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matchabee4 · 10 months

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Piece of art bruised and wired; My Frightened Charm (Russian —> English translation)

Disclamer: I am NOT the author of this story. The author is Antiiss on Ficbook.net. I am only the one providing a translation of this piece since I feel it deserves some more love!

Please keep in mind I used Google Translate to translate this. I KNOW it’s not always credible but I did edit parts to make sure it grammatically made sense.

If the original author wants this post taken down please contact me. I will respect your wishes.

Check Out the Original Fic:

Check out ANTIPKA who made a bunch of amazing artworks inspired this fic:

https://twitter.com/1nuyaki?s=20

Pairing and Characters: Yan Fei/Hu Tao

Size: 3 pages, 1 part

Tags: [AT] [Angst] [Drabble Violence 18+]

[Unhealthy Relationships]

Desc. What could be sadder than ice in temporary separation than the heat of breath in an hour of violent bail?

The cough resounded throughout the dark basement and belonged to a lone person in a large, dirty-gray, despite its acrid smell of washing powder, raincoat, which looked a little like a medical gown, hanging on it. The cough was unnaturally hoarse and recurred violently. As if the owner of it in these damp rooms acquired chronic bronchitis, smoothly flowing into bronchial asthma with bloody sputum. Long dirty black gloves were pulled up to the elbow, but after their manipulations they safely went into the trash, exposing in fact incredibly delicate-looking pale hands. It was they who now touched the finished work.

Completely crazy idea, which would be terrible even to imagine a person in their right mind. A pair of green eyes gleamed behind narrow, rectangular spectacles at the very tip of his nose. Probably, the mysteriously dressed Yan Fei could only be identified by the pink hair and horns alone. Now she looked completely different from the smiling city lawyer who was diligently dealing with legal matters. And it’s completely impossible to recognize in her a benevolent citizen, who even walked in a very hasty way, as if imaginary lamenting about the eternal lack of time.

No. Here everything was extremely slow. Only the sharpness of certain movements betrayed something frighteningly nervous and did not allow one to relax in this gloomy atmosphere even for a minute.

The girl threw her gloves on the floor, which were stained with machine oil. She did not let go of the face of the mechanical girl, greedily, but extremely carefully clinging to it and looking at every piece she had thoroughly worked out. Among the whole room in complete disarray, only this doll remained surprisingly clean, covered on all sides with a white sheet, resembling either a covered and already glazed work of art at the opening in some gallery for especially cutesy connoisseurs, or a cold corpse covered with a cloth in a mortuary, whose toe will suddenly move and drop the tag on the floor in a warning.

For a lawyer who looked at the result for an unusually long time, it was precisely a work of art. The perfect embodiment of life in dead motors and wires.. Thoughts of a job well done sounded in my head with a special satisfied breath. She carefully lifted the white sheet from the left side of her body, revealing to her gaze a motionless hand with numerous rings.

Marvelous. The skin was so realistic, as if it had indeed been torn off from a stranger around the corner and pulled over an endoskeleton. It is a pity that a note of common sense remained in the Doctor's head for disapproving such actions or slipping thoughts. But even this is hard to believe, noticing how perfectly all the scuffs on the doll's rings are drawn. Yan Fei slowly turned the iron ornament on someone else's finger, and there were three characteristic clicks. A slow smile appeared on the waiting face.

She continued to look at the unhurried happening, accompanied by sound, at which computers, ancient as light, usually start up. On the "operating table" a doll rose, with a characteristic crack in the movement of the gears, taking a sitting position. This happened very gradually - the first start-up required all the accuracy so that the oil in the slow movement of the motor and internal parts evenly got into all the cracks. Her head turned with less of a crack. A mechanical puppet stared at the lady with glasses. The look of scarlet eyes with a glare of a flower looked painfully alive and not as glassy as it is in reality.

Everything in this figure was suspiciously human: dark hair, light skin and a suit with a hat, embroidered one on one to the most nondescript protruding threads or, as usual, crumpled places. They were even visible supposedly household scuffs, as on those same rings. You were not mistaken in thinking that this doll is nothing but a mechanical clone of Hu Tao. Her features were repeated one to one, even the wires under the artificial skin were the color and location of the girl's noticeable vessels and veins. The doll, in its perfect state, walked exactly like Hu Tao, repeating her gestures and facial expressions with the same sharpness or smoothness. Absolutely everything, as if both were molded from the same clay. This thing cost Yan Fei a lot of trouble to hunt down and stalk the Director, collecting all the information about her appearance and habits. For several months, the Director was unaware of the sniper; Like how with her green eye laser sight, she outlined absolutely everything that fit in the features noticeable to people.

The more the doll moved on the table, the better the oil lubricated its iron flesh from the inside, making the movements more human. Her mouth dropped open. And the lips quivered surprisingly with the voice of a true girl.

“Hello, Miss Yan. How can the ritual bureau "Wansheng" serve you?” the doll blurted out quite naturally.

"Oh, my lady.." The Doctor's hand covered her mouth and an unaccustomed smirk of satisfaction. The girl pulled away at last, and, surprisingly elegantly helping the doll to get up from the table, resolutely walked to the door under the stairs. Iron creaking steps followed. The doll stopped next to Yan Fei.

"Madam, what are you looking for here?" she put her hand on someone else's shoulder, looking out from behind her, “hiding your harmful clients in legal affairs? “ The sonorous voice laughed at first ironically and frighteningly, like the whole body, and then so realistically that goosebumps ran through the body of the Adeptus.

It is possible to say so. On the door in front of both hung several heavy locks, the key in which is good, if you have enough strength to turn before the victorious opening. And only then you will have to open the same iron door with noticeably less effort. After a few manipulations of neat little hands, which in appearance could hardly touch these rusts, the locks fell to the floor with a roar, and the door opened with a sharp creak and a couple of sparks on the peeled tiles.

Beams of light, like the acrid white light of an operating room lamp, pierced the crimson eyes. In the corner of a shallow closet lay a dark-haired girl tied up. The arms were tightly pressed to the body, and the legs were tied to each other from the ankles to the very knees. In the mouth, there was a strong metal gag, covered with cloth, so as not to damage the teeth, but also to avoid unwanted screams. On top of it, for aesthetics and additional silence, there was a black bandage. The girl closed her eyes, breathing softly. Everything swam in her eyes from the sudden change in lighting.

“Hello again, my Tao-Tao,” the voice of the lawyer sounded with unfeigned joy. Lying in the closet looked painfully pathetic. Exposed areas of the skin were already very pale. Her appearance, even if you do not take into account the numerous bruises received in an attempt to escape, was extremely painful. From time to time she was overcome by a fever, and right now it was not at all clear whether she was shaking from fright and rolling aggression, or from several hungry days of being in a cold little room. Faded eyes stared at the lady who had entered, their brows furrowed together in a frown, her chest constricted with indignation and hopelessness. This unfortunate body was tortured. But she didn't want to run for a second. And now she began to twitch and mumble unintelligibly with an obvious menace in her voice.

“Someone wants to say hello to you, my nightmare ..

The eyes that had just filled with hatred in a new way opened wide. The girl stopped moving and, it seems, even breathing at that moment. In front of her stood a clone, exactly like her. And next to the angelic smile was Yan Fei. Gentle hands gripped the doll's wrist, waving with a slight creak in greeting to the bound one. The girl took a deep breath, shaking her head in denial. It might seem that her already pale skin became whiter in an instant. She began to force herself against the wall, while tears welled up from her tired eyes with renewed vigor. The voice screamed muffledly, wriggling plaintively and sometimes becoming hoarse.

“It's all right, little Tao. I will take care of you.” Yan Fei smiled painfully wide, revealing her clenched teeth. Her green eyes seemed to glow like an emerald, their narrowed pupil resting on the trembling body of the bound woman.

Footsteps approaching again were heard in the closet. The doll stood still, unable to process such a sight and believing that the bound one was her reflection in the mirror. The Adeptus took the already seated one by the chin, thereby raising her head. Tao didn't blink. At some point, she began to choke on her scream and lack of air. A sharp hysteria clouded her consciousness, weakening the twitching and exciting heaving of her chest.

“ Don't waste your strength.. You will suffocate” her cold lips touched someone else's forehead, “But even in formalin, I will keep and love your mortal body.”

Silence covered the room. No mechanical movements, no languid rapid breathing. Only something cold, taking strength from the limbs and leaving no strength even for a farewell muscle contraction.

#genshin #genshin impact #yanfei #yanfei x hu tao #genshin headcanons #yantao #hu tao #hu tao x yanfei #genshin fanfic #genshin fanfiction #fanfiction #sapphic fanfic #unhealthy relationships #18+ post #violence #angst #translation #translated fanfic #english translation

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chryzure-archive · 2 years

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do you believe in ghosts?

ALT TITLE: the nuisance is here… :///

AUTHOR’S NOTE: precisely what the alt title says… the nuisance is here :(

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———

iv.

Azure found Chrysi at the well on an overcast Saturday morning. Oz and Alice were sleeping in however late they could, and Pleck had yet to come to the manor to accidentally make better tea than Azure could manage on purpose.

Normally, Chrysi would be using this time to attack dust bunnies and scrub the kitchen down to sparkling (though Filly certainly did her best to get to the kitchen to that point before Chrysi. Sometimes, Azure wondered if it was a silent competition between the two of them). It was strange to see her this far away from the manor.

He opened his mouth to greet her, but then he realized that Chrysi didn’t exactly look happy.

In fact, she looked very not happy.

Azure slowed his walk, until he could barely define it as a walk, and he curiously hid from her—ducking behind a tree, as if he was doing something he shouldn’t. As if he was spying on her.

Not that there was much to spy about.

Chrysi was just staring down the well, her mouth tangled in a miserable line. Her fingers tightened on the well’s stone lip. It was like she could see into the depths of it, and whatever she saw down there, it didn’t mean anything good.

Do you believe in ghosts?

The question came to Azure unbidden, ringing in Chrysi’s voice. He furrowed his brow in silent response to it.

I guess I would say so, he recalled his answer to be. But now that he’d thought about it more—and after a couple more nights in the old manor—Azure was tempted to revisit his answer. The shadows didn’t look the same anymore. And forget the portraits—ever since Chrysi’s inquiry, he’d tricked himself into believing those painted eyes were following his every move.

He wondered what ghosts Chrysi had been thinking of as she stared down that well. None of the good ones, that was certain. Her face was nearly as pale as her hair.

The grey light weaved through the fog around her, until it looked just like she was amongst and one with the very spirits she had been talking about.

The thought twisted his heart into an unpleasant configuration. An uncomfortable, burning sensation sickened him, and though he had an idea of where it originated from, Azure did not want to face it.

He burst out from behind the tree, frighteningly breathless and shivering, just slightly, from the early morning chill.

“Chryseis!” he cried, and he tried to make it sound like a greeting. There was a sharp tightness to his voice, but he schooled his face into as calm an expression as he could manage to mask it.

No matter his attempts to soften his abrupt appearance, this interruption did not come to Chrysi with ease.

Her head snapped up, all blood draining from her face in an instant. Even from this distance (though Azure was certainly crossing it in record time, driven by his better-left-unnamed anxiety and his long legs), he could see a flash of fearful gold shoot through her eyes.

Chrysi stumbled back from the well. Her mouth traced a word, but Azure couldn’t tell what it was.

“Going on an early morning walk?” he asked. This time, he could blame that airless quality to his words on his swift trajectory to her side. “You should’ve woken me up—I wouldn’t have minded going on a walk with… you…”

He trailed off, losing steam right as Chrysi staggered toward him. One dragging step, then another, and then she rushed at him.

Her weight hit him like a flying projectile. Azure almost toppled over. He caught his balance at the last moment, his heart in his throat.

Chrysi wrapped her arms around him, tight and unwilling to let go. Azure, too, hugged her close.

His heart fluttered anxiously in his throat, but he took solace in Chrysi’s weight in his arms. It felt like the first time he’d truly been able to hold onto her in the past week. Perhaps it was because it was in the sunlight—or what watery grey constituted as sunlight—and not in the darkness, before they slipped off to sleep.

“Whoa,” he murmured softly. He stroked her hair, but when he glanced down at her, he could not see her expression. “Chrys, what’s wrong?”

She buried her face into his sweater. It was then that Azure realized she wore nothing but a short-sleeved shirt and leggings. Hardly appropriate gear for an England autumn.

“Nothing,” she said, muffled by his sweater. “Nothing at all.”

The way her nails dug into him didn’t make it feel very much like nothing at all.

He leaned his cheek against her hair. From here, he could see goosebumps beginning to crawl up her arms.

Concern climbed up his rib cage and into his throat. Azure released his grip around her—much to Chrysi’s dismay, based on the way she made a choking noise in her throat—to rub warmth back into her icy-pale skin.

“How long have you been out here?” he demanded. “You’re freezing!”

Chrysi’s eyes were glassy, exhausted. She stubbornly clung to him, despite his movements. Purpled half-moons marked the delicate skin beneath her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. She dropped her eyes, focusing on a fraying thread from his sweater. Swallowed, and it looked painful. “I watched the sunrise.”

She looked one step away from bursting into tears, and he had no clue why.

Helpless, hopeless.

Azure’s face crumpled in concern. From where he stood, she hadn’t looked like she was aware of the time of day in the slightest. Too busy staring down that godforsaken well to realize where she was.

But he decided not to say anything.

Pulling away, Azure took off his sweater in a smooth motion. The cold air pricked his skin, like thoughts of microscopic, bitter knives. Azure ignored it as best he could, holding out his sweater to Chrysi.

She stared at it, uncomprehending.

“Come on, Chrys,” Azure said. His plea nearly made his voice crack, to his surprise.

Her eyes snapped to him. Uncertainty glimmered in them as she looked hard at his face, studying some unnamable thing that he couldn’t fathom.

Whatever she saw there made her loosen, just a little. At least enough that the tension in her shoulders was not about to make her shatter.

Dipping her head, Chrysi took the sweater from his hands with clumsy movements. She put it on without further prodding from Azure.

The maroon sweater swamped her in a way that Azure didn’t remember it ever doing—not before, when she would steal it from him.

She looked so fragile like this.

He didn’t like that thought.

Azure wrapped an arm around her, hand lingering at her waist. He willed his own body heat to warm Chrysi up just as quickly as his sweater would.

“Let’s head back home, why don’t we?” he suggested softly. “It’s too cold to be out this early.”

Chrysi didn’t say anything at first. She just sniffled, as if she realized the way the cold chapped her cheeks and made her nose run.

Then she pressed into his side, her arms wrapping around his waist.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think that’s a good idea.”

