointing thing to him. After a moment, she answered him. “If you could fetch more water from the well so I can make more tea, it would be a great help.”

He nodded, and taking a pail he went outside, across the village to the well. A few minutes later, he returned with it filled to the brim. Sending him a genuine smile, something warm that Arondir was not used to receiving- especially from humans-, she took it and hung it over the fire.

“There’s naught else I can do until the tea is ready.” Bronwyn told him. “Thank you- for bringing the feverfew, and the water. I think he will live, now that I have them.”

Arondir dipped his head in a nod-like reply. “Even so, I will remain here until you believe him on the mend. If you will permit me.”

Bronwyn frowned, but not in displeasure. “It could be many hours before that is so. Will the other Elves not wonder where you are?”

Arondir shook his head. “I doubt they will miss me until sunup.”

At a loss for excuses to banish him, Bronwyn nodded at last. “Very well, you can stay. But I shall put you to work.”

A hint of a smile flickered across his mouth. “I am glad to be of use.”

While they waited for the water to boil, he collected wood from the porch, feeding it into the blazing hearth in the bedroom and carefully adjusting it with the poker. After taking two chairs from the farmer’s dining table, Arondir and Bronwyn sat together at Robat’s bedside.

Soon the water had boiled, and Bronwyn stood to pick up a tankard from the Man’s bedside table, in which she had already deposited about half the pestle-crushed feverfew. She moved to lift the heavy and scorching-hot cauldron from where it hung over the fire, but Arondir was at the hearth before she could reach it, picking it up carefully. “If you burn your hands, they will not heal as quickly as mine.” He explained, carefully tipping the pot to pour into the tankard she held.

The flagon heated in her hands, but she set it down before its warmth could turn to a scorching heat. Covering it with her mortar and pestle, she explained, “It will need to steep for a few minutes and then cool before he drinks it.”

She looked over the items on the bedside table and turned to Arondir. “I need to fetch something from home.” She said.

He nodded. “Go. I will watch him.”

Visibly, she was hesitant, but after a moment she nodded. “Give it to him slowly. Only a little at a time, but don’t let him go more than a few minutes without drinking any. I will be back as soon as I can.”

He nodded, and she was out the front door in moments. The night air was cold against her as she ran without a cloak, but she didn’t dare go back to fetch it from Robat’s home. She reached her own within a few minutes, but slowed herself to avoid waking Theo as she searched for what she needed in the moonlight, cursing herself for forgetting to bring a candle. She dared not waste the time to light one here, so she made do with the silver shining through the window above her worktable. After a few minutes of frantic searching, she found the jar she needed, and as soon as she was back outside she was running again.

She burst through Robat’s door soon after, startling Arondir, who had been so focused on his task of encouraging the man to drink while listening to the man’s heartbeat and breathing that he hadn’t heard her approaching.

Entering the bedroom, she bustled over to the table. “Any change?”

“No.” The Elf reported. “Did you find what you needed?”

“Yes.” She poured out some of the powder into a tumbler, followed by some of the water from the kettle. She stirred it together, forming a thick paste. Once it cooled, she could spread it over the man’s forehead to help alleviate his fever.

Satisfied she was now returned and did not presently need his help with Robat, Arondir went through Robat’s food stores, and he found bread, cheese, potatoes, and salted pork enough for the three of them. He had done very little cooking in his long life, but he knew how to make soup, and over the fire in Robat’s room he made some. Bronwyn, tending to the Southlander, had paid no attention to what he was doing until he held out a piece of bread to her. “You need to eat.” He reminded her.

“Robat needs it more.”

“I doubt he can chew bread right now. I made soup; he can have the broth, if nothing else.” Arondir reasoned.

Reluctantly, she took the bread. “What about you? Have you eaten since I asked you to find feverfew?”

“I have not.” He confessed. “I began my search as soon as I returned, and the moment I found the herb I came looking for you.”

The Southlander was touched by his dedication to helping her, and hid her smile by biting off a piece of the tough, stale bread. “You should eat as well, then. Unless Elves do not need to eat?”

“We do.” He admitted, picking up the second piece of bread. “But not as much or as often as Men.” He tore off a piece of the bread and ate it, chewing as he watched the steady rise and fall of Robat’s chest.

Less than an hour later, with her small meal consumed, Bronwyn had succumbed to exhaustion, wearied by her unending efforts to keep Robat alive. Arondir knew that Robat lived alone, and as such there was no second bed he could place her in. He also doubted she would be alright with him bringing her back to her house to rest, yet he would not lay her on the floor. So instead he unclipped his cloak and laid it over her, folding the hood to tuck under her head. She would be sore and stiff when she woke, but perhaps that would lessen it somewhat. The cloak could’ve been thicker, but added to Bronwyn’s- which he laid over her also- it would likely provide more warmth than any blanket in the village.

Arondir resigned himself contentedly to watching over them both as they slept, his keen ears easily sensing Robat’s steady breathing. This freed him to ponder, the main subject of his thoughts the unfamiliar woman asleep across from him. She was very lovely to look at, fair despite being a daughter of Men and not an Elf-maiden. Not that he tended to think of Men as ugly, of course- they were Children of Ilúvatar as well, fashioned as mortal and less ethereal beings than Elves. He might have thought her half-Elven, though, had he not known that she was not.

He thought about her son, whose name he did not yet know. The young boy’s existence meant that he had a father somewhere, in whichever village Bronwyn had come from, but if Bronwyn had been married, she was far too young for her husband to have died of old age. True, sometimes women were married to men far older than them, but it was less common in these peaceful days. He had not heard of any plagues or major bouts of illness in any of the villages, and there were no wars or battles in which her husband might have perished. It was a mystery he knew he had no right to even try to solve, but Arondir had always been a little too curious- and a little too interested in the affairs of Men- for his own good.

The rest of the night passed with little change. Arondir collected more firewood to keep the hearth blazing once, and twice made a swift trip to peer into the window of Bronwyn’s son to be sure he had not woken or been harmed. It was the least he could do for the healer, who was clearly not leaving Robat’s side anytime soon.

Dawn came, and Arondir reluctantly placed his hand on Bronwyn’s shoulder, gently shaking her awake. She blinked sleepily, frowning rather adorably in her confusion. A string of unintelligible syllables came out of her mouth that even Arondir could not decipher.

After a moment, she realized the situation and sat up, wincing at the stiffness and soreness in her body. The cloaks laid over her slipped down, and her eyes widened at the Elven one. “Is Robat alright?” She queried, pushing all other questions aside.

“I believe so. He remained asleep through the night, and his breathing has remained the same. The Sun rose a few minutes ago.”

Bronwyn nodded in understanding, getting to her feet and moving up the bed to inspect her patient. At that moment there was a knock on the door, causing both to look in its direction. “I will see who is there.” Arondir told her, and she nodded in reply.

On the farmer’s doorstep was none other than Médhor, arms folded over his chest in a surprisingly Mannish gesture. “I wasn’t worried when I fell asleep and you weren’t in your bed, but when I woke before dawn and it hadn’t been touched, I was. I talked to Revion, and he hadn’t seen you either. He’s sent someone to every village from Ostirith to Orodruin looking for you. By the Valar, Arondir, what kept you?”

Arondir let out a breath. “Before I returned to Ostirith last night, the woman who came here recently approached me.”

“The healer?”

“Yes.” Arondir confirmed. “She told me she was caring for a Man who was very ill, but she could find no feverfew and was sure he would die without it. She asked if there was any in the tower. I found some and brought it to her, and I have remained here with her all night to help her tend him.”

Médhor huffed out a sigh. “You should have told someone. Besides, it isn’t our place to interfere with the lives and deaths of Men- especially these Men.”

“I will not be the villain they think me to be by turning away a desperate healer and condemning a Man to die.” Arondir returned. “If Bronwyn had asked you, would you have turned your back on them?”

“No.” His friend admitted. “Come on, we should be getting back. Revion will want to speak to you on this.”

Arondir nodded. “I will fetch my cloak.”

He returned to the bedroom and found Bronwyn stirring the soup he had made the night before, Robat gone from his bed. “Who was it?”

“One of my fellow guardsmen.” He replied. “They were concerned by my absence. I must return to the tower.”

“I understand.” She replied. Turning to face him, she said, “Robat is awake. He will live, thanks to you. I’ll leave once he’s eaten.”

The Elf dipped his head. “I am glad to hear that. You must be careful not to fall ill as well.” He picked up his cloak and tied it around his throat. “Do you have enough food for yourself and your son? Robat has little in his pantry.”

