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frostfire-17 · 5 months

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What is cuneiform?

@ipsomaniac asked if I could explain the cuneiform system, and so I am going to give it a shot. Here goes! (Update: it got long! But there's pictures!)

Part I: What does it look like? How do we work with it?

This is the cuneiform script:

This is a first-millennium BC text of Sargon II, in Akkadian (specifically Neo-Assyrian). My user icon is a much older Sumerian text. In a second we'll see some Hittite. Just like the Latin script is used for English, French, Turkish, and many other languages today, the cuneiform script was used for lots of languages in the ancient world. It changed a bit over three thousand years of constant use, but it remains pretty recognizable because of the wedges. "Cuneiform" is just Latin for "wedge-shaped," because scholars love giving things banal names and then translating them into Latin or Greek so no one can tell.

This is a Hittite tablet:

This particular tablet is part of the royal funerary ritual (which has many many MANY tablets, many of which are way more broken than this one, and/or missing entirely). It's been pieced together from lots of fragments, all excavated separately. (You can see their excavation numbers written on the fragments, e.g. 39/c.) It's written on clay, like most of their texts were. This is a pretty good amount of preservation for a tablet this size - many are more fragmentary. I wish the picture were better, but tablets are not catalogued by how good the pictures are and it would have taken a million years to find a really hi-res one suitable for our purposes.

You can see that each symbol is made up of a bunch of wedges. These were pressed into the clay with a stylus while it was still wet. If you look closely, you can also spot spaces between words (more obvious at the end of a paragraph).

Here's a little slice of our tablet:

And here's a drawing of that same little slice. This is how scholars usually interact with texts on a day-to-day basis, because taking readable photos of tablets is difficult and going to see the tablets is more difficult. Drawings are made by experts in the presence of the tablets and published so that everyone can look at them.

Here the scholar who did this drawing (published in Keilschrifturkunden aus Boghazköi vol. 39, text no. 4) was working with only some of the fragments, and so has written in the transliteration of the left half, which they weren't copying. So you can see how each cuneiform sign corresponds to a written syllable, sometimes in lowercase, sometimes in all caps, and sometimes in superscript.

What does all this mean? How does it work? Okay. Cuneiform is a really difficult and frustrating writing system to read, for a few reasons. 1) It grew organically from a time before writing existed, so people were just kind of slowly figuring out how to use pictures to represent words; 2) it lasted for thousands of years, so there were all sorts of innovations tacked on without necessarily jettisoning any of the old stuff; and 3) it was borrowed through quite a few languages, almost none of which were related to one another, so it had to twist around and adapt to totally different sounds and word structures. So it's weird! And hard to learn, especially for us, because we are not native speakers of any of the languages that used it, and also we're not a single person existing in a snapshot of time, where cuneiform had a specific form and iteration - we're looking at its whole span of three thousand years.

THAT SAID. I can explain some stuff about it and how it worked! Here goes!

Part 2: How does it work as a writing system?

We start with a picture. Let's use a star. Like this: 𒀭

Or this:

(this is a student text copying the star sign over and over - ignore the leftmost column. I got it from this excellent thread here)

This is the cuneiform sign for the sky, or for a god. In Sumerian, the language that first used cuneiform, the word for "sky" is AN. The word for "god" is DINGIR. So this sign could be pronounced either AN, and mean sky, or DINGIR, and mean god. This sort of usage is called "logographic" - a sign equals a word. It started as just a picture of a star, and came to mean a couple of things associated with the stars.

Eventually, there reaches a point where it doesn't just only mean the word "sky," it also means the syllable "an." That is, you could use it to represent a part of a word, or a grammatical element, that was pronounced "an." (E.g., ma-ah-ha-an: mahhan, which is a Hittite word that means "when," and which is written with four signs, including our an.) This is called the rebus principle: like a rebus puzzle, a picture of an eye can also mean "I" because they sound the same. This usage supplements the logograms rather than replacing them: you could still use "an" to mean "sky." You know which usage is in play based on context. (Or at this stage, maybe you don't. Sumerian is real hard and we don't understand it perfectly.)

You can also use signs a third way, which is designed to make reading easier: as what's called a "determinative." A determinative tells you what type of thing a word is. So if you use the star symbol as a determinative, it comes before a word and indicates that upcoming is a god's name. It's not pronounced when it's used like that. Other determinatives include: male and female markers, plural markers, markers to indicate what something is made of, what kind of animal it is, etc.