The entire way back, Azure wondered what it could’ve been that had gotten Chrysi out of their bed and out to the old abandoned well so early in the morning.

And what could it have been to make her so desperately hold onto him like this?

—

Once Azure saw Oz gazing longingly at his camera, he resolved to show him how to shoot properly. He remembered being Oz’s age and seeing a film camera for the first time—it was true love, something magnetic, like he had to hold it in his hands and take pictures, for fear of dying otherwise.

Fortunately, Oz would have a teacher, so it wouldn’t take him quite so long to pick up the proper techniques for photography as Azure did. It helped that Azure had set up his own dark room in an unused bathroom in the west wing.

Sometimes there were perks to working in a half-abandoned manor.

The moment Alice had caught wind of Oz’s special photography lessons, she’d insisted upon joining. The two were inseparable—to add to the fact that Alice could get spectacularly bored when she was alone. Teaching her was made a lot easier by the fact of Alice not caring about the technical aspect of photography—she was a point-and-shoot kind of photographer, and Azure had been quick to give her an old digital camera of his.

He cared for Alice deeply, but he didn’t want her to ruin the darkroom he’d set up.

After that, she’d been happy to sit in the corner and watch while he and Oz picked through the low red light provided.

On that day, they had finally gotten their film to dry when they heard a voice outside the darkroom, chattering away.

Alice hadn’t sat in on this session of film-developing—for which Azure was partially glad. He knew just how boring it could be for an observer. It wasn’t a great leap in logic to come to the conclusion that it was she that was talking right by the door. The greater question was to whom she was talking to. Whatever responses Alice earned were quiet, unable to be discerned through the wood door.

Azure unclipped the small weight from the bottom of his dry film strip, but his glances to the door were not subtle enough to skirt by Oz’s observational skills.

“Hoping it’s going to be someone special?” he asked, batting his eyelashes at Azure teasingly.

Azure debated whether or not the weight in his hand would hurt too much if he tossed it at Oz. It probably would.

He unclipped the top of the film from the string and threw the paper clip at Oz instead.

“Agh!”

Oz stumbled back, his hands scrambling to catch the paper clip before it was lost to the floor and dim lighting.

Azure smirked. He hoped the shadows would mask it when Oz looked back up.

“I hope that teaches you to be thoughtful about the way you tease your superiors,” Azure said lightly, as if discussing the weather. He continued taking down the rest of the strips of film.

A small object pinged off the back of his head.

Azure spun around to Oz cackling from his position on the floor.

Looked like he found the paper clip.

Narrowing his eyes at him, Azure took down the last strip of film.

He would be the adult here. He wouldn’t throw something else at Oz.

“To answer your question,” he said, voice curt, “perhaps so.”

As if to punctuate this, a light knock rattled against the door, in a delicate pattern of three.

Maybe it was strange for Azure to have memorized the way Chrysi’s knocks sounded, but in that moment, he was happy he had. He adored showing Chrysi his new photographs.

And besides, it wasn’t particularly hard to discern her knocks from everyone else’s—nobody wore quite as many rings as Chrysi did.

Azure opened the door with a swift flick of his wrist and a little magic.

From where Oz sat on the floor, he reasoned that he wouldn’t be able to see it.

As the door swung open, he could see the knowing arch to Chrysi’s brow.

He smiled at her, the picture of innocence.

“Hey, Blue.” With a curious look on her face, she studied the darkroom beyond. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” She arched her brow, then added, “Or overexpose anything.”

Innocent smile fading, Azure rolled his eyes. “That was one time.”

“Etched into my memory forever,” she commented. Her eyes darted over the room once more, pausing on the trio of dim light bulbs switched on and the empty string with its clothesline pins. A faint smirk colored her freckled face. She lay a hand atop Alice’s head. “Anyhow, Alice was showing me some of the photos she’d taken and we figured we could visit the two of you up here to see what you’ve been up to.”

There must’ve been some truth to this statement, but the way Alice pouted—and subsequently tried to hide by busying herself with the camera in her hands—told Azure that the girl would’ve appreciated a little more time with Chrysi to herself.

He knew precisely how that felt. To receive Chrysi’s undivided attention was something to be coveted indeed.

Behind him, Oz scrambled to his feet. He bolted to Azure’s side, grabbing what film negatives belonged to him. In his enthusiasm, he nearly knocked Azure off-balance—Azure himself taking out a bottle of developer as he tried to right himself.

He lunged for it. The very tips of his fingers caught onto it—and with a shaking breath, he righted it.

Silently, he thanked whatever God was out there for preventing the disaster his bad luck brought about.

From his periphery, Azure saw Oz jumping in place, excitement lighting his eyes, and all chastisement faded from the tip of his tongue.

A fraction of a smile curled the edge of Azure’s mouth in spite of himself.

“Here, do you want to see what I did?” Oz asked, all his words coming out in a jumbled rush, excited to snag Chrysi’s attention before Alice could steal it away again.

Chrysi’s smile faded, just slightly, but Oz had scrambled for his film negatives too quickly to notice. The overhead light stole color from her face and darkened the grey half-moons under her eyes.

Azure shot Chrysi a puzzled look.

Lately, she’d been hot, then cold with Oz and he still couldn’t quite figure out why.

“I’d love to.” She sounded like she was reading lines for a play.

Oz barely stumbled, but a hint of tension pulled his shoulders straight.

There was no way he hadn’t noticed. He was too observant by far.

Azure flashed Chrysi another look, this one much more scolding than the last.

She did not meet his eyes, but the way her mouth tightened betrayed the fact that Chrysi understood the message he was trying to get across. Her eyes blanched, an extra glitter of gold along the edge of her iris.

Chrysi disengaged from Alice and crossed the space between the two—the narrow entrance to the bathroom making it so she brushed past Azure. He reached out and squeezed her hand, for support, before he let her go.

She flashed him a half-guilty, sheepish look, complete with a repentant twist to her lips. Her hand lingered on his wrist as well, absentmindedly tracing the sensitive, innermost part of it.

Azure shivered, though it wasn’t from cold.

Then Chrysi was by Oz.

“Alright then,” Chrysi murmured, her voice much warmer this time, as she tucked her hair behind her ears. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Not half as stilted, by far.

The ghost of her touch lingered on Azure.

He studied them for a moment, a bizarre feeling of wistfulness overcoming him. Since when did Oz stand taller than Chrysi? Since when had he become an adolescent on his way to adulthood? Lately, the way Oz held himself had become far more assured, as if he were ready to be considered an adult.

That thought startled Azure, unwelcome for one blistering second.

That’s why we’re here, he reminded himself forcefully. We’re tutors, preparing them for the outside world.

But Oz was still fifteen, Alice fourteen. They still had some childhood in them yet.

Azure pocketed his frown before it could spread too far. A smile would not come easy to him, so he settled for a pleasant, neutral expression, with which he turned to Alice.

He had expected her to be sulking, sore over the loss of Chrysi’s wholehearted attention.

But instead, she had a scrap of paper between her fingers. No, not paper—my prescription, he thought, needs to be checked sooner rather than later, and he swore that he would get around to it within the month—but rather a forgotten curl of film.

Alice gazed at it intently, her dark eyes almost flashing and her mouth deeply serious.

“What do you have there?”

Her eyes darted up to Azure. Without saying a word, she handed it to him.

Azure studied it with great interest. He brought it close, trying to discern the tiny negative in the low light.

A cracking weight settled on him, like a low pressure front. With it came a headache, pulsing right at the base of his neck. The air in his lungs came in and out too shallow, unbidden.

Though its image was marred by tiny flecks of dust and ill-dried developer, Azure recognized the subject without much difficulty. It was a photograph of the well. The circular opening of it was a wide, white maw in the negative. What were sure to be dark twigs and crushed leaves looked like glints of bone and the shrapnel of animal carcasses. And yet, deep in the depths of the well, Azure saw a tiny black dot—indiscernible in so tiny an image, and doubly so because of the opposite coloring.

He narrowed his eyes.

Azure certainly hadn’t been the one to take this picture.

The date, spelled out in jarring orange numbers along the film’s edge, marked it as the day the four of them trekked to the graveyard and taken gravestone rubbings under Chrysi’s direction.

Uneasy, he glanced over his shoulder.

Chrysi was seated at the edge of the porcelain tub, eyes steady on whatever it was Oz was showing her. Her expression did not seem enthused, with the flat line to her mouth and the heavy, half-lidded look to her eyes, but every time Oz would show her something new, she fought to bring the edges of her lips up in a semblance of a smile. The overhead light did not make her look more welcoming—dark circles becoming darker, and her cheeks became almost hollow, like a skull. Her long eyelashes cast spidery shadows over the curve of her cheek.

The photograph was taken on that first day Chrysi started acting strangely.

“Thanks, Alice,” Azure said. He slipped the negative into his pocket, then turned to her with that hard-won pleasant look on his face. Still, he could not muster a smile. “Now—Chrysi said something about your photographs? May I see them?”

—

vi.

By the time Jacks visited the Baskerville Manor, Oz and Alice were seasoned photographers. Sometimes Azure woke up to find the pair tromping around outside in the high grass, the cuffs of their pants wet with dew, and Chrysi standing by the sculpture garden with her thermos clutched in her hand. It didn’t take much wondering to realize they’d all gotten up with the sunrise (sometimes even before, based on the way Alice would yawn at the breakfast table and the way Oz politely asked for coffee and the way Chrysi would stare sightlessly at the food in front of her, without touching it) to catch “magic moments.”

They were all off somewhere when Jacks showed up—probably for the best, with the way Oz and Alice made it very clear that they did not like Jacks in the slightest. And, if they saw the new color of his hair, Azure knew damn well that the foyer would quickly find itself painted red from the skirmish that would ensue.

That didn’t stop Jacks from being irritated over it.

“I was expecting a bit more of a warm welcome,” he said, words clipped. He cast his eyes over the wide foyer. “Is Pleck here?”

Azure rolled his eyes. “No.”

No point in arguing and saying that Azure was perfectly good company. Jacks would find something to complain about, no matter what he did. Chrysi called him whiny. Azure was inclined to agree.

Jacks frowned. “Where could he be? It’s a Monday. He’s always here on a Monday.”

The way he said it made it seem like he didn’t come here to visit with Azure at all. The flash of irritation that inspired in Azure startled him, but it was strong and hot and angry anyway.

Sometimes Azure felt trapped in this godforsaken manor—Jacks was his only link to the outside world, the only one that knew about his life before he’d run away from France to become a tutor to two incredibly mischievous children in an abandoned manor.

That’s why he didn’t bother to hide the curt note to his voice when he said, “Well, if Pleck not being here is too much, you’re free to leave. In fact, I encourage it.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Jacks flashed Azure a cool look. “I just think he’s more fun than you. You’re too proper.”

“Keep that up and we’ll see just how proper I’ll become,” Azure said stiffly.

With that, he turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen.

It didn’t take long for Jacks to follow. Between being wrong and entertained, and being right and bored, Jacks would choose being wrong. Azure knew damn well that he lived off attention, like it was the only sustenance he needed beyond those apples of his.

Jacks wandered into the room like a lost dog. He glanced over the shining marble counters, the immaculate table, the breakfast nook, then walked right past the chairs to perch himself on the edge of the kitchen counter. Draping his legs over a chair Alice was sure to have dragged over to grab something from a cabinet, Jacks stared out the large window.

“So, how have you been doing?” Jacks asked, studiously looking half-bored in a way that told Azure how much he craved this conversation.

Azure arched a brow at him, but rather than answer him, he filled a kettle with new water and placed it on the stove. As the kettle began to heat, he found a tin box with tea leaves. It named itself as a cherry blossom blend.

Hopefully he couldn’t mess this up.

He lifted it for Jacks to study. “Do you want some tea?”

Jacks replied with a blisteringly doubtful look. “I’ll pass.”

“We might have apple tea,” Azure suggested.

Probably definitely, now that he thought about it. Pleck insisted on keeping some around, precisely for this reason.

“Doubly pass, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

“With you at the kettle? Gladly.”

It was perhaps immature of him, and a waste of his magic, as his father would say, but Azure tugged an invisible string on the chair Jacks was resting his shoes on and sent it skittering over the kitchen floor. It bumped unevenly over the tile, screeching bloody murder as it went.

Jacks spluttered, balance throw off. His legs dropped unceremoniously, and he almost slipped off the counter. He scrambled for balance.

Azure smirked.

“That,” Jacks snapped as he caught Azure’s look, “was not necessary.”

“You’ll get over it.”

And that, he speculated, was precisely the sort of improper thing Jacks would’ve rather done without. Pleck was certainly more fun than Azure—but Azure hypothesized that part of the reason Jacks preferred Pleck’s company was due to Jacks disliking Azure’s sense of humor.

The kettle squealed.

Happy for the distraction, Azure began to prepare his cherry blossom tea (now that he thought about it, was it Chrysi to buy this blend? It seemed like the sort of thing she would try—though it was untouched, just as she’d left many of her other experimental drinks in recent weeks. The thought upset him, far more than he thought it would) as he answered Jacks’s first question.

“Things could be better,” he answered over his shoulder. He scooped a spoonful of the blend into the steaming mug to avoid meeting Jacks’s eyes. Though Jacks could presumably read the emotions etched over his heart, Azure prided himself on his inscrutable nature.

“Huh?” Then, like he remembered the whole point of this conversation, Jacks said, “Oh. Yes—well, things could always be better.”

A bitter note in his voice surprised Azure enough for him to glance at Jacks. Was he truly still getting over his last fling? Jacks tended to flit from one girl to the next—frequently leaving a trail of corpses behind, until Chrysi had put an effective stop to that.

He hadn’t realized he’d been openly staring until Jacks scowled at him.

“What’s going wrong in your life?” he sneered. Silver-painted pain flickered at the edge of his eyes, but Azure knew Jacks would hide it behind cruelty before he allowed anyone else to come face to face with his true emotions. “I thought everything was just perfect up here, with your girlfriend and your two children.”

Azure’s brow wrinkled. It had been the point of his words, but Jacks still sliced to the center of Azure’s chest, where his heart ached over Chrysi and her odd behavior and that horrible, awful well at the edge of the property. He fought to keep his emotions under lock and key—Jacks did not deserve to know how much he affected Azure.

“Forget it.”

Azure failed. He’d allowed a sharpness to curb his words.

He masked it by stirring his tea, stalking to a stool at the breakfast bar. Heat began to climb in his cheeks, though it brought with it a dizziness rather than a change in temperature.