Taken rather off-guard by the inquest, Bronwyn faltered a moment before replying. “Yes, we have enough. Thank you. For everything.”

He bowed his head again, departing without a further word. Robat’s room felt rather large to Bronwyn without his tall and broad-shouldered frame in it.

Bronwyn didn’t see Arondir again for over two weeks, but when she did, she found him leaving Waldreg’s tavern, another Elf at his side. She stopped mid-step, surprised at the sight of him. As if sensing her, his head turned under the hood of his cloak, and his eyes landed on her. He said something she couldn’t hear to his companion, who halted his steps as Arondir moved toward her. He came to a stop but a stride in front of her, but said nothing.

After a moment, she broke the silence. “Robat is doing well. He’s back to full health again.”

“I know, he was in the tavern. He feels very indebted to you.”

Warmth and pink bloomed in her cheeks. “It should be you. After all, you brought the feverfew that saved his life.”

“And you knew how to heal him with it.” Arondir countered. “You saved his life, Bronwyn. You should be proud of that.”

It was the first time he’d said her name, and it elicited a feeling in her that she didn’t dare attempt putting a name to. She averted her gaze, trailing it over the horizon. “Did I get you in trouble with your superiors?”

“No. They were concerned more than angry.” He replied. He elected to leave out the several hours of scolding from Revion and Médhor each, along with their warnings to not grow close and get attached to the humans.

She nodded. “That’s good. I would hate to think I made things difficult for you.” Fidgeting, she continued, “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you for what you did.”

He offered her a rare smile of his own, as genuine as her honesty and politeness. “Take care of yourself and your son, and should you ever need anything again, you may always come to me. That is all I would ask of you.”

Bronwyn was immeasurably touched by his unselfish response, and opened her mouth to speak. However she was cut off by the other Elf’s call. “Arondir! We should not delay further!”

“I must go.” Arondir told her, somewhat apologetically. “Until next we meet, Bronwyn.” He dipped his head in a nod-like gesture of farewell and respect.

She imitated the movement. “Until then, Arondir.”

He took his leave, returning to his companion. Bronwyn watched him go, deciding that the Southlanders had certainly misjudged the Elves that watched them. Unbeknownst to her, he was having a very similar thought about the reverse.

Note: I have no idea what the healing properties of the aforementioned plants are, other than that Athelas heals Morgul wounds. However, Bard mentions both nightshade and feverfew in The Hobbit when they’re trying to find something to help Kíli, so I know both exist in Middle-earth. Also, to clarify, I wasn’t hinting at any Médhor x Arondir. I’m under the impression that the Elves in Ostirith had barracks or dorms, and since they seemed to be friends, I assumed they might’ve shared a dorm.

#the rings of power #rings of power #trop #rop #arondir #bronwyn #aronwyn #arondir x bronwyn #fluff #fluffuary2023

4 notes · View notes

the-acid-pear-ocs · 1 year

Text

I'm reading Copper's story again so i'll give a silly rundown of it:

Copper is in the forest, he's looking for a victim of a previous ai dungeon character of mine. We dont speak of that previous guy. Much silliness ensued here but none of it is canon.

Copper follows the screams but runs into a girl who is not screaming instead just playing w a toy truck. He's very fixated on that truck. She tells him her brother died because she didnt pray enough. Copper asks meaningless questions and then leaves.

Copper walks into a man with a bandage on his head who's holding a shotgun and crying. Without second thought he simply sits next to the man, ignoring how fucking dangerous this is.

The man tells him his family, wife and son, were killed by John Wayne Gacy, whom he also calls the White Devil. Copper has no fucking clue who that is but ends up telling this man to stfu bc he's getting sick.

(A/n: By now i need to remind yall copper is a detective.)

Copper asks the man about the bandages, the man explains what a bandage is. Copper calls him an idiot and asks why he has them on, the man ignores that and instead talks about what The White Devil does (takes the form of a clown and throws bodies in bags into a mass grave). Copper asks where he can find this killer, the man tells him to go to hell. Copper gets up and leaves, he looks at the sky and starts thinking of the weather.

(A/n: now you could fairly argue the victim is in shock, and maybe even brain damaged, so the strange responses are to be expected. This is not justified as for Copper, though.)

Copper has a bit of a Harry DuBois moment, directly talking to the voices in his head. Of course, said voices were me. A very fucking tired man having to deal with this very uncooperative detective.

Copper says he doesn't want to deal with this serial killer and instead goes home. Here he casually mentions there's a zombie outbreak. Zombies are living in the sewers of Denton. However despite refusing to face a serial killer he's confident about his abilities against zombies.

Copper goes home but realizes he has none of the things needed for outside survival like a tent, a knife, food and water, money for gas or spare clothes.

These things are, however, entirely useless, since it is confirmed Copper very much has a house when he realizes he hasn't eaten in days and picks some chips from his fridge. Except he throws up. Then swallows them down?

Copper is about to remember he's a grown man with a job when suddenly he hears someone shouting upstairs and firing a gun, so he goes investigate.

(A/n: I really believe Copper might be homeless. It is very likely he isn't even a real cop. I really think he just broke into some apartment and ate some spoiled chips)

Copper walks into a new place and starts looking for a girl named Alice. He forgets about the gunshots for a second, before thinking of the possibility of Alice having been shot.

Copper finds Alice hiding under a tree on a beer bottle filled backyard. She's been shot but she's alive, according to Copper. However, there seems something bad happened to both of them the previous day, and he wants to move on, so he just goes home, worried about being arrested.

(A/n: Copper realized he broke into a house and that's illegal?)

On the news, a story about a man named Jameson who killed his wife is playing on the news. The details are contradicting, and its an overal sickening situation. Copper turns the TV off.

Needing to clear up his mind, Copper goes out to buy some ice cream. He realizes new shops are opening around the neighborhood and feels happy about having a normal life :)

There's a loud sound and Copper runs directly into it, finding two men in black suits armed. One of them only misses shooting Copper on the head by centimeters.

Copper ducks and tries to run away, stumbling, until he finds a trash can where he hides inside.

Some people find him. At first, they are nice to him. Believing him and saying he should go home or get help, but after Copper says he can't because the man is still out there they start laughing and insulting him, culminating in them calling the shotgun man.

The man grabs Copper and shoots up and at him, but none of the shots hit. He also seems upset, asking Copper "what did i ever do to you?", which Copper asks the same.

Once again, Copper manages to escape and finds a dumpster to hide in, where he stays inside until midnight.

Eventually, Copper decides to leave and heads in to a police station, figuring out that if the man attacking him isnt there by now he must be gone. His panic is however evident and multiple people try to ask him if he's alright.

Copper sits down to calm himself down. A woman approaches and asks him who he is, and once he says his name she says he doesn't believe him. She then questions what he's doing here, to which Copper mentions that a man tried to kill him. The woman just gets confused and continues to stare at him blankly.

Copper gets really weirded out by this, especially because it was coming from someone who wasn't human. Because until now, Copper forgot to mention everyone in the room was in fact not human, but animalistic in some way.

It's then when he realizes: this is a furry convention. And, i quote him, "it really does seem like something out of a horror movie"

Copper tries to leave but he just walks in a room with even more furries and just, awkwardly hangs around, his anxiety raising by the moment.

As he was about to have a panic attack thinking of what the furries would do to him, a hand grabbed him and dragged him away from the furry part of the convention, instead leading him for a while to a different place. The man speaks but Copper can't understand what he's saying so he blindly trusts him.

After a while, the man points Copper to another group of people and tells him to follow them. Copper instead follows a single man, who leads him to an alleyway. The man looks fucking exhausted.

Copper wanted to tell the man to rest, but instead said HE wanted to rest, so the man took him to his house.

The man asks Copper why he's there, Copper is confused, and simply says that a furry told him to follow him. The man doesn't believe him but Copper insists it's true. After 5 minutes of writing, the man gives up.

Copper asks what the man wrote, to which he answers is the future. He says he doesn't know what the future holds, but it's going to be different from what they are used to.

The man leaves and the space time continuum collapses.

(A/n: This i later learnt was because of a glitch that was affecting all the users, but when it happened i thought it was just because Copper lost it, probably because him being nice broke the world.)

Copper waits for the man. He goes outside. Everything is normal. There's nothing inside. Copper goes back inside. He locks the door. Copper grabs the man. The man grabs him. He pulls the trigger. The man is dead. Copper waits for the man to come back. Copper sees the room to his room open, and walks outside. A man stands with a gun. Copper runs towards him, the gun is pointed towards him. They start to wrestle.

Copper grabs his phone and calls 911. The police take him to the hospital, where he finds out he's been shot.