So any sign you see could potentially be a word (logogram), a sound (syllable), or a soundless classifier (determinative). In practice, only some signs take on all three of these functions.

When we transcribe signs now, we write them in Latin script based on which function they're serving. That's why, in the above Hittite texts, some of the signs were written in all-caps (for logograms), some of them in lowercase (for syllables), and some of them in superscript (for determinatives).

So then Akkadian borrows the system. They like to spell words out a lot more than the Sumerians do, so more and more signs are used primarily for their syllables, rather than their meaning. The signs also take on more syllabic meanings, because Akkadian has different words behind the logograms, and also has different sounds than Sumerian. A lot of signs end up doing double, triple or even-more-ple duty (e.g. the sign for "ag" can also be read "ak" or "aq" in an Akkadian text). Once again, you know how to read a sign from context, and in Akkadian you usually actually do know, because Akkadian is a Semitic language rather than an isolate like Sumerian, so we understand it way, way better.

Akkadian keeps using the symbols as logograms, though, too. Sometimes they'll spell out a word, but sometimes they'll just use the logographic symbol for it - like how sometimes we write out "two," and sometimes just write "2". Sometimes there are full Sumerian words or combinations of words that have become logograms: that is, they're not loanwords. They're not pronounced in Sumerian. They're written as a symbol (like 2), and the Akkadian word would be pronounced underneath (like "two.") The Akkadians also keep using determinatives.

At this point, most signs at least have a logographic value and a few syllabic values. Also (to make it extra difficult) plenty of syllables have a couple of different signs that could be used to represent them. In total there's a bit over a thousand cuneiform signs, incidentally, but usually only a few hundred were in use at any given time and place.

Then Hittite borrows it! They actually overall reduce the number of signs used, and the number of signs doing double duty, so it's generally simpler to read. Hittite's sound system is totally different from Akkadian's, though - which is totally different from Sumerian's - so they do some weird stuff with which signs represent which sounds. (The result of this is that our understanding of Hittite phonetics is somewhat imperfect.) They do use a ton of logograms whenever they're talking about physical objects, especially ritual offerings. Ritual texts are A PAIN IN THE ASS to read because they're full up with obscure logograms, and so you pore over a signlist trying to work out what the bonkers twelve-wedge sign you've never seen before is, and then when you finally find it you're like, "oh ANOTHER kind of bread. cool cool."

Part 3: Let's Read Hittite! (This is probably excessive.)

So finally, let's read some together! This is two lines from the Ten-Year Annals of Mursili II, an account of the first ten years of that king's reign. It's mostly conquering, but this bit is calmer.

(ANNOYINGLY, Tumblr will not do superscript, or I cannot make it anyway, so I will put determinatives in parentheses.)

nam-ma (URU)Ha-at-tu-ši ú-wa-nu-un nu (URU)Ha-at-tu-ši

gi-im-ma-an-da-ri-nu-un nu-za EZEN4.HI.A ŠA MU.6.KAM i-ya-nu-un

That's the text rendered sign-by-sign. Everything that is separated by a dash, a period, a space, or a parenthesis is a separate sign. Words are separated with spaces. Here's a more normalized rendition of the words (still with the logograms, though).

namma (URU)Hattusi uwanun nu (URU)Hattusi gimmandarinun nu=za EZEN4.HI.A ŠA MU.6.KAM iyanun

"Then I went to Hattusa, and I spent the winter in Hattusa and performed the festivals of the sixth year."

The ú in uwanun in the first line is written with an accent because there are several signs that can mean "u" and this is the second one. Similar for EZEN4: there's more than one sign for EZEN, and this is the fourth. Scholars always write logograms and determinatives in Sumerian, because that's where the meanings were fixed. URU, used before Hattusa, is both the determinative for "city" and the Sumerian word meaning the same. ŠA in the last line is italicized and capitalized because it's a logogram that comes from Akkadian: "ša" means "of" in Akkadian, and the Hittites used Akkadian words as logograms just like the Akkadians used Sumerian words.