When Azure sat down, Jacks had a knife-edge to his eyes. Wherever his gaze flicked, it left behind invisible welts in Azure’s skin, welling with blood.

“Things really must be bad, then.”

Azure wished Jacks didn’t sound so gleeful about it.

“Why don’t you focus on your own heartbreak before you take pleasure in others?” he demanded. “Don’t you still have a knife wound to the chest? Let that knit itself back up before we let your heart fester further.”

Jacks flinched, then covered it with a lift to his chin. His eyes looked like flint.

“Somebody’s in a bad mood,” he drawled.

“Maybe you’d like to leave, then.”

“Hm.” His eyes narrowed to slits. His dark blue hair made him look far more severe, like a stained glass window in a church, casting judgement upon Azure. “No,” Jacks decided. “You’ve become a lot more entertaining than I thought.”

“Then let me become less.” Azure stirred his tea once again, though even he had to admit that it was with far more aggravation than before.

He’d thought he’d be more immune to Jacks’s needling. He despised that it had gotten in so deep under his skin.

Perhaps Donatella should’ve shoved that dagger in further, and much later, just so that Jacks would’ve died to his supposed one true love. It would’ve saved Azure a lot more grief.

His heart twisted at the reminder—he was already going through more than enough grief.

“Something happened with Chrysi,” Jacks guessed. He sounded like a reporter—or perhaps a detective, laying out the clues on the table until Azure snapped.

He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Azure merely raised a brow at Jacks, then returned to his stirring. Slower, more casual, though his nerves buzzed. He was excellent at this—he’d been trained in the art of not giving a damn, or at least looking like he didn’t. He’d learned to lock up all his emotions inside long, long ago.

Jacks’s eyes narrowed further, gleaming an unearthly silver. “Yes,” he continued, slowly, as if Azure had answered in the affirmative in his silence, “definitely something with Chrysi. A lover’s spat?”

That was laughable. Azure would’ve preferred an argument with Chrysi, if only so he could know precisely what the issue at hand would be.

He lifted his spoon and tapped it on the edge of his mug. Droplets of hot tea ran down the silver surface. The room reflected itself like a funhouse mirror and Azure found himself upside down in the curved reflection. His exhaustion had been omitted from the spoon’s surface, but his skin was still too pale, his eyes still too bright a red.

“Yes,” Jacks decided again, rather incorrectly. “About what? Was it too much, her obsession with death?”

This made Azure pause in his tapping. He flashed Jacks a look from the corner of his eye.

Obsession. Maybe that was the word for it, yet it didn’t ring exactly right. Chrysi merely liked the more morbid aspects of life. It certainly made teaching her witch magic much easier. It wasn’t a part of Chrysi that Azure found gruesome. He quite liked it, in fact.

“No,” Jacks then said, and Azure realized he’d allowed a glimmer of a smile across his face. He quickly schooled it back into submission.

This frustrated Jacks, Azure could tell. The sharp smile had faded to a narrow-eyed gaze and an expression like an arrow.

“An argument about your overprotectiveness, then.” But he phrased it with far more uncertainty than his other questions—a sure sign this game had quickly become irritating for Jacks.

Once more, a smile came to Azure’s face—far more measured than the last time, an expression borne purely from the cruel satisfaction of wearing down Jacks’s game. A secret weapon, one that Azure wielded adeptly.

Jacks sat back, his face twisted like he’d accidentally bitten into a peach rather than an apple. Despite all his Fated beauty, he looked distinctly imperfect to Azure in that moment, with a childish look of petulance on his face and the dark blue of his hair making his skin look too pale, like a ghost’s.

“Fine,” Jacks admitted reluctantly. “There was no argument, then. The problem lies elsewhere entirely.”

Azure didn’t bother to be subtle with his grin this time.

All his tactics failed, Jacks slumped against the kitchen wall. A scowl marred his face again, an expression that he didn’t mean to wear so openly.

Mildly, Azure commented, “You might get more from poking around in others’ business if you went about it in a nicer manner.”

A glare was his response.

Lifting the spoon, Azure opted to study the upside-down, curved version of the kitchen rather than grant Jacks any more attention. In the spoon, there were new shapes, and shifting shadows that Azure did not think he would see without the strange shape of the surface they were reflected upon. A final bead of tea slipped down its surface.

It didn’t take long for Jacks to grow fidgety in the silence. From the corner of his eye, Azure noted Jacks was searching every surface of the kitchen for something to remark upon—something that would, undoubtedly, entirely recapture his audience.

He paused at the wide, curved window, with its many panes. Even Azure could see the shapes of three bodies tromping about outside, in a way that made him finally cease his study of the strange new world inside the spoon.

He placed it beside his steaming mug, frowning out the window. His fingers absently curved around the mug. Its heat felt displaced, like it wasn’t quite touching his skin.

Outside, Chrysi was with Oz and Alice, on another of their photographic escapades.

Jacks peered through the window, his brow furrowing. He turned to Azure with a strange look. “Are you aware that the ankle biter has your camera?”

Azure blew on his tea, then placed it back on the table after he remembered the last time he’d attempted to make some. “I was the one to give it to her.”

“Permanently?” Jacks was appalled.

He bit down the urge to roll his eyes. What did Jacks care? Azure could do as he liked with his cameras. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Jacks trailed off, at a loss for the first time. “You’re possessive of your cameras,” he settled on saying without much conviction.

He looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Depends on the person.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“The soles of your boots are beginning to peel off.”

Jacks crossed his legs.

“I don’t want to take photographs anyway,” he said loftily, very clearly lying. Azure knew that every Polaroid Chrysi allowed Jacks to take on her camera wound up in his study, pinned to the side of an ill-maintained bookshelf.

Jacks tried desperately hard to seem untouchable, inhuman, but even an immortal wanted evidence of his impact on life. It was hard, when all Jacks had were gravestones of women he’d killed with his mouth.

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” Azure said absently, “since you are not likely to use one of my cameras.”

He studied the three shapes of the people most familiar to him in this dusty manor.

The two kids were happily wandering around. Even from here, with his glasses on his nose rather than his contacts, he could see Alice holding up something in her hands that looked distinctly organic in nature. When it leaped from her hand in a grey bolt, he surmised it to be a frog.

He also surmised that Oz was not very pleased with a frog shooting at him at high velocity.

But Chrysi, behind the two, didn’t seem to be taking part in the festivity. She hunched her shoulders high, nearly to her ears, her expression drawn and somber.

With laughter from Alice, and faux gagging from Oz, the three walked off. Wet grass made the cuffs of their pants dark with water.

Azure watched Chrysi follow after Oz and Alice with that distracted look. He noticed she didn’t carry her thermos with her this time, nor was she wearing a sweater to protect against the drizzle.

His heart panged, and that strange, panicked, unspoken thought pushed to the forefront of his mind. He’d been trying to stifle it for so long. He’d been trying to stifle it since he curled up around her and found her skin to be freezing to the touch. He’d been trying to stifle it since he found her at the well. He’d been trying to stifle it since she’d stopped being his Chryseis.

This wasn’t the person he expected to confide in—he’d rather hoped, in fact, that Oswald would finally come by on the rare visit, and that he’d be able to have a private conference with his employer over it—but the words rushed out of his mouth before he could second-guess them.

“Jacks,” he asked, strangled, “do you believe in ghosts?”

#w.mine #s.chryzure #YES I GAVE JACKS HIS BLUE HAIR IN THIS PURELY TO MAKE FUN OF HIM #it’s funny….

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pahrak-the-sinnoh-slizer · 11 months

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[APPENDIX III: MONSTERS]

>>Data-based creatures that populate dungeons are known as monsters. Upon being defeated, their bodies break down into data and are absorbed back into Ethernet, though occasionally they will leave behind files containing avatarmor, weapons, or spells. (These rewards are colloquially referred to as drops.) Credit can also be gained by defeating monsters—legal tender accepted virtually everywhere with Ethernet access. Many dungeons will have a designated boss monster, a very powerful foe deep within which yields far greater rewards to the one able to slay it.

>>>>[Arocknid]: A very common arachnoid creature with a body made entirely of stone. Most breeds are able to curl up into a ball to camouflage themselves as rocks, however their aggressive disposition tends to limit this technique’s effectiveness. They typically rely on their forelegs and fangs for combat, though some species are able to eject sharpened stone projectiles from their mouths. Known variations include sandstone (a relatively passive breed) and obsidian (the most dangerous known breed).

>>>>[Ballaslime]: Gelatinous creatures able to freely manipulate their form in a frustratingly agile fashion. Their primary method of attack is to rapidly increase the temperature of a specific portion of their body, evaporating it and badly burning anything in contact with or engulfed by the affected portion. It is recommended that anyone engaging a ballaslime in combat rely on ranged spells to keep a proper distance.

>>>>[Bullet Hellhound]: A crimson canine that, while perfectly able to defend itself with fang and claw, is most feared for its ability to conjure veritable hailstorms of energy projectiles. Impeccable reaction timing is required to weave through the holes in its assault. There are some who find the challenge enjoyable, however, and they flock in droves to dungeons where hellhounds spawn. In such instances, it is recommended that one bring a spotter to accompany them.

>>>>[Chain Troll]: Hideous human-like creatures known to lurk in remote dungeons near the edges of a Server’s range. Each troll possesses the ability to generate perfect copies of itself, either at will or automatically if bisected, with no confirmed upper limit. Aggressive towards anything that moves, chain trolls will cackle incessantly as they gang up on their foes and pummel them into submission.

>>>>[Frost Viper]: White-scaled snakes with powerful coils, sharp fangs, and the ability to exhale an icy mist. They have appeared on rare occasion in various dungeons with no confirmed guaranteed spawn location; combined with the quality of the rewards it leaves behind, this has led to its classification as a special rare mark.

>>>>[Geoscorp]: A massive stone arachnoid thought to be distantly related to the arocknid. Its powerful pincers and long stinger tail give it superior reach, though it does lack any sort of projectile ability. Most commonly seen as boss monsters in dungeons rated at 3/5 danger level, though they will rarely spawn as a boss in dungeons rated at 2/5.

>>>>[Queen Arocknid]: A large stone arachnoid related to the standard arocknid, possessing the same abilities and variations. Queens are fiercely territorial, each one leading their own separate pack of lesser arocknids.

>>>>[Scopehopper]: Insectoid creatures that use their long legs to leap incredible distances. Their main method of attack is firing psychic blasts from their antennae, with which they are frighteningly precise.

>>>>[Wrosmuk]: Resilient and irritable creatures whose skin takes on the properties of the metal ore they ingest. Typically seen only in danger level 5/5 dungeons, these monsters are feared worldwide for their raw destructive power. The most dangerous variant seen in Ducom is the nigh-invulnerable titanium wrosmuk, though other domains have reported breeds which sacrifice pure strength for more troublesome abilities, such as the arsenic wrosmuk of Netova which constantly emits a miasma of toxic gas.

#Ethernet Admin #writing #Ethernet appendices

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power-chords · 2 years

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I couldn’t remember the last time I had re-read Pattern Recognition so I picked it up again last night:

Pairs well with Pandemic Film School. Like a ribeye steak with a glass of Chianti. Lamb vindaloo and a Taj Mahal. Mapo tofu chased with a swig of Hefeweizen.

Hits different — even better — in your thirties than it does in your twenties. I am now older than Cayce Pollard is in the book…

…Though I always imagined myself more of a Parkaboy, and I would be, but for a (thankfully, inconsequential) biological manufacturing error. God forgot to throw the switch somewhere along the assembly line, ergo, I lack the parts. No big deal. I still have the M-51 in the coat closet and the Hedi Slimane boots on the shoe rack. (Jimmy Cooper is a teenage girl.)

I am a total sucker for Post-9/11 Fiction both in print and in television, for better or for worse, probably the latter. But Gibson doesn’t provoke the kind of moral indigestion that much of that genre does. I am almost scared to commit to a Rescue Me re-watch, an idea I have been batting around since late last year.

It really is so much better, and more frighteningly culturally clairvoyant, than Neuromancer. His best work, bar none.

Somebody asked me a while back who I would cast as Cayce Pollard, if I had to. I said any adaptation would have to audition a bunch of unrecognizable no-names — the only option for the character, really — but as I am reading, I see Stonestreet in my head as Damian Lewis, Dorotea as Portia Doubleday, and Hubertus Bigend as… well, COME ON, Mid-Noughties Tom Cruise. There is no alternative.

On that note, it’s amazing how much this book both irresistibly tempts a visual translation and doesn’t require one at all. I don’t know that I would trust anyone with it.* Gibson manages a hell of a feat as a writer, which is to transmute this incredibly precise, stylized image from the page to the mind’s eye, etching it in your brain like a laser. And he does this without ever falling off the tightrope; he’s rhythmic and immediate and ferociously clever, he’s uncompromising in his vision and exacting with his prose but never overwrought. Always a pleasure to read. It’s the worst mistake any artist can make, and also the easiest: to presume that you, the audience, are much dumber than you are. I’m sharp as a tack, and I know it, says Gibson. But so are you. Isn’t that a wonderful feeling, to be offered some dignity, in a polluted ocean full of mediocre sludge that treats you like a fucking idiot?

*I might trust Fincher.

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tribbetherium · 3 years

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The Middle Glaciocene: 115 million years post-establishment

Ascent of Ham: The Dawning Of Sapience

It is 115 million years since the coming of life on HP-02017.

Countless generations of hamsters of all shapes and sizes have since come and gone. The world has changed a lot since the beginning, and new forms have risen to conquer new land and fallen when they could not adapt to changing environments, especially the unpredictable fluctuations of warm and cold climes now as the Glaciocene approaches its end. And here, on the plains of the Arcuterran savannah, one such creature has emerged unlike anything before seen.

It is early morning on the temperate grassland. Beta, hanging high in the sky since last evening, is now joined by the rising of Alpha, with the ruddy glow of Beta-twilight soon giving way to a brilliant orange light. The creatures of the daytime begin to stir, and emerge from their shelters to feed in the sunrise: a sunrise that to some, with nature red in tooth and claw, will be the last one they ever see.

Among these early risers are a large plains ungulope and her young calf: at barely a month old, the youngster is still dependent on its mother. She in turn is quite protective of her infant: as she heads out into the tall grass of the plains to graze, she lets out a few high-pitched whistles to ensure her young stays close by, which the calf responds to with a series of chirps to assure her of its proximity.

But she hears a sound of breaking twigs, the crackle of footsteps, and most tellingly, the smell of fire and smoke, one ignited without lightning, and freezes in high alert. At once she knows right away they are being stalked.