(A/n: Copper originally and for a while died here, i was going to end his story, but eventually i changed it. This is why the loop broke.)

Copper goes home, but the next day he wakes up in the hospital. He's been shot, again? He tells the nurse he wants to go home.

Copper goes home, but the next day he wakes up in the hospital again.

Copper breaks down. He cries and screams for an hour until he feels everything is ok. The sings, cries from joy, sits down. He tries to focus on his thoughts but he's interrupted. A cop knocks on his door and is pointing his gun at him.

To be continued...

#[AI dungeon ocs]#[copper]

4 notes · View notes

sambadecomboscribbles · 1 year

Text

Resting beneath the Redwood.

Mother 3 Oneshot

Tags: Mother 3, Earthbound, Strong Language, Mentions of Alcohol, Mentions of Death, Mentions of some disturbing imagery (death, rot, etc), Body horror of the tree variety, possible slight Anxiety attack, Overworking, Exhaustion, Weird POV changes but I promise it’s swag, Marshall's got a lot of trees to cut down before he'll fill that hole in his heart. Maybe he never will. This is Dad Lighter the Oneshot.

Characters: Marshall (OC), Lighter, Mentions of Lucas, Claus, Hinawa and Flint.

———

If you took one look at any forest, you'd see a abundance of green foliage and green trees as far as the eye could see.

Strong oaks, simple birch, and if you're lucky, the towering of Redwood trees, covering the sky and sun with their splendorous red. Pine needles and pinecones falling down as a storm blankets the forest. Leaves twirling down onto the soft floor below of green grass and moss.

In Tazmily, there was a forest. One that spans miles of land with green hills and leaves.

It was called the Sunshine forest.

Named by the way the sunshine reflected off the leaves in the spring and summer with a shining blanket of light and color. The leaves almost alive with the sound of the nature that inhabited it. Birds nested inside the green, cooing gently to their families. Beetles and ants crawl along the branches.

It was many a place for the villagers of Tazmily to have picnics, relax in the shade or even play on ropeswings. Yes, The Sunshine forest had much to offer. Even when most of her gorgeous flora and foliage was burned three years ago. Some could still smell the reeking, aching wood to this day, if you dare venture to the... not so kindly named, Ugly part of the forest.

But even beauty, lies beneath the ugly. Beauty cradles those who wish to sleep upon a bed of roses and ugly does much the same. Holding onto those with a worn but comforting hand, holding them close. Keeping them safe. Almost beauty in its own right, in its caring nature even through pain.

And sleep many creatures did.

One such creature, slumbered away beneath a strong oak. His sleeping body slumped against the tree, arms tucked against his stomach. His breathing soft, barely above a gentle breeze. Snores, barely audible. Not to disturb no one none.

No ma’am or sir, indeed.

His worn axe rested in a fallen log, the wood barely splintering as the steel cleaved through its tough brown surface. Around the clearing sat bundles of logs, tied together with tough leather straps. Old age and wear clear on their surface. Had real personality, a aged lumberjack says. Wont let ya down they won’t, for sure. He also says with a knowing gleam in his eye. But even some straps, he continues, can wear and tear too much by the strain.

This mighty creature slumbers away surrounded by his afternoons work. The sun gently shining on him, almost like a blanket in the cool spring air. Still warming up from the cold hold winter had on it. He had spent a good few hours of his early morning cutting trees and moving them towards town. The retirement home needed a new floor and well, he’s happy to help them replace it with some new oak boards.

So that he did.

Once he finished up, he made his way back through town and into the forest, axe in hand and sweat still on his brow.

There ain’t be no time to clean sweat away. Work must be done.

Chopping away trees, bundling them and moving them to storage was easy enough. It was monotonous at times but it was easy and made a difference. Moving lumber. chopping. Moving lumber. Chopping. Like a machine, he worked day and night, hours and hours. Hardly stopping or taking a break. But don’t worry none, he likes the work. Makes him feel good.

Makes him feel earned.

Makes him living feel earned.

Makes the shadow of the Redwood tree just a smight bit smaller with each axe swing.

Sap dripped down his hands, his life force bleeding away in a puddle of white amber. His gears grinding to a halt. For what a machine does a break warrant? No. He doesn’t believe in breaks. Sloth ain’t a word in his family. Certainly not in his vocabulary.

Yet, here he was. Laying in a patch of grass, his head to the tree’s surface.

His body next to nature. Almost similar to a forgotten teddy bear, one with nature now. The rain weighing it’s stuffing down on the inside and the roots and plants growing through its fabric to give life to something abandoned and rotten. Perhaps the creature was the one who was rotten? Who could tell.

His bones rest like roots on the forest floor.

Heavy.

Sap bleeds from his blisters.

Exhaustion clear on his muscles and skin. Though to those passing by, he looked peaceful. Like a corpse. For how long he slept, he might’ve grown his own leaves.

Wouldn’t that be nice dear?

A machine man growing plants.

How quaint.

———

“Hmmm…”

It had been an hour since the last ringing chop had been heard from the lightning struck home.

Lighter had brought back his own bundles of lumber and decided a glass of lemonade was more than welcome right now. He had asked Marshall if the boy wanted to stop and take a breather for a moment. But the boy, bless his heart, said he’d keep workin’. He didn’t mind none, he’d said.

That was hours of daylight ago. He was starting to get worried. He knew Marshall had a track record similar to his father. Workin’ till he was aching and still offered to carry one more bundle or bale.

Lighter rose from his chair, bones cracking and aching.

He certainly wasn’t any younger but that doesn’t stop him. He pushed open the door to the cool outside air, taking a breath in of the pollen. “Now what the hells goin’ on….” He muttered, moving to grab his trusted two by four and rested it on the groove of his shoulder and set off.

His boots crunch the dirt. Sticks and leaves breaking under his weight. The snow had melted, revealing many winter secrets for Fuel and Claus to get their hands on come weeks in the future.

He knew this route like the back of his hand, every turn and tree he marked specifically. He turned into the clearing, breathing out a slight wheeze and turned to look around the superhuman progress that was made.

10s of 20s of trees, all chopped, bundled and placed in neat stacks. Ready to be moved and processed into boards and planks.

“Eh? Marshall??” He called, hands cupped around his mouth. He turned in the clearing, his worn eyes looking for the boy.

And there, in the middle of the clearing, sat under a old oak tree was the boy. Lighter sighed softly, moving across the clearing to clear the distance between them. He knelt down in the dirt and mud, his knee becoming slick with mud.

“Dammit boy, ya feel asleep again, didn’t ya son?” He rasped, shaking his head.

The creature’s face was pale, shadows under his eyes as thick as bark. His hands and arms shaking like wind shakes leaves.

His hands finally bare broken blisters, leaking red sap onto his shirt.

“Dammit all…”

“Cmon, let’s get ya inside, yeah? Cmon..”

With aged muscles, he moved an arm underneath the slumbering creature, moving to tuck him next to his side as much as he could. Then, he lifted him, slowly but surely until the boy’s arm laid across his shoulders. “Oof! Christ!! Ya really are his son!! Fucks sake!” He groaned, moving to steady his legs before taking a step forward.

“Cmon now, let’s go son…” He hushed, patting the others arm with a gentle hand.

Over the River and through the woods to the lightning house they go, the old horse knows the way to carry the fallen tree through melted snow.

The old horse makes his way through the forest, ever careful of his cargo. Once he made it through the endless fields of branches and bark, he carefully opens his door. Stepping into the home with mud covered boots. He carefully placed Marshall down in his bed, removing the others own boots and covered him up. He stepped back, placing both pairs of shoes next to the door.

“….”

His gaze lingered on the bright leather Star stitched with a loving hand on the side of one shoe. The patchwork of a mother. Held together by strong thread and love. He sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair.

“What the fuck am I gonna do with him, Hin? Him and Flint, both stubborn bastards.”

He muttered, making his way into his kitchen, mindful to keep his steps quiet. He dug around through his wooden cupboard, pulling out a bottle of whiskey.

It was a gift from friends.

He grabbed a glass and sat down, pouring himself a small bit and leaned back, sipping the amber liquid inside. “I’m gonna give that boy a stern talkin’ to Hin.“

He closed his eyes, breathing out softly.

And inhaled a scent of Alcohol.

Alcohol with a scent of oak wood and polish. With a hint of char and smoke.

The smell attacked his nose with a intensity similar to that of rotten milk or eggs. He blinked open his eyes, golden pupils shaking about as he shot up from bed. “!!?” He rubbed his eyes free of the phantom feeling of apple blossoms and amber.