Anyway, that's how cuneiform works! If you made it this far you're a hero! <3

#hittites yay!#cuneiform

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whiskygoldwings · 2 months

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The Tattooist: Chapter Two: Wrench

I won't lie, I've been kind of terrified of putting this out, in case it didn't hold up after the first chapter. Everyone was so amazing and writing such wonderful things about it; the fear of letting people down was very real! But, here it is, a very different feel for this chapter, but I hope you all like it too!

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The second time she tattoos a clone trooper client, it is an act of defiance.

This time Trix reached out to her first, sending her a message asking for an appointment for one of his brothers. She'd asked if this man had any idea what he wanted in advance, and Trix had tentatively answered her that he wasn't sure, just that his brother was angry, and needed to do something to get the itch out of his skin.

Elaah had blandly pointed out that Trix now knew full well that tattoos actually made you itch, and he had blushed before laughing sheepishly, admitting she was right.

She'd accepted anyway, arranging a date and time. She'd slotted in a whole day session, figuring that if they couldn't work out a design together, she'd maybe be able to pick up some walk ins, or get some of the admin done instead. Trix had given her the name “Wrench”, and made a comment that he was a pretty great guy normally, just he might be on the frustrated side when he came to see her. She'd carefully selected a day when Cafas was in. She didn't think any of the troopers would be likely to get aggressive, but she'd worked in the lower levels long enough to not be willing to take the chance.

She was just enjoying the last few sips of her coffee when Wrench stormed through the door, a cloud of righteous fury blasting in with him, making the force smell like burnt rubber. She managed to catch her expression before she wrinkled her nose, getting the feeling he would have taken one look at her face and walked straight back out again. Calmly, she puts down her mug, and places her hands clearly on top of the counter in front of her, empty palms flat against the surface. “I assume you're Wrench?”

“That's me,” the man says, arms crossed and jaw taut. “Trix told me to come to you.”

Elaah smiles at him, hopping off the stool and waving him over to her workroom. “Trix is a man of his word. Didn't tell me much about you though, just that you were angry.”

Wrench strides after her, passing her where she holds the door open and sits down on the comfy sofa as if it is the most uninviting, hard-backed chair ever. She glances over at Cafas' workroom to see him stood in the doorway, one grey eyebrow raised at her. She quirks a smile back, then goes into the room herself, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. She doesn't get a sense of violence from Wrench, more bottled up rage and frustration that needs to find an outlet. Cafas will keep an ear out, but she doesn't need him in the room.

She grabs her pad and stylus, freshly wiped the evening beforehand, and sits down in her armchair across from him. For a moment, she just watches the stewing man then tilts her head at him. “So what are you here for Wrench?”

He laughs bitterly. “You know you've gotten my name right twice more than my bloody chief so far?” his fists clench. “It's not bloody hard! My name is Wrench. It's a karking tool! People across the galaxy use them every day. I didn't choose it for complexity. I like working on machines, it seemed logical and simple. Apparently kriffing not!” he gets up and paces infront of the sofa, face twisted in anger, and when she looks deeper, hurt.

She realises she knows what he's here for, and quickly sketches out the basic shape of a wrench. “Your chief doesn't call you your name?”

Wrench laughs again, a haunted, broken noise. “My chief can't tell us apart. He's natborn, doesn't lift a karking finger, yet he lords it above us all like he's some kind of gift to the universe. I'm not even sure the man knows what a wrench is, he clearly hasn't used one even once in his perfect life.” She feels bitterness and exhaustion in the force. This man has worked hard to get where he is, and the smallest bit of recognition would go a long way. “I want him to look at me and say my name. Not hey you! Or trooper! Hell, even my serial number would be better than being treated like the shit on his shoe.”

Elaah blinks, not quite sure what to make of the serial number comment, before focusing in. “You want a wrench tattoo somewhere obvious.”

He whirls to stare at her, clearly taken aback for a moment, before nodding sharply. “I want it on my kriffing face.”

They stare at each other for a moment, then she places the pad and stylus on the table and crosses her arms. “If that is what you really want, I'm not going to persuade you otherwise. How long have you been thinking of this.”

He stares for a second longer, than slumps onto the couch. His whole body seems to crumple, like he was geared up for an argument, and the strings of it have suddenly been cut and released him. “I didn't think you'd agree,” he glances up at her.