Suddenly the cracking noises are from all directions as plumes of smoke begin rising one after the other from the tall grass: at once both mother and calf panic and begin to flee. The mother ungulope gallops away from the source of the sound, and away from the fire that most living things inherently fear, making a rapid set of chirps to guide her young to her. But the noises disorient it: they are coming from different sources-- multiple assailants having them surrounded-- and it is not long until the calf becomes separated from its mother. Frightened and lost, it bolts from the unseen assailants hidden in the tall grass, as fast as its little hooves can carry it, and away from the flames that have begun to scorch the dry grasses behind it: only to blunder straight into a trap.

A pointed branch, gnawed perfectly into a lethal tip, pierces the ungulope calf's flank, causing it to squeal desperately in pain and terror. Its mother hears its distress, and rushes to its defense-- but another such branch strikes her painfully in the shoulder. And as another one hits her in the flank, she has no choice but to flee: abandoning her wounded calf, who cries vainly out into the distance as it watches its parent bound out of sight, away into the smoldering grasses of the flames that by now have spread. Its desperate cries soon draw the attention of the assailants, who turn to it with eager eyes, and before the wounded calf could muster the last of its strength to struggle to its feet, the hunters fling themselves from the cover of the grass onto their victim, and begin to devour it alive.

A chorus of screams of agony break the morning silence as the ungulope calf struggles uselessly against the pointed claws and tearing teeth slowly stripping it of hide and flesh: and not only by weapons granted by nature's design, but by sharp wooden spears, their ends splintered points that jabbed cruelly into the ungulope calf to further its suffering. Wooden spears that were purposefully crafted with great care and precision, to serve but a single specific purpose-- to be an instrument of dealing death. And some of these sticks smolder with flame, the source of the sudden bushfire, as the attackers have managed to capture and command this primordial force, some of them now using the fire to further taunt the calf, searing its flayed flank to draw more agonized cries, a display met with wild whoops and squeaks from the bloodthirsty audience.

And with each painful squeal the assailants grow ever more excited, hopping up and down and shaking their spears as they joined in the melody of death with ever-more eager shrieks and whistles. The sound of their prey's pain meant food. The suffering of their victim meant life for them. And it was something that brought them twisted joy. For this was no mere, ordinary predator that had claimed this young ungulope, but a species that for the first time was capable of understanding its actions, and even purposefully reveling in them. A species with intention, and the capacity to operate beyond natural limits. A species aware of itself and its world, complex enough to think beyond the scope of a typical animal. A species capable of genuine malice.

A species that, arising 115 million years from an unassuming lineage, was HP-02017's first sapient: the harmster.

Descending from the riplets of five million years prior, the origin of the harmsters goes back to the giant, plodding herbivores known as drundles, which, on the continent of Mesoterra, became small, cursorial bipeds called podotheres. Omnivorous in nature, some of these podotheres increasingly became more carnivorous, with the lineage of the loupgaroos becoming full-fledged predators that hunted living prey. Of these, one genus known as the ripperoos would become vicious, intelligent apex predators on Mesoterra as to eventually displace their smaller descendants, the riplets, to leave the continent via a land bridge. Over time the riplets would develop increased cooperative skills and discover the use of fire, setting the stage for their ascent into the modern harmster.

As evolution is a gradual process slowly accumulating changes over eons, it is impossible to say exactly when the harmsters attained sapience: but undoubtedly by five million years earlier the riplets' discovery of fire had been a catalyst for even faster changes that set a cascade leading to bigger brains and more complex behaviors, ultimately producing a species that crossed the threshhold of self-awareness.

This species would be the common ancestor of four extant harmster species: violent and warmongering as they are, new subspecies arose here and there and were quickly snuffed out of existence by their kin-- at some point, as many as twelve harmster species existed at once, jousting over territory and resources, and their expertise at dealing death made no exception for their own kind, and soon whittled down the number of species to a fraction of those that didn't directly compete with one another: at least, for the time being.

Most abundant are the white-browed savanna harmsters (Atroxicricetosapiens bruteus), hunters of the plains that prefer the use of branches sharpened into spears as their main weapons, while in higher elevated lands of Arcuterra, smaller dwarf mountain harmsters (A. montenanus) make a living, notable among their kind in being less intraspecifically-hostile, and opting the use of tools made from rocks or bones due to the sparser trees of the highlands. In the temperate jungles live the matriarch harmsters (A. hamazoni), distinct by their pronunced sexual dimorphism with the females being larger and much more dominant than the males. And most advanced of them are the tundra harmsters (A. cryorex): not only do they rely on tools available in the environment, but actively craft more complex weaponry such as spears tipped with points of stone or teeth, and it is this species among the four that has begun a more-developed level of cultural growth: and a primitive, militaristic form of government headed by the strongest and fiercest.

Pressured by evolution toward fecundity, ferocity and intelligence, the end result was a species that seemed to be the worst sapience had to offer: a species that appears to combine the most dreadful aspects of some of Earth's cleverest species-- the sadism to their prey exhibited by orcas, the brutal tribalism and amoral warfare displayed by chimpanzees, and most frighteningly the advanced tool use and arrogance disturbingly similar to the very species that had seeded life onto this world untold eons ago-- humans. With all this wrapped up in their hamster-like tendency to breed in great numbers and kill and eat their own kind, the arrival of the harmsters would herald a turning point in this planet's timeline: one that would make this world quite less of a paradise.

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#speculative evolution #speculative biology #spec evo #speculative zoology #hamster's paradise

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insomniasymphony · 3 years

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Obsessive Killua Zoldyck x Female Reader [No way out]

Constellation: Obsessive Killua Zoldyck x Female Reader Words I got: → Storm → Danger → Cave Sentence I got: You still couldn't believe what you had seen a few hours before. Rating: Teenage and up Audience/ Mature (a little bit) Warning: Little Description of Violence

►► Running away has many different meanings. For some, it's like playing tag. For others, it's sheer escape. And for a few, it is nothing more than mere suicide. ◄◄

Your breath comes in gasps over your lips as the storm lashes the rain against your face, tugging at your hair and chilling your skin. Goosebumps have spread across your numb skin, but it can't compete with the inner heat that has been germinating inside you since you started running. You have to get away. From him. From this family that could hardly be more sickening and finds nothing reprehensible in their behaviour. If you stayed, there would be no chance of survival, even if part of you wants to believe that Killua would protect you. But he is only a thirteen-year-old boy who knows little of the world itself, as you like to believe. He doesn't understand what's so scary about assassins, and he doesn't understand that you don't want to be part of a world full of torture and fear.

Branches whip around your legs, getting partially tangled in your clothes, which cling wetly to you as if they were a second skin. Your lungs burn and a glance back reveals that the Zoldyck estate has disappeared. Instead, you are surrounded by endless trees and bushes that offer you light shelter, but no one can tell you when the butlers will find you – or Killua.

For a moment you dare to stop, take a breath and recover your strength, even though the uncertainty is at your back and won't let you escape. All this you had imagined differently.

Killua, after Gon and he had parted ways at the end, had decided to take a short breather at home. And he had invited you. You'd already spent a lot of time with the two of them, starting in Greed Island and beyond, during which your love for Killua had risen and his affections had wavered in your direction as well. Once, when Gon hadn't been looking, there had been a kiss, brief and shy, but meaningful, as if you had a chance together. After that, Killua had changed.

He became more attentive. Always got in front of you. He constantly knew where you were and he demanded that you stay close to him. All that had been kind of sweet. The thought of someone caring for you so intensely had warmed your heart. But you had missed the signs of his obsession.

When he had brought you home with him, there had been his parents. A father who eyed everything quietly and a mother who had almost melted with delight. Then Killua had shown you the torture rooms because there had been interest.

And the next moment you were busy running away.

With difficulty you try to put one foot in front of the other. You must not stop until the estate is completely behind you. But the forest seems endless and your heart is pounding wildly, because the calm doesn't want to come and the fear is deep in your bones. And it is precisely this fear that gets you moving again.

Over roots, in the pouring rain that gets colder and colder, it drives you forward. Always past the same images. There is nothing here but this forest and more forest beyond, endlessly, ceaselessly, until your legs are almost numb and you get caught on something that pulls you down.

A suppressed scream sticks in your throat before you hit the muddy ground and for a moment you can't breathe. You lie still, inhaling and exhaling, before you quickly pick yourself up and slip away again.

Cursing, you slam both fists to the ground, a little distressed, a little breathless, until a little further in the distance a narrow hole comes into view and promises rescue. You crawl towards it on all fours and with every metre you get closer you realise that it is more of a crack that seems to lead into a cave.

As you reach the passage, you barely wait a moment before you stand up on both legs and push your way through the opening. It is wide enough for you, somehow, leading straight into the inner arena, which widens after the first two metres and lets you into an almost open antechamber. The bare stone walls are dimly lit by flickering torches and the first thing that really occurs to you is that it might be a way out. At the end of the room is a staircase leading down, presumably to underground passages that you can follow to get out in another city. That would simplify a lot. So you follow the ideal of an idea and hurry down the steps.

The light lasts every inch of the way. Almost as if the torches are changed regularly so that this place will never be surrounded by darkness. You take the steps double, jumping down like a rabbit in its own burrow until you reach the bottom.

The air down here is stuffy, humid and musty, joining only a metallic note you can't place. In front of you is a narrow corridor that leads straight into another room. There are no junctions here, nor does escape seem possible. Nevertheless, you follow the corridor, hoping for a way out at the end, and almost start to run until the knob of the wooden door on the other side is in your hand.

It is frighteningly warm.

You turn it, open the barrier and it opens barely a crack before the pungent smell of blood and urine hits your nostrils. It is sharp, stinging in your eyes, gathering tears in your lower lids as you let the door swing open with a push and briefly take in the image before you.

All of a sudden, Killua's stories come to you visually, awakening wild thoughts that jump up and down. He told you about all kinds of things. Moments when someone was nailed to the wall by the arms and legs, howling because the rusty nails burned in the wounds. People squirming under electric shocks so that they would reveal information before the electricity made the blood boil and the flesh stew.

Across from you, heavy chains lie on the floor while thousands of whips and knives, nails and needles adorn the walls. Blood has drawn dried patterns across the floor, hangs fresh on some blades that have been neatly placed on a metal plate.

The sudden sigh behind you sends a shiver down your spine, cold and biting. “This is one of the newer torture chambers, because my mother complained about the noise that sometimes resounds through the house when she's trying to sleep.”

Quick as a flash, you turn and try to gain distance, but you don't get far before the click reaches your ears and you can feel the resistance against your neck. A collar of iron, just for you.

“Killua...I...” you begin, but can't find the right words. There is fear, uncertainty and panic about what he plans to do with you. The only thing that is certain is that you are in danger and you will never forget the images you saw almost visually in front of you just a few hours before, because Killua knows how to describe something vividly. Partially, you still can't believe it.

“What's wrong?” Uncertainly, Killua tilts his head. His gaze is normal, his pose casual. One hand he keeps hidden in the pocket of his shorts, while with the other he firmly holds the chain to your collar. The long-sleeved shirt on his body is dry, as if it had never come into contact with the storm out there.

“I'm sorry if I scared you,” he mumbles a moment later, and for a second hope sprouts.

“Let me go then,” you beg him, but there is nothing more than bewilderment reflected on his features.

“Then you would run away again.” He pronounces it as if it were natural to bind people you love to you with a chain. “That's just for your safety.”

Probably he's talking about the butlers and the beast in the front garden, all of whom tend to kill anyone who moves freely without permission. They would see you as prey no less than Killua does, except that he cares about you. At least that's what he claims.

“Killua...” you begin again, indecisive yet pleading. “I-I won't run away. Really, I won't. But you scare me.”

His eyes widen before he presses his lips tightly together and pulls harshly on your chain, causing you to stumble towards him. It's impossible to stop before you bump into him and the warmth of his body seems to warm a part of you. He doesn't put an arm around you, but you can hear his heart beating faster and feel him slowly lean down towards you.

“I won't let anything happen to you. You are mine and no one will take you away. Not the people on our journeys, nor my family.” The chain rattles as he eases up and places his other hand gently on your cheek, making you look at him in the very next blink. His gaze is full of care, but his words seem like poison in your blood. Because you know he won't let you go. Not until you are dead.

[picture is from a collecting card game] [Want to give me some Kudos? Visit HERE!] [You have a wish for my collection? Check up HERE!]

#Hunter X Hunter #hunter x 2011 #hunter x reader #killua hxh #killua zoldyck #killua x you #killua x reader #My writing #my ao3 #my fic #obsessive #on the run #angst

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galvus · 3 years

Photo

prompt: scale • words: 511 • era: heavensward patch content • [ masterpost ] the relative size or extent of something.

Her father wove tales of Garlemald in between mouthfuls of smoke. A consummate traveler, Ferris Whittemore had tales that spanned from Old Sharlayan to the forbidding Drown, from the Glass Sea to the beautiful chaos of Radz-at-Han. Having left Landis at the ripe age of sixteen, carrying little more than a feud with his elder brother on his shoulders, the thirty long years before settling in Gridania upon meeting Bianca's mother were filled with fodder for stories.

But until her pathetic, broken body had been scooped up by Hydaelyn and given her gifts, Bianca had never seen anything beyond the rich bowers and occasionally treacherous forests of the Shroud.

Words could only conjure images in her mind's eye.

Seeing Garlemald was different. Awe-inspiring bordering upon unsettling – and different.

Under the thick blanket of night, it looked to be as much a maze as a capital city, lined in precise streets with corners as sharp as the obsidian spires that rose above the layered, metal buildings. Streetlights glimmered over their surfaces like stars over water, like sunlight over the carapace of a beetle. From above, the vehicles moved up and down those streets, minuscule from the air but no doubt gargantuan compared to the mares and ponies she was more accustomed to.

“Does no one rest?” Bianca asked.

Not expecting an answer, she was not surprised when one wasn't given. Garlean soldiers stood in uniform lines on the deck of the airship, armored and behelmeted to keep out the cold... and the conversation. The Warrior of Light –

Blinking against a pointed whip of cold air, Bianca gave her head a shake. She was no longer the Warrior of Light. She bequeathed that title to Halvar back in Mor Dhona in the weeks of preparation before making a move against the Griffin, against Ilberd and his damned Eyes of Nidhogg and his stolen armies and his god. She dropped the mantle from her shoulders only to take up another.

Even with Garlemald's eyes turned towards Eorzea, there was a chance that someone might be able to reach into that turmoil and return with a handful of peace.