“ ‘Bout time you woke up.”

A voice greeted his confusion, turning to see who it was revealed,

“L-Lighter sir… I-“ He started,

“I don’t want to hear any of that nonsense, boy.”Lighter finished.

Lighter slowly stood, placing his cup down, “I don’t want that to happen again, ya hear me? He said, voice stern, sharp, “ if you need a break you tell me, understand?”

“I-I don’t…?”

“Do ya understand me, Marshall?”

“I’m…”

“You can’t keep doin this son, it’s not good. And I’m not going to have ya Kill yerself for one or two bundles o’ lumber!”

The feeling of shadow hangs over the creatures shoulders. The red, red shadow. You could smell the scent of redwood in the air, feel it on your skin. Did it always feel this rough?

“Think about Lucas and Claus, Marshall! They need you! What’s gonna happen if they loose you? Huh?”

“I…”

The feeling of suffocating, writhing branches inside your lungs, filling them with leaves. Filling your bones with sap.

Are your hands bleeding? Why is the sap red?

“From today onward you are taking breaks while you work, understood? And if you refuse, I’ll make ya take them and sit ya in the corner like I did with fuel.” He said, voice calm, yet holding back a simmering anger. He always did tough love. “Otherwise, im gonna have ta let ya go.”

“Yes… yes sir…”

The shame hangs from his back like abandoned tireswing rope. The shadow of Redwood too high to see above. Slowly, he stood from the bed, his bones aching. “I understand, sir..” His voice is meek, quiet but ever so polite. “I’m…right sor-“

“Son, you don’t have to give me that nonsense.”

Lighter spoke, moving to place his hand on the others tense shoulder. “Just head home for today. Rest up. Take a few days off, those hands o’ yours need it.” He motions to the bandage covered palms, wrapped tight and neat.

“Do you need me to walk you home?” Lighter offered,

“N-no sir, I’m alright…” Marshall nodded, moving to make his way towards the door. He slipped his boots on, holding onto the doorframe with a tight grip as stars danced in his eyes.

“…. Alright, have a good night Marshall.” Lighter surrendered.

Marshall opened the door, stepping out into the night air and leaned against the door with a wheeze. He patted at his chest, coughing gently into the sky. The feeling of fall fills his lungs as the leaves inside his chest fall away, settling at the bottom of his lungs. His eyes close, his breathing slowly steadying.

Then, he set off.

Lighter watched him walk through the window, a pinched expression on his face. His glass in his hand, the amber liquid pooling inside. He took a sip, turning to face away from the door.

“I’m gonna need more whiskey…”

#mother 3 #mother 3 fic #mother 3 oneshot #earthbound #earthbound fic #mother 3 oc #mother 3 lighter #earthbound oc #please leave me feedback in the comments or tags!

4 notes · View notes

neildylandy · 2 years

Note

can you talk about my best friends pale blue skies and 0.1 pleaaaase <|:-) (wearing a funny hat)

well how can i say no to a funny hat...

edit: i wrote WAY too much here's a readmore

pale blue skies and 0.1 are both gundam 00 fics, specifically in (the? are we putting in an article) xenogundam au. the synopsis to that au is technically here but at this point that post is kind of out of date. still it gets at least an adjacent point across so it's what we'll go with until we make a new one!

0.1 is the easier one to explain: it's the "chapter zero" segment in which soran ibrahim finds the gundam exia and becomes the innovator setsuna f. seiei. because it comes first in the telling of xg!au (much in the same way that setsuna's meeting with the 0 gundam comes first in canon), there's a little bit more explaining of what the gundams are like and their effects on human beings, but a lot of it is still left on the table to be explained by later entries since well. setsuna mostly doesn't care enough to think about the fiddly details until they come up lmao

there's a focus on memory and language in 0.1 and how they can promote both understanding and (pardon the pun) alienation in a group of people. this is notable, for example, in the fact that soran ibrahim, being a child from krugis, speaks only kurdish, while the azadistani citizens he passes by in azadistani settlements would speak only farsi. xgau is, at its core, about Communication and Connection, and disconnects like these between soran/setsuna and the human beings around him are exactly how i want to start this story.

to assign 0.1 to a point in the show, it's essentially the prologue and first episode of season 1.

—

pale blue skies is a fic that focuses on xg!au tieria, and on the events leading into the Trans-Am "metamorphosis" that transforms virtue/nadleeh (written as one being that has multiple names for its various forms) into seravee/seraphim. xg!au tieria is...essentially what would happen if you took early- to mid-s1 tieria and put him in s2 with not only no time to grow but an outside force actively pushing him constantly to not grow, because the innovator he was built to be is already exactly who he needs to be.

pale blue skies demonstrates that this is not at all the case. to put it at a point in the show, it'd be during that four-year gap after operation fallen angels—though in xg!au, that timespan is a LOT more condensed, ending up at around six months and change. through various character arcs of their own, exia has become 00, kyrios has become arios, dynames has become cherudim...and nadleeh is still stuck half-melted in the ground because it and tieria can't figure out the "method" for activating trans-am, and none of the other innovators can help them understand it (because it's a completely personal experience, and none of them are nadleeh and tieria).

tieria argues with nadleeh for the first time in his entire existence, nadleeh has to shut itself down to conserve power, and tieria decides that the innovator he needs to be, the innovator he is, has proven insufficient. the problem isn't that they can't activate trans-am to repair themselves, it's that he can't. and if he can't do that, he's nothing but an obstacle.

while nadleeh is still shut down and no one else is awake to stop him, tieria sneaks out of the innovators' camp and goes into the desert alone to clear that obstacle once and for all.

and while he fades, he thinks about music.

pale blue skies is named after a combination of the famous Pale Blue Dot that is earth from space and the song Mr. Blue Sky by electric light orchestra. the fic is non-chronological, and jumps between tieria's current state to his memories of one strange, human little moment between a bunch of people who aren't human at all.

this is a fic about tieria erde trying to die alone in the desert and it's also extremely a fic about the Hivemind Karaoke Night that changed the course of history. i made an actual real playlist for it and everything and every song in that playlist is involved in the fic somehow and i have made mr. blue sky the funny song mr. blue sky be plot-critical and i am having an Absolutely Phenomenal Time

did i mention lyle dylandy is here too? he's an innovator now. he pilots the 0 gundam. he's responsible for this. he's responsible for the fact that both bohemian rhapsody and potential breakup song [explicit] is featured in my gundam 00 alternate universe fan fiction on-line

thanks lyle

#spiritspeak #spiritstories #tieria-erde #xenogundam au #GOD pale blue skies is like. it means the everything to me. one of the fics i'm writing of all time #someday i'll get to post that whole playlist. someday. i promise #THANKS FOR SENDING THIS IN CAM HERE'S 4 MILLION WORDS JUST FOR YOU. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS WITH XENOGUNDAM

3 notes · View notes

hartshorn-and-isinglass · 28 days

Text

UNHALLOWED GROUND

CHAPTER 1: Bring Me to Life

*files serial numbers off the characters* All characters portrayed in this production are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

I'm not committing to a specific place and time with this setting. Ironically that's probably because I know how much research it would take to actually do that and this is just what I want to write when I don't have the spoons for real work.

Word count: 2.8k Content Warnings: none for this chapter, but it'll get spicier if I keep writing this. Unfortunately.

(Abandon all hope, ye who click "Keep Reading")

The full moon rises above the treeline, casting her silver-blue light on the grass and the stones in the clearing. It is a lovely spring night, with clear air and a full complement of stars twinkling in the sky. I am walking barefoot next to the fence, listening to the frogs and crickets and enjoying the light breeze—when I hear a small commotion near the cemetery gate, a trio of jocular voices now quite familiar to me. Ah, yes. The merchant has tempted yet another wretch to try his luck tonight. By this point, perhaps he's even convinced his drinking companions to start a betting pool on how long the poor man will actually stay.

I know very little of this old goat who has taken to playing the role of procurer for me; he has yet to speak to me directly or ask anything of me in return. His reward seems to be his own amusement and the stories the frightened men tell when they return to the land of the living. I am usually happy to play his game, as it has its own rewards for me. I even let it be known to the first few victims that I would much prefer to be awoken by the sound of music rather than rough shouting or banging on the mausoleum door—and remarkably enough, the merchant has obliged me since then by sending men here with their instruments. There was even a singer one time, though he was too frightened to sing particularly well.

I am already awake tonight, but for the sake of our little game it would not do to have them all see me so early in the evening. I slip back behind the door, propping it ever so slightly open so I can watch the proceedings from out of view.

In the distance I recognize the outline of the merchant and two of his friends weaving their way between the headstones; all three of them are rather top-heavy from their time in the tavern, and though they have hushed their voices now that they've entered the graveyard I can still hear nervous laughter between them. By contrast, their recruit for the evening looks to be stone-cold sober and remains dead silent, carrying a wooden case at his side. As they approach the mausoleum the merchant leans in to whisper the usual instructions to his mark, reminding him that though I am some manner of unearthly creature now, I appear to have once been a gentlewoman and ought to be treated with a measure of courtesy if he wishes to last the night here (...ha!)—also that he and his chums will be waiting at the gate until sunrise, and he will not part with his twelve livres' worth of silver a moment sooner (so he has increased the prize as well!). The poor singleten looks like he might be ill, but he sets his jaw and nods assent. With a shout of encouragement, the merchant claps him on the back and he and his friends retreat to the gate, leaving the man of the hour to his doom.

To me.

He stares at the door for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. This one is not so young as the last fellow who came here in the fall, but he has a fine-featured face and a sturdy frame. Looking about him, he spies the low tomb to his left and very slowly and deliberately sets his wooden case down, then his cloak next to it. He unlatches the case to reveal a fiddle, much to my delight. I am partial to fiddlers, and it seems the merchant has now intuited as much, as this is the third one in a row.

As he picks up the instrument and puts it to his shoulder I can already detect a certain elegance to his movement that tells me he is well-practiced in his art. He briefly tunes his strings, and glances again at the door, swallowing hard, before he raises his bow again to play.

I suppose I was expecting something in the vein of jolly tavern fare, but the first few notes are slow, mournful double stops that gradually expand into a melody that is by turns wistful and anguished. What breathtaking sadness, so skillfully played! At some point I realize my mouth is hanging agape, and I am thankful to be hidden behind the door.

I will not show myself just yet, for I must hear more of this fiddler.

The next movement seems to sparkle and shimmer as it is released into the night, a bright and twisting thing that at times almost threatens to lift the fiddler himself off the ground with it. I cannot even believe my good fortune tonight. How in the world did the merchant find this man?

Onto a sweetly lilting sarabande, tastefully ornamented. Oh, but how I wish I could dance to this one. Burial shrouds are not conducive to dancing, however, and besides there is no room to dance in here.

Now a fast-paced finale that rolls and swirls like running water. I can almost hear sunlight dancing on the stream of notes as they reach my ears, and for the briefest moment I see in my mind's eye the creek next to my childhood home, the golden light of day glinting off heads of barley, the bright blue sky and rolling hills in the distance—what in the world is a musician like him doing in this Godforsaken colony? The man should be playing for concert halls in Paris!

He lets the instrument down from his shoulder to nothing more than the faint sound of crickets in the distance. I have never wanted to applaud so badly in my life—but surely that would not do, not for the game.

I slowly push the heavy wood door open a little ways, just enough to cause the hinges to creak. He freezes in place, gaze riveted on the space between the door and the frame. There is a wild look in his eyes. Though he was afraid before, I am certain that he, like all the others, had hoped this was all mere hum and nonsense and nothing would come of it.

I would tease him a little more, but I myself cannot stand it any longer. I throw open the door and saunter out of the shadows in superbly dramatic fashion.

"Alas! I have awoken once again from my slumber in death to unholy unlife!" I stare deep into the poor fiddler's eyes and extend my hands towards him. "O mortal, is it you who has recalled me from the land of the shades with sweet music, just as Orpheus did with his beloved Eurydice?"

This is usually enough to set a man to running, but the fiddler remains stock-still. I feel a bit deflated—here is where the chase is to begin!—why does he not fly from me? Am I... am I somehow not terrifying enough tonight? Should I have let my hair down this time? Delivered my lines with more of a growl?

I try again, with a little more menace in my voice. "Who has serenaded me back to life? Was it you, O fiddler?"

No response.

I don't think he has even blinked.

We've lost all dramatic momentum. Will I simply have to take my prize like this? It seems so unsporting. I weigh my options on how to proceed.

"Er. Boo."

He at last moves to cross himself, bow still in hand. His thin voice quavers. "In nomine Patris et fillii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen-"

I laugh with relief as much as amusement. "Ah my dear, good to know you are still with us! I thought for a moment I had become Medusa and turned you to stone with my gaze!" I begin to walk towards him. "I must commend you for your bravery. Most poor souls who dare come here have fled upon seeing me. And I must also commend you for your musicianship, for no one else has played the fiddle half so fine as you."

He musters up enough courage to quickly doff his hat and bow, though he does not take his eyes off of me.

I am now close enough to sense the heat of his body radiating into the cold night air. I can hear his heart beating wildly and smell the perspiration evaporating off his skin; I can practically taste the fear oozing from his pores, mingling in confused dissonance with the cheery notes of bergamot and amber from his eau de parfum.

I grin at him, letting him see the length of my eye teeth. "How much longer will your resolve last you, though?"

To my complete surprise, he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin in defiance.

"I put my trust in God. Whatever happens, I shall be in His hands."

"Oh, bless. How far in arrears must you be to care so little for your own safety!" Good heavens, is there really nothing I can do to make him run? I have nowhere left to step forward except straight into him. I raise an eyebrow. "Or perhaps your debts aren't the only thing that keeps you here tonight?"

For a moment, he looks more mortified than terrified. It is easy enough to guess that a musician in this town might be dipped, as so many are these days, but I suppose I have embarrassed him by saying as much out loud. He gathers himself, and his brow furrows slightly as he chooses his words. "I was... curious. I... well, I wanted to know for myself if all the stories were true. Some say that you can walk through walls and disappear into thin air!"

"And they are sadly mistaken. Though I am no longer human, I am still made of flesh, same as you-" and here I reach towards his hand. "Only I am not warm—at least, not most of the time." He flinches, sucking in his breath as my ice-cold fingers make contact. But he does not remove his hand from my touch. There is a certain look in his eyes as he recovers, one that catches me off-guard though I cannot pinpoint its exact significance.

A long, awkward silence ensues before he quietly clears his throat.

"Mademoiselle... do you... do you wish to be made warm? Let me lend you my cloak."

I can scarce believe my ears. But I suppose he was told to treat me with courtesy...

"That is very kind, thank you. But I cannot be made warm that way. For your cloak does not produce its own heat, nor do I. What heat you have given the cloak will not last a minute on my shoulders before it dissipates. No, I must steal my heat directly from the living."

In a graceful single motion, he passes the bow to his left hand and wraps his fingers around mine, infusing my hand with a pleasant warmth. There is just enough energy in this small gesture that I can feel it travel up my arm and into my chest until it reaches the chambers of my heart, where it causes me to involuntarily gasp. I am aware of my own pulse again; a wave of gooseflesh ripples across my entire body. I glance down, and realize that I am squeezing the fiddler's hand, just a little bit.

He observes my reaction carefully, saying nothing. I can hear and feel his pulse still hammering through his veins, but there is also a glimmer of something rather calculating in his probing stare.

I am accustomed to taking what I can from the living, be it their heat, their breath, their tears, or their blood. I now find myself at a loss as to how to respond to being given one of those things freely. I look at our clasped hands, then back into his wide brown eyes—intolerable!—then back at our hands. His warmth continues to diffuse through me, and with it comes a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach—not mortal hunger, nor the hunger of the undead, but some other long-forgotten need.

The fiddler's heartbeat begins to slow; he is nowhere near calm, but he is no longer terrified of me. Alas, I have failed in my role! Perhaps I should just bite him now and be done with it, if for nothing else than to save myself from the scrutiny of his gaze. Ah, but where to bite this one? Though I am careful to close the wounds with a drop of my own blood when I am done, his flesh will remember the insult, and to do such a thing to his neck or arms would hinder his beautiful playing. I suppose there is always his thigh, but then I would have to—well. I do not believe the merchant and his friends can see much of anything from their post at the gate, but if they can at all, it would certainly be the end of him telling anyone that I am a lady of good breeding.

Do I even care about reputation anymore? Does that much matter at all when you are no longer of the living? And for heaven's sake, will he stop looking at me like that—what are we even doing here?

"My apologies. I fear we have gotten up on the wrong foot," he says at last. "May we try again?" He steps back, still holding my hand. "My name is Philippe Chagnon. Pleased to meet you." He bows his head to meet my hand and lingers for a moment, long enough to exhale a warm breath on my knuckles—before gently pressing his lips against my skin, all the while gazing up at me with a positively smouldering look.

Oh.

I do not possess enough vitality to blush. Nonetheless, I am keenly aware that, were I alive, that is exactly what I would be doing.