But she was not the Warrior of Light. She was an Eorzean diplomat on an airship headed to a port beside the Imperial palace, someone deemed heroic and influential enough to turn the tide of war. It was a lie, of course, an extravagant one orchestrated by many over the last decade, but everyone believed in those expectations. They believed she stood apart, despite the blood on her hands and the dead in her head.

Bianca Whittemore. White Mage. Survivor of the Calamity. Chosen of Hydaelyn.

Warrior of Light.

And now, the last straw.

Her gloved fingers curled around the frosted handrail beneath her palms, tight enough to cause a ripple of pain into her wrists. Never before – not when standing on the field at Carteneau, or stepping through the Gates of Judgment to Ishgard – had she felt so impossibly small.

And never had the world before her felt so frighteningly endless.

#ffxivwrite2021 #type: ffxivwrite #oc: bianca #mine: writing #we love a massively canon divergent queen #i can't wait to write The Big Fic about her once ffxivwrite is over!!

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fallenrepublick · 3 years

Text

Homebound

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Surprise! It's part two! Now this is mostly plot, but it's important plot.

Warnings: A Child, Pain Flare Ups, Death Mentions

Word Count: 3,318

You know better than anyone that Thrass wants to respond.

How long has it been? As much time as Themis has lived, you remember. Thrawn... isn't aware that Thrass survived. All he knows, as of now, is this stranger, flying his brother's ship. In a territory that apparently, he holds jurisdiction over.

But even then, your instincts fight against the idea. The large silver ship looming overhead, blocking out the stars that should have been beyond the horizon, was reminiscent of the Republic Dreadnoughts you were used to, though looking far more damning in presence, practically a blinking sign that familial trust only goes so far. Thrass hesitates, searching your face for an answer you don't have. A slight shake of your head, and he resigns to silence.

"Respond."

One more glance back to you, and he turns to the console, taking the controls in his hands, giving no response to Themis's confusion.

"Father, what are you doing?" she asks, holding the back of the pilot's seat. "That's uncle! We have to go see him right? You promised we'd go see him…"

“I know, little one, and we will, but…” he watches out the windows, the stillness of it all eerie, calm nothingness the warning that comes before the worst of it all. “Things have changed.”

Ships like you’ve never seen deploy from below the vessel, wide hexagons framing opposite sides of windowed spheres, swarming towards you in preparation to destroy.

Something in Thrass changes. A sharp focus takes hold of his eyes, barely acknowledging when you slide into the seat beside him, his hands working at the controls, attention flipping from the buttons and the throttle to the outside.

“Hold on.” The ship curves down, evading the attackers from the front, sharp turns twisting you through the space in front of you, defensive weaves between the squadrons throwing them off just enough to prevent shots from hitting their target, though often only barely.

The distance closes between your ship and the dreadnought, which begins firing as well, precision not its forte, but power enough to cause concern.

‘What are you doing?!” you demand, your husband’s gaze straight, a clear intention on approaching the ship holding his brother in his eyes. “You’re going to get us killed-”

“I’ve crashed one ship before, I’m not about to do it again.” He says it with a hiss of seriousness, his concentration breaking just enough for him to glance over, a silent plea to trust him, if only this once. “On my mark, make the jump.”

You shake your head quickly. “You can’t just do that! If the trajectory isn’t scanned right and we run into another one of these ships-”

“We won’t,” he insists, making another quick turn, his words now coming out faster than the blaster shots fired at you. “Look at that. He’s not trying to kill us, he’s trying to corral us into the docking bay after taking out our engines. I’ve seen him do it before-” A quick jerk sends the ship rolling to the left. He opens his mouth, about to shout, “Now!” But… he stops.

A different set of ships, longer, pointed noses and two sets of wings crossing the body. Leading the squadron was a flatter, larger ship, shaped more like a kite than anything, already beginning its onslaught against your enemies.

“This is Captain Hera Syndulla of the Ghost. State your designation, over,” comes a new voice over the comms. Not pretentious, like the last woman’s, nor demanding beneath a guise of professional curiosity like Thrawn’s. Instead, it’s urgency, a need to know before she can proceed. You feel… safe. And despite Thrass’s unwillingness to answer, you do so without hesitation.

“This is the Justice,” you respond, ignoring your husband’s frown.

“How many are on board with you?”

“There are three of us.”

“We’ll clear an opening for you. Once you find it, jump to these coordinates, and we’ll meet you there.”

The numbers come through in an instant. The same numbers you were using before.

Watching the battle before you, Thrass huffs. “I don’t trust it.”

Though you place your hand on his gently, a reminder of your presence that he doesn’t need, yet wants regardless, you still say, “You don’t trust anyone.”

“Just a little longer, okay?” you continue softly, turning around to see the state Themis has found herself in. Her little hands stuffed under her legs, she’s scrunched down, seemingly in preparation for more attacks.

“Then we’re landing?” she asks hopefully. “I want to get off…”

“We will, baby, we will…” Thrass soothes, repeating the coordinates once more, preparing the jump, smoother, less tension in his shoulders.

The opening appears, and with hesitation at his fingertips, he pushes forward, blind trust in you guiding his actions forward, and in a moment, the speckled lights around the ship stretch into lines of white, replacing the shadows that had overcast the ship’s interior. And in the sudden brightness, you’re made frighteningly aware of just how pale Thrass had gotten.

“Thrass…” you say, making every possible attempt to keep your voice low and soothing. His hands retract gingerly from the console, head leaning back slowly. “Are you alright? If it’s happening again...”

“No.” It’s short, a determined answer with a brittle sound that holds the truth more than the word. A sharp inhale, his chest shakes. “I’m fine.” A jerk of his head down. “I’m fine.”

With the ship moving automatically, you turn to him fully, taking his face in your hands. His eyes don’t open, teeth clenched as if to lock away even the slightest acceptance that he isn’t fine. That he hasn’t been for a long time.

Another gasp, and his eyes screw tighter, fluttering between barely open and sealed closed, hands raising past yours, pressed over his ears. There’s little you can do but watch as a small cry escapes his lips, your hands still following as he folds almost completely.

A ringing, a high, screaming ring, in his ears, in his mind, pulsing against the beat of his heart. There’s no blocking it out.

His head pounds, he refuses to look forward. If he did, he knows it all would spin.

Can’t see, can’t hear. It’s almost like he’s-

No, no that was over.

That was done.

It was so long ago.

He knows that.

And… And he can feel.

He can feel… It’s you. Your hand… still holding his face, like you always did…

He says your name. Over, and over again. But he doesn’t know if he really did. It could’ve just been a scramble of sounds for all he knows. Your thumbs rub, ever so slightly. You’re there. You hear him. It isn’t his imagination.

He continues. “It hurts,” he thinks he says, chest heaving with each syllable. His hands slide down from his ears, finding you. His fingers curl between yours, clinging to you with every bit of life he still has. “It hurts…”

“I know,” you tell him, barely a sigh. Yet he finds it in himself to look at you. Your voice. He can hear your voice. “I know.”

Weakly, he swallows, still only barely able to keep himself upright, fearing that the slightest harsh movement would send him tumbling down further than he was. Something told him that, despite it all, you’d catch him.

“I…” he begins shaking out, the mere thought of putting together a cohesive sentence returning a dull ache to settle in his brow. Still holding to your hand, albeit softer now, he leads it to his lips, kisses he lays on the palm fearful, apologetic, and grateful all at once. Your ability to hold back your tears wavers. “I can’t keep doing this. It’s... not safe. If it gets worse… If I forget where I am…”

“It’s not like that. You’re never going to hurt us, you hear me? You’re still you.”

“What proof do you have of that? How can you know something won’t change?”

“Because every time it’s happened, you’ve only ever asked for me.” You lean closer, seeking his eyes, a request that he has no option but to oblige. Tilted, yes, and nearly overflowing with repressed tears, but there nonetheless. “I’m not afraid of you… I never have been, my guardian angel. I never will be.”

And you coax him to rest, Themis’s sleepy silence a noise you welcome, one you wish Thrass would follow. Shaking head and insistances that he must stay awake for your arrival to your destination, you have none of it.

“You need your strength,” you reason, “I’ll stay up just in case, alright?” As much as he hates it… you’re right. Lingering dizziness isn’t ideal for travel, and even less ideal if you encounter any hostiles. And yet… he can’t help his guilt.

Still, it feels like only a moment later that he feels the sudden boom that accompanies the exit from hyperspace. Shaken from oddly restful sleep, he gazes on towards the approaching planet, natural muted greens and blues such a change from Csilla. He blinks away the thoughts of Thrawn that enter his mind again.

Bursts of sound echo behind The Justice, the ship that had contacted yours now appearing to your side, silently guiding you down to the planet’s surface, and with it, their base.

“You’re absolutely sure of this…” he whispers, trying not to wake Themis. It’s more of a reassurance to himself than a question, still progressing downwards, the hush the ship gives as it lands almost a signal to his own worries that as of now, they are unfounded. Can he afford not to be worried, he wonders. There’s no answer to give.

The ramp lowers, and you’re the first to stand. It takes a deep breath… or two. What are you to expect? Who will greet you? Thrass, on the other hand, takes a moment to rise, still unsure, still fearful, for you, for Themis. How could things already be so wrong? What else… does he not know?

There’s no reaction to your exit. Confusion, perhaps, at the stranger who followed the people’s captain from the depths of space, dressed strangely and looking awfully disoriented at the sight of so many gathered in one place. People in palettes of natural colours surround the ship’s entrance, many human, others not, watching every move you make, though without hostility.

Not yet.

But there’s a change. A sudden switch that seems to flip in nearly all of them, battle stances taken, blasters drawn. Turning, the connection you make confirmed, no matter how much you wish it hadn’t been.

Thrass had followed you out, arms crossed over his chest, feigning a pride you know doesn’t exist, expression tight in the same way he held it upon entering a risky debate. Your hands raise, one passing in front of him, slight direction for him to move behind you.

“We aren’t… who you think we are,” you say slowly, their fears a clear message of how much Thrawn had done to them.

“Stand down!” calls an order from behind the crowd. Weaving between these makeshift soldiers, a green Twi’lek woman appears, her flight suit indication enough of her identity. “They’re safe.” A young man follows behind her, dark hair and a scar on the side of his face. His countenance holds suspicion, yet he remains silent.

“Welcome,” Hera says professionally, hiding well enough the courage it takes her to look Thrass in the eyes. “I’m sorry, their past experiences have raised caution, but they mean nothing by it. The three of you are safe here, as long as you need.” Her eyes cross between you and Thrass, clear confusion about the number of newcomers.

“The third is still inside,” you say with understanding. “She’s… still young, so the trip was tiring.”

“There are still a few empty barracks,” she offers, pointing with her thumb behind her. “If you want to let her sleep better, you can bring her inside. But… there are a few questions I have for you.”

Nodding, you give Thrass a touch on his forearm before retreating to fetch Themis, who rubs her eyes groggily as she’s picked up. Thrass steps behind Hera, keeping enough distance between them that whether he’s following at all is debatable, feeling the cold eyes of her allies on his back, certain that most, if not all, would be rid of him in a heartbeat if given the chance. And she leads in silence. The answers she seeks, she’s decided, would be best told in front of the others, despite the displeased presence of the quiet young man, his expression becoming more contorted the longer he watches Thrass.

“So…” she says, reaching a circular holotable below an overhang further in the base. Standing around the edge, a small group still discusses future battle plans, anticipation hanging tense in the air, while a young woman with short hair grimaces at a star map. And just like that, all attention raises to the new arrivals, voices halting instantly as if shut off with the press of a button. The young mandalorian simply stares, the boy moving around her to find his own place at the table. Most others watch in much the same manner. An older man with red hair and tired brown eyes flinches.

“You must be pretty important for Thrawn to be so interested in you,” Hera coaxes, avoiding an assumption that Thrass senses she’s already made. “Care to tell us why he was so intent on catching you?” Her arms cross, an eyebrow raising, reminiscent of a mother coaxing a confession from her child, odd for someone so young. Although, he had been quite similar once.

“I am in possession of his brother’s ship,” Thrass answers, unsure if his attempt at dodging reality was more for his sake or theirs. There’s a flash of emotion in the woman’s eyes at the word “brother,” though gone long before others take notice. “Likely, he wanted to know why.”

“Care to enlighten us?” Expectant, not a person amongst them dares to move, preparing for the words they fear, seemingly most of all.

Blankly, Thrass’s eyes take a scan of the group, making note of the multiple individuals avoiding his gaze, and the remaining few that held it far too tightly for his liking. “As far as Thrawn is aware, his brother was killed years ago. To see his ship once more, in this system no less, is either suspicious or indicative of foul-play. Possibly both.”

Hera falls silent, studying his expression, or lack thereof, falling onto the scar running from his jaw up his cheek, as if seeing how deep it had once been. She sighs, looking down in contemplation, debating whether the next sentence is wise to say, and lifts her head once more in confidence that she had been right the moment he got there.

“So he still doesn’t know you’re alive.” The moment drops, there’s rustling amongst the others, the Mandalorian bows only slightly in case he becomes a threat. And yet his dark red eyes don’t leave Hera.

“So you’re an imperial spy, that’s it?” The boy speaks up, accusatory maybe, but even with his hand resting on the hilt of the weapon at his side, his volume remains even. “Or something worse?”

“Ezra-”

“No, how can we trust him? Thrawn’s done things like this before, there’s no reason to believe that this isn’t just another trick to get information.” He leans over the table as he speaks, his urgency pulling him forward, ensuring that everyone around him hears his reasoning, knows his stance. Thrass finds himself listening with interest, curious at the way the boy commands the room. It’s familiar, in some strange way. “They’re related, that’s bad enough as it is.”

“No one can decide that kind of thing, Ezra,” Hera reminds him, the care in her voice wholly unmasked. “You know we couldn’t turn them away.”

“Thrawn’s hurt so many people…” Pain. That’s what this is.

“But they aren’t the same person.” Her mind recalls the image of you, protecting him, standing between fearful rebels and this man you call your family. Yes, she thinks, this is different. “They needed help, and we have it to offer. Isn’t that what this is about?”

“You say…” Thrass begins, frowning, “That he’s hurt many. My brother… doesn’t kill without due reason. Under what circumstances could this have happened?”

Ezra scoffs. “Due reason? He killed a factory worker out of suspicion. He’s tried to get rid of me multiple times.” A hatred arises in his voice, laced with a mourning that had yet to find its peace. “We… We lost someone important to us… because of him.”

“If that’s truly the case…” Thrass begins, resigned to a truth he had little choice but to trust. “Then I will repay your aid in full through this. I had always known he would do what is necessary... but this has gone too far. I know best of all how my brother’s mind works, and with that, I will help you be rid of him, if you’ll allow it.”