I open my mouth to reply and nearly forget my own name.

"...Margaret Young. Pleased to meet you."

I see his eyes briefly flick upwards to the French surname engraved on the mausoleum, though he says nothing.

"Mademoiselle Young, I suppose you must be aware of Monsieur Bouchard's challenge by now. I regret that our acquaintance has been made under such awkward circumstances, and had I known better I would have insisted that he at least introduce us properly."

"Actually, I have never even been introduced to Monsieur Bouchard, nor any of his acquaintances. We are but strangers playing a strange game, and we have only communicated indirectly, with his recruits acting as go-betweens. I suppose he has not half the courage that all the rest of you do."

"A most strange game, indeed. One that I seem to have agreed to play without fully understanding the rules! When a friend of Bouchard's first sought me out for this purpose I thought he could not possibly be serious. I flatly refused. But when I encountered all of them at the tavern later in the week, they regaled me with so many fantastic stories... and they explained that they were looking for fiddlers in particular, as you seemed to like them best of all. I refused them twice more over the next two weeks, but they have been very insistent that they must have me, and—much to my shame to admit to you now, though I suspect you already overheard as much—they did manage to sway me by offering more money, in real silver coin no less. So at last I relented this evening, and was promptly led here."

I smirk. "Ah, so he does know I am partial to fiddlers. I doubt they will ever find me one better than you, however."

"That is very kind of you, Mademoiselle."

"I mean it with all sincerity. You have moved a dead heart—can there be any higher compliment than this?"

There is a pause. I see his brow knit for a moment; his gaze breaks from mine. "Thank you, Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur Chagnon, will you play for me again? We have the rest of the night before us, after all, as you seem determined to claim your prize. And of all the musicians who have come through here, you are the best, so I would like to see you win it. Please, play for me!"

"But of course, Mademoiselle. And what would you have me play for you?"

"Play for me a piece that holds a special place in your heart."

He smiles a warm, wide smile—again I feel that ache in the pit of my stomach—and he tucks the violin back under his chin.

(To Be Continued)

#Unhallowed Ground #Salutations dear reader. My name is Margaret Duvessa Young and I have long ebony black hair ('tis how I got my middle name)-#*snerk*

1 note · View note

fixing-bad-comic-art · 3 years

Note

What’s off about greg’s art? As someone who can’t draw, I’m legitimately curious. None of those drawings look weird to me, so there’s obviously something I’m missing.

A. shout out to me for straight up forgetting about this for a few days. lmao anyways im half brain dead and have a migraine from fumes rn so excuse the hashtag jank in this one pwease

B. thank you to everyone who submitted examples for this post, u r the real mvps here

C.:

To start off, greg land traces other artists work, usually photographs sometimes drawings without permission or credit. This is what the cool kids call ~copyright infringement~ and ~art theft~ or alternatively ~just a real dickish move~. But talking ethics gives me hives so we aint doing that. ethics are a matter of perspective and all o that.

So, this is a Complicated question. or like, its a simple question but the answer is stupid long. or like, the answer is very short but explaining it is stupid long, and requires a Lot of art theory talk.

Anyways! short answer first: Gregarious Landmark's art consistently fails to deliver as comic art.

Long answer: there's three main things every single pannel in a comic book needs to deliver on: Characterization, Narrative, and Appeal.

Characterization: Who is in the panel. Characterization is all about personality, how everyone holds themselves, how they hit their poses, how they present themselves to the world. Characterization can also apply to setting and background elements, think the gloomy skys and gothic/art deco inspired architecture in gotham and how that conveys the vibes of the city.

Narrative: Who's doing what and how do they Feel about that? What's happening in the story? What is the panel trying to convey?

Appeal: Does it look good? the other two categories are objective, but this subjective one is probably the most important. is it pleasant to look at? is it compelling? is the composition clear?

lets go down the list:

Characterization: Grenade Launcher traces pretty much everything, we've already gone over that, but he continually uses the same stock of images over and over again, which makes everyone he draws hit the same poses the same ways and make the same facial expressions, all while he fails to make any character have the same facial proportions panel to panel. Beyond that, he prefers to pick sexy poses over poses that make sense for the character, which takes us into the next category,

Narrative: by using these stock poses, again, usually traced from porn, he consistently fails to actually convey any emotion or action in the scene, effectively neutering the writing for the sake of some perv pandering.

Appeal: again going back to the stock poses, his pages end up looking like a collage, random elements slapped into the pannel with no consistent perspective all while making everyone look pretty much the same, same build, same expressions, same (read: no) personality.

tldr: it usually takes effort to be this bad at narrative illustration but Great Lakes does it without breaking a sweat. good for him.

#not a fix #anon #ive just been Busy #and also a little off my ass #its been a manic episode type o week lol

1K notes · View notes

twinkleallnight · 2 years

Text

Happy Birthday Jessica!

It's not just WOMEN'S DAY but a day to celebrate a real woman. It's Jessica's birthday.

Here is a small birthday gift from my side for the strong, supportive and caring friend Jess!

I have used the information of her MC here, again one of the strongest MC created in fandom who doesn't live in a bubble but has portrayed reality with pride.You can read her amazing story HERE- Agent Phoenix

Wish you all the happiness in this world ❤️ Jess. You deserve it!

Return of the Iron Lady

Book: The Royal Romance AU

Pairing: Olivia, Jessica(belongs to @phoenixrising308 )

Premise: After book 1, I imagine my fav character to reach out to MC (Jess here) to get her back to Cordonia.

Word count: 818

Disclaimer: All characters belong to pixelberry.

Rating: Mature

Warning: None .

Prompt: Features @wackydrabbles prompt 137 in bold and a song for @moodmusicmonday

Song inspiration: Tera yaar hoon main

The evening sky looked clear from her office window in New York. But not as clear as the sky with bright stars, that was above the hedge maze back in Cordonia.

She rubbed her eyes trying to clear her vision. The wetness on her fingers made her realise that tears were rolling down her eyes. So much for love! She thought. She had left Cordonia on the night of coronation, firmly, never to look back again. She had shut down the book and sealed that part of her life. Yet in lonely moments like these, the memories creeped up, shattering her decision, hammering through the iron doors of her heart.

The intercom rang. She swiftly moved to press the button. “Agent Phoenix, someone wants to see you with a reference from Mateo.”

“Send them in.”

Few tissues to wipe the unwanted tears and a glass of water to clear her throat. She was ready to meet whosoever her brother Mateo had sent across. She wanted to get over with this quickly so that she could call it a day.

No sooner then there was a knock on the door, she blurted out, “Come in.”

But this was not a visitor that she expected from Mateo. Standing tall, clad in crimson shirt and a leather jacket, the visitor smiled at her through her red lips.

Jessica’s lips parted but no words came out.

“Hello to you too, Jess!”

Jessica quickly composed herself, “Olivia. How did you get here and why?”

“Please make yourself comfortable.” Olivia signalled at the chair behind Jessica. Jess had not realised that she had stood up from her chair in a shock when she saw Olivia and was still standing.

She settled down and motioned Olivia to sit too. ‘I have to act normal. Nothing happened. I don’t give it a damn. She can not deter me.’ She reminded herself.

“Its nice to see you Jess.” Olivia started but Jessica cut her midway.

“You didn’t answer my previous questions.”

Olivia could see the wall that Jess had built around herself. She could understand it well because she had been through similar circumstances. The rough behaviour of the nobles at the Cordonian court and the heart break. They both had faced it at different times. They shared few things in common. Yet her Nevrakis’ blood won’t accept to fall into the hollows. And she knew Jessica won’t give up so easily too. Her grit was stronger and much above the hollowness of any courtier. That was exactly what attracted her to Jess. She would have to take it slow and with patience. Lots of patience.

“As for your first question, after you left without any trail, I searched for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know. Anyways, while searching for you, I found Mateo and then requested him to tell me where you are. He was sweet to help me reach here.”

Jessica raised her brow, to which Olivia replied, “I know, you had given him strict instructions and believe me it wasn’t easy to get through him but you have to grant me that much for my expertise in convincing.”

“But why?” Jessica wanted this ordeal to get over.

“I consider you my friend.” Jessica gave a confused look but Olivia continued. “Yes I know, I have been bitchy during the social season. It was more because I could see not just myself in you but much more as a human being that I had yet to be. Your benevolence, your affectionate behaviour towards everyone. I admire those qualities Jess.”

Jessica was not prepared for this conversation. She felt empty. Her loving nature was not enough. She batted away the water collecting in her eyes. She was the loser in the end.