Turning to him, more assured, trust in her forwardness, Hera’s eyes soften yet further, a small smile on her lips. “Thank you.” And when she receives his nod of acknowledgment, she returns to address the group, the commander in her taking hold of her words. “Then that’ll settle it. Meet here in the morning for a briefing, we move out at midday.”

The crowd disperses, some moving faster than others, returning to tasks or the barracks. Though one catches Thrass’s eye. Jumping atop crates and climbing over rock formations, Ezra finds his way to higher ground, sitting far above the crowded base, watching over the horizon where stars have already begun to peak above hilltops. He doesn’t turn, and yet Thrass pauses his ascent at the boy’s words.

“I never caught your name.”

It wasn’t a demand to leave, Thrass realises, and continues up to where Ezra sits, seeing that he had made a space for him.

“Thrass,” he answers simply, not wanting to go through the trouble yet again of hearing it mispronounced. The silence that follows yet again sends a wave of anxiety through him, yet he can’t quite place why.

That name… It sounds so much like Thrawn, Ezra considers. Yet it isn’t. He smiles, thinking about how right Hera always is. Not that he’d ever say it.

“So… your kid. She’s force sensitive?” Ezra asks, changing the subject as fast as he can manage.

Thrass nods, solemn, an admittance of fear. “We left my planet for her sake,” he explains, omitting information. The other reasons stay with him. “My people would have found out, pressed her into military service, even as a child. We would never have been able to bear it.” The darkness closes in, yet the cloudless sky illuminates the night well enough that no light besides the moon and stars above is necessary.

“I’m not sure that’s much better than here,” Ezra says, frowning, angling his head towards Thrass. “The Imperial Inquisitors are made to hunt force sensitives, she won’t be any more safe now than she was before…”

In a way, it’s as if Thrass knew it already, as if his brother’s mere presence with the Empire told him that the unfortunate events were only just beginning. There’s an odd calm in his heart, even still. “Had the Empire ever chosen to come to my planet, they would have found her anyways. I had, and still have a chance to protect her, as long as I’m here.”

“I can… teach her, if you want,” Ezra offers, immediately wondering if he's too bold in his abilities. “I mean, just a little, so that she can control it enough."

Thrass can't help but laugh, small and glad, his assumption about the weapon at Ezra's side all but confirmed. "Then… she might learn to protect herself, if no one else can."

Below, the base has quieted, the only sounds remaining from engineers on late shifts and the watch crew, pacing the borders in search of an intruder. Thrass watches the movement, the lives of these people. Long ago, many of their families might have been aboard that ship. Had things been different, they might have been as well. Now, though, they worked here fighting, risking their lives for something that no longer exists, that lives only in their small collective memory. How poetic.

But Ezra… he turns to look at Thrass fully. And as good gaze follows the edges of his face, he's suddenly reminded of a lesson he once had, silently chastising himself for forgetting it so often, for looking, not seeing.

They were the same species, yes, but the difference ended there. The small bump on his nose before it curves up, the way his eyes downturn ever so slightly, his smooth voice small and burdened, as if speaking took effort, the way it takes from an injured arm that will never move the same again. His family, his willingness to help, to rectify a wrong he had no hand in creating. And Ezra recalls Thrawn, his nose pointed down in nearly a straight line, his narrow, even eyes, and the cool, confident voice of a man who was used to getting what he wants. His animosity, the way he held the kalikori in front of Hera’s face like he was baiting an animal to dare moving forward.

"I'm sorry…" he says finally, voice small, uncertain. Thrass's head turns. "I… I jumped to conclusions. I thought… I thought you two were similar."

"Yeah…" Thrass says, returning his eyes to the sky. He's too far. He can't see Csilla from here. "So did I."

#wherein Thrass names his ship after his daughter #Thrass #thrass x reader #two sides one coin au

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imogenkol · 12 hours

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pairing: Imogen Kol (oc) x Bix Caleen word count: 3.5k rating: mature (18+) warnings: loss of limb, mentions of torture, trauma tags: more traumatic backstory, flashback, angst, hurt/comfort, trying and failing to repress feelings read it on ao3! / previous chapter

Summary: In the days of recovery on Gangi Moon, Imogen is faced with her own repressed truths.

Imogen’s sharp scream cut a tense silence throughout the chamber as it echoed off the walls, and she collapsed onto the floor. The Inquisitor clutched at the freshly cauterized stump of her left leg. The strike had been swift and precise – right above the knee. Half of her leg gone, just like that. She could hardly believe it.

With the scent of her own burning flesh acrid in her lungs, agony scorched throughout her nerves. She fought to conceal it as much as she could. Weakness would not bode well with her peers. They studied her closely now, searching for the slightest crack in her facade.

The hum of Vader’s lightsaber accompanied by his mechanical breaths became the only sounds in the training room. The blade’s aura reflected off of the mirrored black floor and bathed her in a crimson light. Imogen felt the Dark Lord’s presence silently loom over her, waiting for a reaction.

After a few shaky breaths, Imogen forced her gaze up to meet her Master’s. Her glare bore into the black lenses of his helmet so intensely that she could almost picture the eyes that hid behind them. Or maybe they just reflected her own storming irises. The longer she held his unreadable stare, the more white-hot rage boiled up from the source of her pain, filling every vein – every remaining limb and outward until the chamber physically shook. Imogen herself remained frighteningly still.

“Good,” Vader said, sensing her hatred.

His praise only made her angrier. “I have already killed one of my masters,” she growled through clenched teeth. “I would not push too far, my lord.”

The entire chamber seemed to hold its breath, but Vader barely reacted to the threat. “Then take your blade and attempt to strike me down. Waste all of your fury on a foolish vendetta.”

Imogen nearly reached for her lightsaber. One day, I just might, she thought to herself.

Vader clutched the hilt of his saber a little tighter. The bright red blade hummed deeper for just a second as if it craved to take another limb. Perhaps Imogen’s head this time. “What you have will be taken from you if you are not willing to sacrifice it. I have given you a valuable tool, Inquisitor. Use it against your true enemies and you will grow more powerful than before.”

The chances of surviving an attack against Vader when she had both of her legs were slim to none. Being incapacitated and surrounded by other Inquisitors that wouldn’t hesitate to swarm her if she made a move against their master practically guaranteed failure. No matter. Imogen was no stranger to biding her time and waiting for the right opportunity. Besides, he was right. With the right amount of discipline, she could use the familiar resentment brewing inside to make herself strong enough to win any fight.

Imogen finally tore her vengeful scowl off of the Sith Lord and bowed her head. “Yes, Lord Vader.”

—

Imogen sat in the cockpit and absentmindedly massaged her leg where flesh met machine. It ached every now and then. For years she convinced herself to welcome the pain, yet still continued the practice of willing it away with a gentle hand in private. If no one saw her weakness, she could turn a blind eye to it, too, could she not?

Imogen wasn’t exactly alone now.

Bix had yet to find any sleep, but she continued to rest on the cot. Frequent checks throughout their flight path did little to assure Imogen of the mechanic’s recovery. Without the excitement of battle, whatever life Bix had gotten back only seemed to weigh heavier in the quiet of the ship. She would grow so overcome with bouts of shivers that even the coat Cassian had given her did not provide enough warmth. A whispered voice sometimes traveled through the halls of the Huntress as well, so small and haunting that Imogen could not make out a single word. They would silence as soon as she got too close, but she knew Bix muttered to herself.

The longer their trip through hyperspace, the more the bounty hunter feared her mechanic was beyond repair. Once Imogen reunited Bix with her people, she could consider her obligation fulfilled and be on her way. It should not be her responsibility. She knew better. Yet, Imogen did not entertain the idea for more than a very brief moment. She felt as resolved as she did in that tunnel beneath the hotel.

Imogen reluctantly admitted to herself that she was resigned to stay, whatever that may look like.

They arrived safely at their destination on Gangi Moon. Cassian must have named this particular system for its vacancy, but Imogen remained vigilant as she flew low in search of a proper place to land. Whether Cassian or any other refugees from Ferrix would arrive, it was too early to tell. The best Imogen could do was tuck the Huntress away in the safest area possible and activate her scanners for any ships that entered their range.

It could be hours or even days of waiting, so Imogen decided to check on their supplies and run diagnostics to pass some time. As she walked about the ship, she would take note of Bix and her condition. Nothing much changed. The bounty hunter was far too out of her element. She only understood how to deal damage, not mend it. Imogen lingered by the cot, unsure of what to say or do.

For the first time in her life, Imogen felt useless and she hated herself for it. Not as much as she hated herself for her involvement in this mess. As she turned to leave, a clear voice broke the heavy silence.

“Have you ever tortured someone?” Bix asked, her expression still mostly vacant.

Imogen went still. This line of questioning would lead to nowhere good, but she answered honestly anyway. “Yes.”

The revelation didn’t seem to surprise her. Why should it? Horror stories of the Inquisitors terrorizing the galaxy spread far and wide, especially during Imogen’s service to the Empire. “How did you do it?”

Imogen balked further. “Is this really a conversation you wish to have, Bix?”

“Tell me,” she commanded with a weary tone.

After a long sigh, she said “I would force my way into their minds to extract the information I sought.”

“And?”

It’s not that Imogen felt ashamed of her past. Rather, she felt shame for the absence of it. That never bothered her before the mechanic found a way into her heart. Imogen worried how Bix might look at her differently. She has known who Imogen used to be for a long time. It is not difficult to surmise the depth of evil that she has enacted. Despite being some ten years removed from the Empire, Imogen still carried the same darkness – the darkness that has been with her since she was a child. The darkness is her. Nothing and no one could change that.

“The process is invasive and excruciating enough that the subject would often confess just to get me to stop.”

“How did it make you feel?”

“I never thought about that, it had simply been a part of my job.”

The mechanic finally locked eyes with the former Inquisitor. Her hollow, broken gaze mirrored many of Imogen’s victims after she had her way with them. A sudden and visceral reaction crawled up Imogen’s throat like sickness. Her fists clenched and she swallowed hard to push it down, shifting her weight onto her enhanced leg to avoid losing balance.

“How did it make you feel?” Bix calmly repeated.

Imogen noticed her chest heave as she stared down at the floor. “Powerful.” Though the feeling twisting herself inside her now was anything but.

“Thank you,” Bix said after a brief silence. Imogen’s brow creased and she glanced back up in confusion. “For being honest with me.”

She found honesty to be synonymous with painful truths, yet offered gratitude for receiving their knowledge. Bix had no judgment in her eyes. She did not glare at Imogen in hatred the way so many others have done in the past. Imogen found it strange, but once she contemplated it, she realized she should not have expected anything less. This was simply another form of Bix’s unshakeable boldness.

Imogen recalled the first time the mechanic noticed her lightsaber.

“It’s not what you think,” she said as Bix eyed the hilt on her belt.

The mechanic took it as a game at first. “Oh? And what do I think it is?”

“You have heard of the Empire’s Inquisitors?”

“Everyone has at this point.”

Imogen almost didn’t tell her. But at that time, she thought there were many other women in the galaxy to replace what she might lose for speaking the truth. How foolish to believe anyone else could compare to the pull she felt towards Bix. “Years ago, I went by the name of Fourth Sister. It has been even longer since I was called Jedi.”

Bix kissed her that day, despite the revelation of what she used to be. Her hands had unfastened her clothes and her lips dragged hungrily across her bare skin just as they had before she knew. Imogen missed her touch more desperately each passing moment, but she would have lost it anyway if she had not given it up. More importantly, she did not deserve to have it in the first place.

Just then the ship’s sensors alerted. Imogen pulled herself out of her own mind and said “That might be Cassian.”

As she made for the cockpit, Bix’s hand shot out and caught her wrist. Imogen’s gaze zeroed in on their contact, her entire body stiffening once more. “Is this… Are you going to disappear again?”

She felt that familiar, recurring ache. “If you wish it.”

Bix shook her head. “I never have.”

All of the times she visited Ferrix, she never considered any of her exits to be a vanishing act. The way Bix spoke made it seem like Imogen had abandoned her often. How long had she quietly yearned for something more?

Imogen bit the inside of her cheek, hoping that the pain would overshadow what threatened to consume her. Though, it felt far too late for that. “Very well.”

The ship that crossed their range carried a small group of survivors from Ferrix. Cassian remained missing, but Imogen had a feeling that he must be alive out there somewhere. Or maybe she found Bix’s insistence on that assumption to be infectious. Either way, she reunited her mechanic with people that cared for her and that was good enough.

While Imogen had every intention to stay, she kept her distance from the group. They built a fire at night and rested under a thick blanket of stars. Imogen lingered at the edge of camp and quietly observed them. The boy sat solemnly, occasionally wiping away a stray tear until the box shaped droid said something to him that brought the hint of a smile to his face. Brasso tended to the fire and made sure they all had enough to eat. In a way, they reminded her of the Mantis crew – a strange collection of people that formed a tight knit sense of community. It was a dynamic she witnessed many times throughout her life and one she always struggled to understand.

Imogen’s gaze drifted back to her mechanic. The older woman, Jezzi, covered Bix in a blanket and held an arm around her as she started to drift off while staring into the flames. It may be the first time she will be able to get a proper rest. Imogen released some of the tension in her shoulders.

Her muscles tightened back up almost immediately when she noticed Brasso approach.

The broad-shouldered scrapper held a bowl in his hand which he offered with an flat smile. “I wanted to say thank you for what you did.”

Imogen kept her arms crossed and looked away. “I have no use nor desire for your gratitude.”

“What about for dinner?” He motioned for her to accept whatever steamed in the bowl.

She could have survived well off of ration packs, but the savory scent of broth made her mouth water. After a long moment of hesitation, she reached out and took it. The wooden bowl’s warm sides were just cool enough to handle and she raised the edge of it to her lips, taking a small sip. The bountiful flavor flowed over her taste buds and settled comfortably in her stomach. Perhaps it would do her well to consider a little more variety in her rations.

“Are you staying with us?” Brasso asked.

“I am staying with her,” Imogen replied.

“Right, well…” He followed her line of sight to where Bix had finally lost her battle against sleep. “I think that will be good.”

She scowled, suspicious that anyone apart from Bix appreciated her presence. “Good?”

Brasso half-shrugged. “I was wrong about you.”

Imogen imagined that he has made many judgements towards her just as much as anyone else. It mattered little to her, since most were bound to be true. “You weren’t wrong about me.”

He shook his head and gave her a small, knowing smile that she did not like in the slightest. “I think many people are.”

Brasso stepped away and returned to the fire. Imogen watched them for a while longer, feeling rather perturbed by the scrapper’s last comment. She didn’t understand why she dwelled on it or why she cared enough to try and decipher his intentions. The bounty hunter could not care less about his impression of her, good or bad. Or so she thought. It gradually dawned on Imogen that an opinion other than Bix’s had suddenly held meaning for her.

To seek out praise or high opinion was childish and led nowhere but a dead-end path. Imogen did not harbor such foolish insecurities, she was far better than that. So she shoved that naive sentiment down, set the bowl of broth aside, and trudged back to the Huntress alone for the night.

From then on, Imogen did her utmost to avoid them. She did not accept their food or warm herself by their fire and only communicated when she had to. No matter how hard she tried, though, she could not stray too far from Bix. Imogen always kept the mechanic within her sight. The desire to see her condition improve motivated Imogen to participate in her care. She encouraged Bix to eat and sometimes watched over her as she slept. What she enjoyed most were the walks she convinced Bix to take with her.

A riverbank ran not too far from their makeshift camp. The morning shone brightly and the breeze blew crisp. It felt rejuvenating to have no one besides the company of the woman at her side and the gentle flow of water in her ears.

They stopped by the edge for a few minutes. Imogen watched as Bix closed her eyes and tilted her head up towards the sun of Gangi Moon. Ferrix had been an overcast planet more often than not and its citizens became well adapted to the cold mist. Imogen assumed it must be nice to feel the warmth of a completely different star. Bix’s skin absorbed the golden rays, banishing the ashen tone from her time in captivity and returning to her normal tawny complexion. It brought Imogen a rare feeling of joy to see her look so peaceful after what she endured.

As if sensing Imogen’s stare, Bix cracked one eye open and gave the bounty hunter a side-long glance. “Wow,” she mused before closing it again. “You’re smiling.”

Imogen hadn’t noticed the slip. With the mechanic’s averted gaze, she allowed the expression to linger. “It’s not as if you’ve never seen me smile before.”

“I haven’t. Not like that,” Bix replied, her body swaying with the calm wind.

Imogen delayed her response to observe the other woman for as long as she could. “You’re mistaken.”

At that, Bix turned to fully look at her. She studied Imogen’s features without the slightest hint of shame until a gentle upturn tugged at the corner of her own mouth. “You have a beautiful smile.”

A muscle that Imogen didn’t even know she had twisted inside of her chest. She couldn’t bring herself to look away or utter a word. All she managed was to drink in the sunlight pouring honey into the mechanic’s rich eyes.

“Everything looks more beautiful to me now,” Bix continued, staring off over the water. “I took so many things for granted.”

“Are you saying I am one of them?” Imogen asked incredulously.

After a prolonged beat, Bix spoke thoughtfully. “The moment I realized what Timm had done, I felt like the biggest fool. I mourned him, I really did, but I was also so angry with myself because I should have known better. It’s something I would have expected you to do.” She chuckled softly and shook her head. “And yet… if you had asked me to be with you that day you left, I would have said yes.”

The bounty hunter nodded earnestly. “That is why I walked away.”

Bix’s smile turned as warm as the sun. “That’s why I shouldn’t have let you.”

Imogen glanced down, grin still stuck on her lips. She didn’t expect Bix’s words to change things between them, but they were still good to hear. “In your defense, I have made far worse betrayals than Timm. Your judgment isn’t at fault, he was.”

“I guess I better get used to people surprising me,” Bix said.

“The trick is to lower your expectations.”

“Ironically, you’ve raised them.”

Imogen scoffed and folded her arms. “I find that hard to believe.”

“You cut Paak down.”

The bounty hunter clenched her jaw. She had forgotten all about Paak. How Bix could have possibly known Imogen cut his body down after the Imperials hanged him on Rix Road was a mystery. Their escape had been far too chaotic and she doubted the mechanic would have been able to spot his body, much less assume Imogen to be the one who had moved it. Regardless, Imogen felt sheepish at the accusation.

“Brasso told me,” Bix explained. “He said some people saw you before dawn.”

“I did not wish for you to see him in such a state,” she admitted quietly.

“Whatever your reason, that meant a lot. Not just to me.”

The scrapper’s strange sentiment from the other night suddenly made more sense. Imogen weakly shook her head. “It was a waste of time.”

Bix reached out and gently untangled her arms to take one of Imogen’s hands in hers. It was the first real touch they shared since they arrived on the moon. Imogen felt Bix’s thumb caress her knuckles and her pulse skyrocketed as oxygen stuttered in and out of her lungs. “I don’t believe you really think that.”

Imogen’s body seemed locked in place like she had been made of stone. But then her joints loosened one by one and her boot slid over the damp soil as she took a step closer. She knew it hadn’t been a waste of time, not when she received the look she got now. With a numb hand, she slowly reached up and brushed the tip of her thumb across the mechanic’s cheek. The touch so brief and feather-light that Bix might have mistaken it for the breeze if she hadn’t seen it coming.

“I did it because I care about you,” Imogen finally said out loud. She cared so much she thought her chest might burst.

Bix squeezed her hand as tight as a tether. “I know you do.”

“Then why does it matter so much for you to hear me say it?” she asked desperately, fear and anger coiling around her throat like twin serpents.

“Because I know how hard it is for you to be open.”

The serpents tightened like an invisible noose. What was she meant to do with this? Imogen could not have her, yet she did not possess the strength to let her go either. The one defense that has kept the bounty hunter alive for years and years crumbled down to rubble. Imogen no longer wished to be alone and she wondered if it had been that way all along, buried so deeply that she never noticed it before. Somehow, she felt more lost than ever at that moment. But her hand still rested in the gentle grip of her mechanic and she focused on the warmth of her skin to ground herself.

“And it’s… really good to hear it, too,” Bix added softly.

“Bix, I –”

“Bix!” An excited voice called close by. They both glanced over to see Wilmon rush over as he pointed at the sky. A lone ship in the distance traveled towards them at a low altitude. Imogen tensed, but the boy quickly explained. “It’s Cassian!”

Much remained unsaid. The conclusion Imogen came to as Bix smiled at her and led her back to camp was that she was completely and utterly damned. They both were.

#oc insp: imogen kol #ship insp: if i had a heart #fic: if i had a heart #ok last one for now!

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theoriginalladya · 3 years

Note

Kiss prompt 35 for Taka and Kaidan: kiss in a dream 💏💏

from this list

On AO3 here

Oh, this one took me a while to get out of my head the way I wanted! Hope you like it!!!

~~~

“Kaede? Kite kudasai…”**

Takao’s eyes flutter, opening slowly. The voice is but a whisper, not familiar to him; someone calls to Kaidan, but who? They are alone, just the two of them, a honeymoon at his old family home northwest of Kyoto.

Who calls? Why? How?

Lying in each other’s arms, Kaidan’s arm tightens around Taka’s waist, refusing to respond to the summons. The voice does not repeat, yet, something compels Takao to resist the restriction. He draws up one hand between them and pushes against the solid wall of muscle that is Kaidan’s chest; not much pressure, but the distance created seems vast. Expansive. More frighteningly, it continues to grow.

Taka’s eyes slam shut, he inhales sharply, deeply, in an effort to calm himself, and succeeds until the fresh scent of cherry blossoms drifts in from outside and tickles his nose. He frowns.

Cherry blossoms? It’s December … Why are there cherry blossoms now …?

Kaidan murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep; he sounds close now, and Taka opens his eyes to find himself lying within his partner’s embrace, arm loose around his waist as it was before. Shifting his gaze to Kaidan’s face, Taka’s lips curve upward at the familiar visage. They’ve come so far, the two of them, since that day in Vancouver when they fought against one another. Twelve years. Practically a lifetime. In those first weeks of knowing one another, never would Taka have thought they would end up here, together like this.

The scent of cherry blossoms grows stronger as another gust of wind blows into their room. It takes him a moment to realize something is very wrong; the shoji lining the walls opposite the bed no longer block the room from the elements outside, and the wind whirls into the room with such force that it blows him from the bed. For the briefest moment, he is suspended in the air above the ground, and then …

His eyes slam shut again and throws his arms up to protect his head from the inevitable fall. A fall that never comes. Breathing heavily, he opens one eye just a crack. The room is dark and he hears the crickets chirruping softly outside. Lying in front of him, his arm wrapped around Taka’s waist again, is Kaidan. He stirs slightly, but his arm remains where it has been all night.

It’s strange, Taka thinks; if there is one constant in all of this, it is that. The shape and a heaviness he expects, yet something about it isn’t quite right. The dreams he’s having – and there is no doubt in his mind that they are dreams – are stranger than any he recalls having had before. There was a doctor he spoke to once, shortly after enlisting, and their conversation eventually rolled around to a discussion about dreams, dream interpretation and how the subconscious likes to toy with a person’s mind at times. If anything, the dreams he’s had tonight are that; his subconscious playing.

Sighing softly, he notices Kaidan’s hair sticking out at an odd angle. Instinctively, he reaches over and smooths it back into place. At the same time, he leans in and ghosts a kiss across his lips … and is startled by the complete lack of reaction he gets in return; Kaidan has always been responsive, no matter his level of consciousness. Leaning back in, he initiates a more thorough kiss this time, and relief swells when the man’s lips return it. The arm around him tugs his hips closer and the kiss deepens.

“Kaede,” Taka murmurs against his lips, running his fingers from Kaidan’s temple, down his jaw and along the side of his neck, “open your eyes.”

“I can’t.” Kaidan trembles.

Taka is about to ask why, when the voice from before returns.

“Kaede? Kite kudasai. Kare wa shindeiru.”**

The voice returns. This time, there is a hint of something familiar in it, but he cannot place it. Kaidan shudders again, harder this time. Taka strokes his cheek lightly. “Kaede, wake up. Open your eyes. For me. Please.”

Eventually, he does and their eyes meet, but there’s so much pain and regret in them, it’s physically aches to look at.

“I-I don’t want to lose you …,” Kaidan rasps. His hand rises, reaching for Taka only to be stopped from contact by a chasm that springs up, separating them and growing steadily.

“Kaede? Kaede!” Taka makes a desperate grab for Kaidan’s hand, but doesn’t even come close. In the process, he loses his balance and rolls over the edge.

Even as he reaches desperately for Kaidan, the slithering, snaking tendrils of complete darkness embrace him fully. Everywhere he looks, there is darkness. Impenetrable. Continuous. It’s more than a little unnerving that he no longer sees his partner, and fear tightens in his chest when he realizes there is no end to this. It’s been a very long time since he’s been stalked by this particular opponent; its return is not welcome.

In an act of desperation, he throws his hands out, hoping against hope for some way to stop his descent. All the while, his mind races. What is happening? Where am I? This isn’t real – it cannot be! His sense of time and place thoroughly distorted, he throws his head back, inhales deeply and prepares to scream into the void …

“Wake up, commander. Shepard, do you hear me? Get out of that bed now. This facility is under attack …”

The voice, sharp but with the air of authority, cuts through the darkness with the precision of a samurai blade. Taka gasps for breath, the soft rattle in his lungs jolting him to full consciousness. Slowly, he rises and takes stock of his situation. The darkness is gone. Pain – aching, awkward, unexpected – fills his head, his chest, his ribs. Physical pain. Another gasp. His lungs burn. It’s real. The bright lights and blaring alarms around him, they are real, too. The familiar flash of weapons fire on the other side of the windows. For just a moment, he wonders if he has awoken at the fiery gates of hell…

“There’s a pistol in the locker on the other side of the room …”

His feet hit the floor and he stumbles toward a locker. Kaede, where are you …?

~~~~

** Kite kudasai = Please, come.

** Kare wa shindeiru = He is dead.

#kiss prompts #ladya writes #mshenko #Taka Shepard #Kaidan Alenko #dreams #kissing #OTP: Heiwa Ni #mallaidhsomo

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coffeebeannate · 3 years

Text

Taken from @werebearbearbar

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5 favorite works (fics, art, edits, etc.) you’ve created this year and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world in 2020. If you don’t have five published works, that’s fine! Include ideas/drafts/whatever you like that you’ve worked on/thought about, and talk a little about them instead! Remember, this is all about self-love and positive enthusiasm, so fuck the rules if you need to. Have fun, and tag as many fellow creators as you like so they can share the love! <3

I started writing fic years and years ago. And have done so in other fandoms before taking a long hiatus from the writing world in general. I stuck with written roleplay only. For what I assume to be around four or five years, I did not write a single fic. (I also wrote short stories in childhood, teen years and young adult years)

(I want to point out though that this absolutely does not negate roleplay writing, and that writing with another person, or in a group is a lesser form) My break from fanfic came with one of the worst periods of my mental and physical health, and everything I had written was purged from my Ao3 account in a single night.

I started writing for The Old Guard in August, and below, are the things I like a lot that I’ve written for it. To do this, I decided to use the criteria of ‘fics I like the most’ instead of what seems to be the most popular to read. For me, if I really love a piece of work, I recall the creative process fondly, and have lines and bits of dialogue I truly adore within it.

1. Precision Mission Fic. Gala. Post-Movie. Current Group (Nile, Andy, Joe, NIcky)

Rated M (Mature) 4846 words

My second fic for the fandom that I published, but the first I actually conceptualized. This one is just..so special to me. I have phone notes typed at five am. I can recall the excitement as I was so eager to share this story and get it off the ground. I wanted to see this complete so bad. I loved nearly every second of writing it, and it’s always going to hold a special place in my heart as a result. There’s so much overdone clothing talk and I can only think of it with fondness.

Excerpt:

None of them are comfortable. Except Joe, it seems.

Joe makes it look easy. Simplistic, even, judging by the way he effortlessly glides and charms his way through the expansive ball/congregating/entertaining room. Something that never failed to fascinate Nicky was the way Joe could integrate himself almost seamlessly into any scenario, situation, or environment. Neither Andy nor himself had that ability. Not when it came to cavorting, anyway. Nicky more quietly reserved, Andy lacking in the ability to care enough to fake it.

Nile seemed to be more in the middle. She did not appear overly comfortable with the mingling, but she had enough personal grace and adaptability to make it seem somewhat effortless to have a decent time.

All their eyes remained sharp on the surrounding area, awaiting the arrival of their target. And for all his schmoozing, Nicky knew Joe’s surveillance was tack-sharp, multitasking to a degree no one he was currently conversing with could have possibly noticed.

“You going to move at some point, or have you taken up permanent resident status here?” Nile asks, appearing at his side where Nicky has spent the last half-hour molded to the furthest left corner of the solid black bar. “I know you have an excellent view, but.”