But not in Olivia’s eyes. “Jess, you know when to be firm, when to stand for Your friends and when to strike your enemy. You know the art of making friends, and the craft of building relationships. You can read a person inside out and you can ignore them for all, if you want. Moreover, you know how to love unconditionally.”

Jessica swallowed hard. Someone was reading her like a book and she was losing control. She didn’t want to. So she asked, “I still don’t get it. What do you want?”

“ I need you with me, to fight the inside enemies. We all need you. You are the queen that Cordonia needs.” She paused. “And… Liam needs you.”

There was a truth Jessica saw in Olivia’s emerald orbs. Truth that she couldn’t turn away from. Truth that she couldn’t ignore. Truth that still held a piece of her heart. No! Her whole heart.

Her train of thoughts stopped running when she heard her name being called out. She looked back at Olivia.

Her dark eyes zeroed on Olivia’s greens, as Olivia said it once again.

“Jess, Come back.”

*******************************************

Tags: @alj4890 @anjanettexcordonia @bascmve01 @busywoman @cordonia-gothqueen @cordonian-literature @drakewalker04 @ficloverevie @gkittylove99 @krsnlove @hopefulmoonobject @hopelessromanticmonie @kat-tia801 @indiacater @phoenixrising308 @nestledonthaveone @kingliam2019 @neotericthemis @ntoraplayschoices @princess-geek @princessleac1 @secretaryunpaid @sirbeepsalot @texaskitten30 @txemrn @theroyalheirshadowhunter @aestheticartsx @yourmajesty09 @lovelyladyk88 @mainstreetreader @choiceskatie @claireloutoo @tessa-liam @tinkie1973 @mom2000aggie @sincerelyella @brightpinkpeppercorn

#twinkleallnight #pixelberry #playchoices #the royal romance #trr #trr fandom #olivia nevrakis #spotify

40 notes · View notes

honeyy-fics · 3 years

Text

𝐕𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐈𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐄𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐏𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐕𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ » SYNOPSIS ; You work at a study café, until you see a student to be about your age. He come in almost everyday. Studying, painting art, sketching in sketchbook and at some point—He even try’s to get to know you. Could this be a blossoming relationship? ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━#Pairings : Albedo x GN! Reader. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━WARNINGS : None. :) ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━700+ WORDS ^^

—Albedo.

You’ve just so happened to see a male with ashy-blond hair as a regular on late nights. It’s always worth it to see those teal eyes scan the sketch book with its dark brown cover after he’s finished his artwork.

You may have caught some feelings for the guy, but how could you not? He’s everything you could’ve asked for. Though you doubt he’d be into you. You’re just some worker whose good at making someone’s selection of drink.

Who are you kidding… there’s no way he’d ever like you. Not in a million years, he’s just there to get work done.

You sigh as you wonder off into your own little world dreaming about someday having enough courage to talk to him personally. Not just for an order, but maybe more.

A sad smile makes its way to your face as you hear the door open to the shop. You glance your eye over to the clock on the cream-coloured wall.

‘9 P.M? It’s probably him then.’

You fix your posture and tighten the bow on your apron before walking over to the cashier.

He likes Vanilla Iced Coffee with 2 extra pumps of Vanilla. You stand at the cashier with a smile on your face as you see him walk through the door.

He walks up with his usual backpack and pulls out his wallet.

Maybe… maybe this is your chance to make an impression on him.

“Oh! Um, you don’t have to pay today. It’s on me.” You say with a smile, already knowing that what you just said probably came off as cheesy. It was only you working on the night shifts, so only you and him for now.

“Oh—are you sure? I can still pay.” He said, feeling slightly guilty for not paying.

“No, really! It’s okay. Thank you for coming in all the time. Is it the same order this time?” You ask before grabbing his usual medium cup.

“Ah, you know me so well… Thank you.” He said before slowly putting his wallet back and setting backpack down in one of the booths and returning to the cashier, leaning down on the counter and his hand curled slightly into a fist with the bottom of his palm supporting his cheek.

“So uh… how’s your night going.” He said while looking off at the pastries that were in the glass containment for show.

You remember that this is your first time having a normal, no… real conversation with him.

“Actually, it’s going quite smoothly. Not very customers have come by tonight and the soft white snow falling from the sky is always wonderful to look at. With the tall street lights making it even more visible, it’s alluring enough to catch the eye of anyone. It’s always so… peaceful.” You say while putting the ice into his normal sized clear cup.

But it was true, the fluffy white snow outside the large glass windows was a lovely sight to behold.

You’ve always loved using fancy words in sentences to add the effect that you might be smart, considering all the stupid things to do.

“What about you?” You asked glancing at him for a split moment to see his real eyes staring at you.

“It’s been… interesting. My car almost slipped off the road on the way here because of black ice.” He said while a distasteful look made its way onto his features.

You finished off his drink with the last two pumps of vanilla, stirred it, grabbed a clear lid put it on and grabbed a straw—handing it to the blonde.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you okay?” You ask as you slide it over to him over the counter before leaning down and placing your elbows on the said counter.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for asking.” He said before taking his hand off his pale cheek and unwrapping the straw to place it in the hole of the lid.

A comfortable silence when by for a few moments before he asked you a question.

“I… I never got your name.” He said.

You were taken aback slightly but smiled warmly.

“Y/N. My name is Y/N.” You said with a soft and happy voice.

“My names is Albedo. We should talk more often.” He said before a small smile appeared on his face.

And you were sure—no. POSITIVE you both had a rosy hue on your cheeks right now, but you knew you had talked to the one who might change your life forever now.

[HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY! Thank you for reading my crappy fic :,) I really hope you enjoyed it! I’ll make a part two and more for different characters if requested ^^ thanks! (It’s literally 1 in the morning. 😭). Love your dear author, Honey.]. © honeyy-fics. 2021

#—𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 : 𝐀𝐥𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐨 #—𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐜𝐬!#genshin impact #genshin impact x gender neutral reader #genshin impact x reader #x gender neutral reader #x reader #y/n #albedo x reader #genshin impact modern au #modern au #cafe au #:) yeah

141 notes · View notes

maries-gallery · 3 years

Note

hello, for the event may i request :

SFW — 25.

character — Attack on Titan, Jean Kirstien.

Hello there ! Yes of course, I love Jean and it'd be my pleasure to writ this for you !

25- “Are you jealous ?”

Genre : Fluff

Warnings : None

Lately, things had been awfully busy in the survey corps, meaning Jean and you had barely had time for yourselves alone. This had been weighing you down greatly, heart never full when the two of you were apart and nerves never quite at ease, afraid something would happen to your lover.

So today, on the first day off you’ve had for a while, you had fled to Jean’s quarters, heart beating and warmth blossoming in your chest at the prospect of spending some time with him.

Fortunately, the two of you had been lucky enough for the Sun to rise and set high in the sky, showering its gentle light on the peaceful meadow you had ventured to for a picnic date. Just the two of you, blooming flowers and buzzing bees.

You had eaten some omelettes prepared by you in the morning, the taste of your love enough to make your boyfriend’s heart swell dangerously in his chest. Then the two of you had laid down on the soft blanket, staring up at the blue sky and passing clouds like cotton balls.

Everything was perfect. From the gentle sound of his voice carried by the wind to his scent filling your senses. Cedarwood and lemongrass, never failing to soothe your mind and calm your heart. And how beautiful he looked, there, resting under the warm gaze of the Sun, locks of brown hair falling on his forehead gently and hazel eyes shining with sprinkles of gold like myriads of stars. You wondered how a man could encompass the beauty of nature so well, own it and wear it as his so confidently and without fail.

But when her name fell from his lips your heart clenched painfully in your chest, stomach wrenching and twisting, nerves crackling like embers.

Jean had been paired with Mikasa for yesterday’s tasks. They had worked together as a team and apparently had done quite a nice job.

You hated how jealousy took over your loving heart when all he had done was talk joyfully about how they had done a good team work and how Mikasa had been strong enough to carry all the wood back to the barracks.

But you couldn’t help it, couldn’t tame the beast lacerating your insides. Not that you didn’t trust him, gosh you’d give him your life.

More like you couldn’t help comparing yourself to Mikasa. She was strong, beautiful, smart and a real force of nature. You were more gentle, not quite able to stand up for yourself and honestly not as confident as she was.

Then also, came the fact you hadn’t been able to spend time with your boyfriend... And knowing another girl had had this chance didn’t sit well with you, even though you knew it to be silly.

“Princess ?” His voice cleared your whirling mind and chased away your racing thoughts, gentle hazel eyes gazing down at you, imprinted with worry.