Nicky snorted, though only Nile could actually tell, “Why waste a good opportunity?”, momentarily ceasing his Joe watching to stare back into the depths of his glass, which currently contained some horrifically shocking pink abomination, Nicky’s second drink, since he was letting the bar tender dictate them, too utterly distracted to care what was touching his lips, and curious with the way the bar tender had delighted in being given free reign to make whatever he desired.

To be fair, it didn’t taste that bad-something frighteningly sugary and weirdly noxious smelling, but it’s not exactly ‘crime against humanity’ levels of alcoholic nightmares.

2. Old

Post-movie. Current Group. (Andy, Nile, Joe, Nicky) Mortal Andy. Character study.

Rated T (Teen and Up Audiences), 2903 words.

My first attempt at Andy-centric writing. Andy is a character I consider a challenge to write, and that makes me want to write her more. This fic centers mostly around her and the others trying to come to terms with how much has happened, within day to day life and taking the comfort that they can in one another.

I really like this fic. A lot. Sure it’s short. Sure maybe not much happens, but Andy’s character fascinates me, as does her relationship with her family.

Excerpt:

Old.

Old

So motherfucking old.

Someone is calling out to her, her hearing and senses long fine-tuned to knowing. It’s Nicky- she can easily pretend she can’t hear him, he knows when she doesn’t want to talk to anyone, after all.

She’s being petty, and she knows it’s unfair. That the nearly untouched plate and nights spent not sleeping gives them reason to be at her. But facing them with that fact feels about as ideal as jumping into a flaming volcano right about now. They’re just worried. It makes her stomach turn, sour and vicious. Venom in the gut, acid in the heart.

Said volcano would be kinder.

3. Spice it Up (Or Not)

Joe and Nicky. Pre-Movie. Fluffy Lovings

Rated: E (Explicit) 3030 words

This one was just fun. I am such a sucker for banting, and the most established of established relationships that Nicky and Joe have going on. This one is indeed not safe for work, and honestly, the opening paragraphs are what came first, and I actually had to build the story around it.

Something that I think makes this fic fun to me as well is that, just because something that sounded like a good idea fails, it doesn’t make it an ending. Healthy communication, knowing each other..it’s so blissful to think about.

Things aren’t always perfect, but that’s okay. And it’s not always a threat. Oh and because this is me, what was supposed to be fairly light hearted gets all sappy and reflective mid-way.

Excerpt:

He knows Nicky in every way. He knows his scent from battle, from sex, from showers and from sleep. He knows his eyes in darkness, in light, in dread, excitement and worry. He knows his grief, his love, his sadness, and adoration. Excitement, passion, fear, and pain.

He could count each tear that Nicky has shed, could recall each tone of his voice in every language they know. From the first he heard to the current. The sweet harmony of song and the rough gasp of drunk intoxication. He’s heard him yell, heard him scream. Heard his shouts and his cries.

He knows how Nicky tends to favour his left shoulder even though there’s no reason beyond psychological to do so. A spot Joe stabbed so long ago. So far back in another life. He knows how he likes to pause and do surveillance before they enter any new location. Knows he likes vehicles that move fast and has a fondness for roller coasters.

He’s seen those hands, so large and skilled break bone, wield a sword and cut vegetables and fruit. Seen them card through his hair, felt them map out each knot and ridge in his spine and ribs, felt them so deep inside himself he can taste it. Rolling into it. Demanding, needing.

“Yusuf.” Nicky’s not calling him back, Nicky’s just as far gone. So often they seem to share thoughts.

Nicky knows Joe in all ways and more. Knows that Joe still sometimes seems to speak ancient by-gone languages in his sleep. Knows that he tends to carry the strongest personal scent in the dead of night. That no shower, no soap, no life experience or battle has truly ever masked the delightful musk he has to himself. There could be a cologne out there that would modify it, and Nicky would bite and lick it away. Demanding and asking, why take this from me? How dare you try to alter what I know and love so furiously?

4. Touch Before Heart

Historical Kaysanova. Early Years. Pre-Movie. Getting to Know Eachother.

Rated E (Explicit) 5030 words

As is pretty obvious by now, I write a LOT of early years Kaysanova. A lot. I am addicted to it.

This one..I love it. This might be one of my favourite pieces of writing of all time. If I was doing these numbers strictly in order preference, then I’d put it as number one I bet.

I think the summary I made for it sums up well just how much I love it. And maybe why.

The first moment they’re able to have a bath, they resolutely do not look at each other. Picking opposite ends of the small stream bed, backs turned to one another. A strange show of both trust and distrust; their backs were exposed, but it was up to their tentative mutual agreement to not partake in the opportunity to stab each other for it.

The..idea that they had so much to learn, so much to understand. So much confusion, anger mistrust..I just really really adore this fic and I think I did a good job with it.

Excerpt:

He curses in unison with Nicolò, both holding fast and steady as the thing finally rights itself, Nicolò letting out a slow, shaken breath of relief.

“Are you alright?” Yusuf asks, both to break the silence and mend the irritating gap they’ve created for themselves.

“Better. Thank you.”

Yusuf wants to scream.

He wants to grab Nicolò, shake him until he can do nothing but give him answers.

Why do you drive me to the brink of madness?

Why do I know your touch, but not your heart?

Why do you tempt me, consume me?

What does it mean?

Why are we here?

Why!?

It is an unfair desire; he’s hardly given the man any more clarity.

5. Curated

Post-Movie. Current Group (Nile, Andy, Joe, Nicky)

Rated G (General Audiences) 1807 words

Alright, I admit it, I had trouble picking number five. I picked Curated because it’s just..so fluffy. But it’s so sweet I always feel so sugary when I think of it. The softness that I tried to convey, and I think I succeeded.

Nile is another character that fascinates me, that I just do not explore enough, and this is all the comforting goodness I could ever hope to create.

Excerpt:

She’s grown used to the easy intimacy they all share, but the sight before her, Nicky’s eyes half-lidded, face a perfect serenity she rarely see’s on it, Joe lost, far-away in reciting but still wholly present, creates an odd, near-throbbing ache in her chest. Something powerful and raw. It’s hard to imagine that people who have been alive this long can be this content.

Everything they’ve seen, experienced and done. All the stories they’ve regaled her with. All the prep, the anxieties, the concerns, and curiosities. None of it seems to exist in these moments. Joe speaking in a language the world might think dead, the true master of softness within the room.

And there we have it! I have so much more I want to write, I have so much more I want to explore, and I thank you all for sharing in these journey’s with me. May there be more writing in our future!

#nate does writing #end of year fic thing #self positivity #things nate has written #long post

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damienthepious · 4 years

Text

sorry I don’t have more Scattered for y’all this week! but, see, i finally moved out of my terrible living situation uhhh yesterday so things are a bit hectic at the moment. hopefully next week? wish me luck y’all. IN THE MEANTIME, THO. An au that’s been stuck in my head for a while, that i realized i could chapter out to encourage myself to work on it more. hope y’all enjoy?

thorns that burst from my skull in the night (chapter 1)

[ao3] [ch 2] [ch 3] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, The Keep, Sir Damien, Rilla

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Canon Compliant, Prophetic Dreams, Alternate Universe, canon typical Arum ignoring feelings, (very mild suicidal ideation or at least. canon typical arum being reckless with his own life)

Summary: Arum has always seen glimpses of the future in his dreams. This gift is sometimes useful, but more often than not it leaves him with more questions than answers. The dreams of the flowers are particularly unhelpful.

Notes: I've had this one on the back burner for a while, but I moved into a new apartment literally yesterday, everything is a mess, and I did NOT have time to write a proper chapter of my current in-progress WiP, so here's the first part of something new! because that's always a good idea what the heck. Title from the song Pyrrhic Victory by Minimall.

Arum dreams a garden. It is the reoccurring dream the lizard Lord wakes from most often. Wakes gently, which is an interesting change from the vast majority of his prophetic dreams.

It is more abstract than his augury usually is, a flurry of soft petals, a distant singing, and the twang of- something. Something he cannot place. Elements of the dream rise and fade as it reoccurs, dragging out between years as it becomes just another part of his life. At times it comes with the distinct clash of steel, at others he hears a second voice join the song, and still again he feels either a frighteningly delicate touch, or the bite of manacles at all four of his wrists.

It bodes ill, Arum thinks. Flowers and song, and softness, it must either be a metaphor or an outright lie, and neither option puts him at ease. Even laced with the more ordinary threat of restriction and weaponry, he does not trust any of it.

He barters his services in exchange for access to the libraries of monsters he knows have an interest in botany, digs through tomes and guides until he can identify the other two of the three flowers from his dreams. The first he needs no assistance with; it is him. Always him, though it vacillates between the delicacy of the arum lily and the imposing spire of the titan arum. The other two, he finds with relative ease.

Honeysuckle, and amaryllis.

There is no direct connection between them, botanically speaking. They are unrelated entirely. They do not even grow in the same places, which is worrying because it indicates that this dream is almost certainly symbolic, and Arum abhors dealing in symbolism. It utterly undermines what little usefulness there is in his limited gift when he needs to wade through interpretation to find any actionable information in his prophecy.

He grits his teeth through his research into flower symbolism. It is almost entirely useless. Most flowers seem to have a wild array of meaning attributed to them, sometimes with ideas that entirely oppose one another. Amaryllis consistently seems to carry connotations of pride and determination, which Arum does not find distasteful, but it also means radiant beauty, which Arum could not care less about. Honeysuckle is more worrying; the meanings are all so soft. Happiness, devotion, affection, generosity, bonds of love-

Saccharine sentimentality, and selflessness. Nothing a monster should do anything but sneer at.

Another version of the dream arises around this time. He sees himself as he was in youth, the smallest of reptilian whelps, sees himself curled and sleeping in the throat of a flower, something not uncommon even in his adulthood. However, this time the flower in question is a beautiful and over-sized amaryllis bloom, with the other version of himself clutching to the pistil, the entire scene infused with relief and restfulness and safety. Arum wakes and feels hollow, that morning. Feels cool, feels uncertain, feels irritated with himself and his augury before he shakes the softness and rises to work.

That one of the flowers is arum, is Arum himself, concerns him further. If one of the three represents him, it raises the possibility that the other flowers represent someone else as well. Two different someones, likely.

He plants each of the strange flowers in his greenhouse. It is an act of defiance, of course, an act meant to rob the prophesy of any power it might otherwise have. He makes the symbol into something literal, something he can brew into a poison or a tea, depending, something he can touch outside of his dreams.

There, he thinks viciously, tending to the plants as they grow, pruning and fertilizing and brushing his knuckles soft down vibrant leaves. There. This mildest of prophesies is fulfilled. Here the flowers will be, and then the dream needs haunt me no more.

The honeysuckle blooms first. It fills the greenhouse with the scent of subtle sweetness, and when Arum places a flower on his tongue it tastes like a loose sunbeam, it smells precisely as soft as all of its adjacent symbolism, it makes him feel-

Well. It doesn’t matter. It is only a flower, after all.

The amaryllis are slower, but the blooms come just as wild in their time. They could be useful, he thinks, for brewing certain poisons, but he does not pluck a single flower. He could not explain why. He does not want to break any of those stems, and so he does not. It is enough of a reason in itself.

The dreams, of course, do not cease. The do soften, however. They come less often, but now the scent is more real in his dreaming snout, the sunbeam flavor filling his mouth until he could drown in it, but at least it is no longer a suffering of every single night. He may forget it, for days at a time.

He does not forget it. He could, he thinks. But he does not.

He hardly has time to worry over the matter anymore, anyway. His hard work and spotless reputation as an architect have (despite his other reputation as rather difficult to work with) gleaned him some arguably fortunate attention. Arguable, because while the eye of the Senate may be beneficial to him eventually, may earn him some protections or benefits he could not even predict, they are also powerful enough to threaten even Arum’s territory. If their attention turns sour, if they are unhappy with the results he produces (highly unlikely, his skill is unmatched), the repercussions could be severe.

The work is difficult. Demanding. It leaves little time for sleep, which allows him to avoid the dreams entirely, both those concerning his blooms and the other more troubling ones besides.

(cavern dark and wet, no magic here, only blight, only threat, only steel and mud and hatred and fear so sharp it curdles in the air)

(wilting song, wilting song)

(squalling of hundreds, his denizens, his charges, afraid afraid afraid and ready, as any animal, to bite back)

(weight unbalances, and so from the scale you must be)

Context. If the dreams gave even a hint of context he could use the information, but as it stands-

Arum works. The Keep works with him. They need be tireless, they need work beyond their means. He finds the Moonlit Hermit (another flower of which he has dreamed relentlessly, though at least those dreams had some use) and the work is easier, then, if no less time consuming. He must continue until the Senate is satisfied, or-

(wilting song, wilting song)

Or who knows what they may do to his home. He is relentless. He creates. He ceases to take satisfaction in this work. There is no time for that, and the weapons that the Senate demands are cruel in a way that Arum finds distasteful, regardless. There is skill in the work, of course, but Arum is diligent, and he samples his own poisons in safe quantity, and he knows what these things will do, to whomever the Senate turns them upon.

Arum does what he must. It was never his desire to make a crueler world, but-

But there is a war on. His desires pale in the shadow of it.

(the moment the first stone was thrown)

He dreams the Citadel, which is almost certainly the worst of portents thus far. It is an augury that makes sense more quickly than is typical. If his newest project can be coerced into doing as he intends, if he can manipulate them to grow fast enough to please the Senate, the resulting creature will require a tether. A focus. A direction in which to aim its ire, and that will mean-

Infiltration.

He wrinkles his snout in distaste at the idea, and the feeling of human-carved stone under his claws echoes back out from the dream. He is going to have to infiltrate personally, perform the task on his own. If he asks the Senate to find another to seek what he requires for his work, it will show too much weakness. He has no choice. He is running out of time to give the Senate what they desire, and his Keep is (wilting song) ill. And quickly becoming more so. He has no time. He has no choice. He must end this employment so he may turn his attention inward, so he may fulfill his deepest purpose.

He sharpens all his knives, and he does not sleep the night before he journeys out.

Perhaps this is foolish. His dreaming could give him some hint of danger, could allow him to see the troubles he may face, but he cannot stand relying on them, and he does not wish to attempt this reckless heist with the scent of flowers stuffed into his snout. If he fails, it will certainly be death, one way or another. He is willing to face that without debasing himself to the capriciousness of the dreams.

He will realize, later, that even if he had slept, the dreams would have only shown him the same as they had been showing for years.

Arum, and honeysuckle, and amaryllis.

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #the keep #also the phrase ''arum dreams a garden'' has been stuck in my head since this au spawned #bless #oneiromancy au

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