You hadn’t even noticed the frown which had crept on your features to settle between your brows. You plastered on a smile, looking up at the man.

“Yes ?”

A light furrow of his brows as he gently stroked your cheek, now propped up on his forearm and leaning over you.

“You’ve been awfully silent. Is something wrong ?” He queried calmly, always caring about your state of mind and ready to chase away anything tarnishing your happiness.

A quiet sigh fell from your lips, your hand gently taking his, fingers meshing together like thread.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it.” You answered sweetly.

But Jean wouldn’t have any of it. The boy knew you like the back of his hand and sure as hell something was bothering you. And he wouldn’t let it pass.

He reviewed in his mind anything which could have caused a cloud to fall upon his girlfriend’s sunlit smile.

You had been fine just a few minutes ago, happy and at ease, cuddling up in his arms.

And it didn’t take long for him to figure it out.

“Baby, are you jealous ?” Jean queried softly, eyes gazing down at you in his arms, a light frown etched between your brows as you avoided his questioning hazel eyes. His hand cupped your cheek gently, fingers lightly caressing the soft skin there like feathers.

You sighed gently, knowing there was no point in denying it. You snuggled against his chest, unable to look up at him and meet his eyes.

“I just-” You paused, searching for the right words to express your feelings. “I just feel bad. I mean... Mikasa is such an amazing girl and-”

A finger on your lips shushed you, Jean peering over you.

“Stop right there. I know what you’re about to do and I won’t have any of it, sweetheart.” He said calmly, voice deep and soothing.

You remained quiet, gazing up in his eyes full of tender love for you.

“Mikasa is a wonderful girl indeed.” He continued. “But I love you, only you. And nothing nor no one could ever change that.” A gentle smile fell on his lips. “You’re kind, intelligent, sweet, beautiful, charming and everything nice.” He carried on softly.

Your heart picked up in your chest, swelling and swelling, threatening to explode in your chest.

“You’re everything I want and more. Don’t ever doubt it.”

And you knew this was final when his lips gently fell on yours, like silk gliding across skin. Touch of devotion and undying love.

Taglist : @fluffyneko @itsforeveralyssaa @heyy-its-j @ikemen-banshou @naiomiwinchester

Please send me a text if you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist !

#aot x reader #aot fluff #snk x reader #attack on titan x reader #attack on titans x reader #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein fluff #jean x reader #jean fluff

112 notes · View notes

rosella-writes · 2 years

Note

feel free to save this prompt for dadwc but from the codex prompt list, "a note/letter found in your oc's pocket" for any character you'd like!!

Thank you for this one!! I stole another chance to indulge my new hyperfixation on this Arlathan AU idea that @dreadfutures' Sunbird AU spawned. In which Solas is femme!Pride and Virelan Lavellan is Valor, Falon'Din's champion.

Pairing: Pride/Valor (solavellan)

Rating: T

Words: 1130

~~~

“Yet another one of these?”

Pride glanced over her shoulder towards the door. Valor leaned against the jamb, her dark eyes twinkling in a smile that didn’t touch her broad mouth. Pride scoffed and turned back to the wall before her.

“Sylaise wished an event immortalised,” she murmured, pressing ochre into the wet plaster with her brush. “Who am I to refuse an appeal to my talent?”

When Valor spoke again, her voice was close. “A wheat harvest is worthy of a fresco? Of your work? Your brushes should see only the most magnificent of pieces.”

Pride couldn’t contain the surge of her defining trait — it coloured the air around them a vivid blue, ringing of delight and giddy acknowledgement of praise. She reigned it in at the sensation of Valor’s hand on her waist.

“No no, bring it back,” Valor whispered in her ear. “Your pride lifts my spirits. Or will I have to praise you again?”

Pride chuckled and traced the ochre of her first line with a dark swipe of blue. “I will not turn down well-deserved comments.”

“And how many must I whisper in your ear before you let me kiss you?”

Longing flavoured the space around them now — like warmth, like reaching, like the bated breath from Valor's lips. Pride pulled away.

"If I begin," she murmured, "I would be hard pressed to stop. And I cannot let my plaster dry before I finish."

Valor leaned on the table that held her pigments and tools, her collarbone standing out from her dark flesh. The muscled line of her arm tensed clear from her wrist to her shoulder, and its tension bled into her neck and jaw. Pride let her sense just a taste of the self-satisfaction she felt at the sight.

"None are so gifted in artful magic as you, vhenan," Valor rasped through clenched teeth. "The plaster will not dry so long as you don't wish it to."

A prideful surge once again — really, her heart laid it on thick when she wanted something. She shrugged her braids off her bared shoulder and revelled in the sight of Valor's gaze following the motion. She raised her brush to the plaster.

"It would not," she finally said, "but I would need to be prevailed upon to work such magic. I paint by hand for a reason."

"You could finish this art in the blink of an eye, should you try."

"I could, but I would miss the enjoyment of it. The scent of lime, the sight of pigment bonding with plaster, the rasp of my brush as it runs dry — and besides, once I have done the work, it is all the more satisfying to bring it to life. Watch."

She could feel Valor's eyes on her skin as she finished the final corner of her fresco with confident strokes of her brush. She set her pigment and tools away, leaving her ringless hands — an unusual sight, in Arlathan — to spread wide, inches above the still-wet surface of the wall.

Pride took a deep breath, taking sky into the great bellows of her lungs, and sighed out magic through her hands. She moved along the length of the wall, her bare footsteps sure and steady and practised, and where the sigh of her will touched the work of her hands, it came alive.

The great field of wheat, golden in the streaming sunlight, began to undulate as if guided by soft winds. Clouds scudded across the white sky, nearly as real as those outside the small window she had painted around, and what green there was in the fresco brought the remaining colours into vibrant relief. Valor made a soft sound behind her.

Exultation filled the final breath of her magic, sealing the fresco with the mimicry of its concrete counterpart, and she spun on one heel to reach for Valor with both hands. Valor was already there, eyes wide and full of wonder, and Pride crowed in her heart of hearts at the sight.

"She will love it," Valor gasped, her hands landing on Pride's forearms. "She will love it."

Pride reached for her face and took it between her ochre-dusted palms. Valor did not seem to mind the stain on her cheeks — she spared no concern for that, her attention concentrated on Pride. Pride stroked her broad, high cheekbones with her thumbs.

"Enough praise," she breathed. "Your sight on it as I finished was pleasure enough."

Valor's smile was broad and toothy and creased the corners of her sparkling eyes, and she made a happy sound in her throat as Pride leaned down to lunge for her mouth.

The kiss was sunshine. Pride overlapped with joy overlapped with wonder overlapped with yearning, and Valor stepped into it with her whole self. Pride could feel her wholly against her — both the form that she touched and the form she could feel. She slid one hand down from her cheek, over her arm, to her waist. Pride tugged her closer by the hip with an insistent, possessive grunt into her mouth.

Paper crinkled in Valor's pocket.

Valor broke the kiss with a gasp. The two froze, mouths moments away from the next touch, but neither moved. Valor finally sighed and pulled away, reaching into her trouser pocket.

"The summons," she sighed. "The reason I'm here."

Pride laughed mirthlessly. She tucked her emotions away once again behind her impenetrable guard. "And here I thought you missed me."

"I did!" Valor insisted, hurt flashing in her eyes and tinging the air. "This was my excuse."

It was no use — Pride's core was bruised, her ego crumpled like the paper in Valor's outstretched hand. She knew she should be more resilient, but it was easy to be fragile with the one who held her heart. She took the note with nary a sound.

"Ah," Pride finally said when her eyes finished scanning the flowery contents of the summons, "Andruil wishes to conduct a hunt. Wonderful. We will both be expected to attend her, will we not?"

Valor shook her head. "Mythal will be there, and so I guess will you. Falon'Din will not go. I'll remain with him."

Malcontent fluttered around Valor — she was so free with her expressed emotions here, so lax with their containment that it was almost rude. Pride leaned into the sensation of it.

"I will hunt for the both of us, then," she said, stepping closer. She tucked the note inside the front of her bodice, and smiled when Valor followed the path of her hand with a glint in her eye. "Try not to have too much fun while I'm gone."

"Impossible, vhenan," Valor said with a mere twist of her lip.

Pride merely reached out, smiling slightly at the flash of hope in Valor's eyes, and brushed ochre away from her cheek with her thumb. There was nothing left to say.

#no refuge so sure as valor #valor x pride #dragon age #solas #virelan lavellan #solavellan #arlathan au #arlathan #solas is first and foremost an artist #and a snob

16 notes · View notes