She nods. “That's part of why you're so angry isn't it? You thought I'd say no, try and convince you you didn't know what you wanted to do with your own body.” He shudders, and she has to fight with herself not to go over there and hug him. “I think you've had enough bodily autonomy taken away from you without me joining in.”

Wrench looks sharply up at her at that, before releasing his breath all at once. He sits back up, steadying his shoulders, and looks at her without anger for the first time that day. “Trix was right about you,” he says, then smiles at her. “You're right, I want a wrench. I want it over my left eye. I've been thinking about it since I saw Trix's tattoo. Hadn't really thought about it before that, I'll be honest with you. Hadn't really known it was an option I guess. But it hasn't left my mind since. Trix gave me his credits, and a few others who feel like I do have given me theirs. Trix made me promise to agree a price with you before you began,” she grins sheepishly as he fixes a stern look on her.

“Will it get you into trouble?”

“Probably,” he shrugs. “But I've made that choice. If they decommission me for this, I'll have still looked that man in the eye and made him recognise me.” His back straightens further, and she can see the pride and defiance in the tilt of his chin.

“Decommision you?” She asks, browridge furrowed.

Wrench shakes his head. “I shouldn't have said that much really. Just... Whatever happens after this is my choice and my fault.”

Elaah stares thoughtfully at him for a moment. She can guess what the word means, doesn't quite want to let herself believe that they would go that far. But Wrench had felt honest and passionate when he spoke, and she feels a hard lump forming in the base of her throat. She swallows round it, making her own choice. She had already told him she wouldn't take his bodily autonomy away from him. Denying him his choice now would be just as bad. She'll just have to deal with her own complicity if it comes to it.

He's watching her still, clearly aware she's having her own crisis of conscience, but not interrupting or trying to guide her to a choice. It settles her own decision further. This proud man, stripped of so many of his own options, has made sure she has her own, even if it will mean he doesn't get what he wants.

She clears her throat, and picks up the padd and stylus again.”I get the feeling you don't want anything fancy,” she says, glancing at his grateful expression before looking back at her simple sketch. “More something bold. Obvious. Unmistakeable.”

Wrench nods.

“Do you want it solid black, linework or colours” she asks, blocking in the lines of the tool more purposefully. She's going to make this the kriffing best wrench she'd ever drawn.

“Solid black?” Wrench queries, and she nods, quickly finishing the outline and filling it with the colour. She turns the pad around to show him, and he looks over it critically, before the corner of his mouth quirks up in a grin. “You didn't even use a reference for that.”

She hums. “It's like you say, a wrench is a universally known tool after all.” It gets a laugh from Wrench, and she bares her teeth at him in a smile. He laughs harder at that, and she stands up and goes to print out the stencil. “Lie on the bed if you would please, on your back and tilt your face to the right on the cushion.”

“Price first,” he raises an eyebrow at her, not moving, and she growls as he smirks. “Trix was very clear about making you agree to one first.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, placing the printed stencil aside and pulling out her black ink. “75 credits. I won't take anymore than that.”

“I haven't even said what size I want it” he protests, and she turns and raises her own eyebrow at him.

“What size do you want it?”

He indicates from his nose to just before his ear. “Basically as big as you can get it really. Karking obvious, like it's stamped across my force-damned face.”

She nods and turns back to her ink. “75 credits then.” It's the lowest price they quote, but she doesn't particularly want to take any of the hard-won money from these men. She'll figure out some way to feed it back into the GAR, though she suspects it'll be harder than it should be to ensure it will go to the men.

Wrench snorts behind her, clearly aware she's quoting low, but accepts it as a truce, and goes to the tattoo bed.

It doesn't take long to get prepared with only one colour on the plan for today. She carefully places the stencil, fitting the bottom half of the wrench on his left cheek and the upper half continuing on over his eyebrow, a gap for his eye. She slants it so the top fixed jaw skims below his regulation short hairline, and makes him to get up and check it before she'll begin.

He stares at it for a moment in the mirror, a fierce look on his face, before nodding at her and lying back down on the bed. She'd offer him some numbing spray, but she suspects he wants to feel every moment of this, and would resent any offer to ease the pain. With a tap of her fingers to the lower part of the wrench, she presses the tattoo gun to his cheek, and begins.

He can't talk during it, too much risk of knocking the gun out of place. But she can feel the edges of his emotions in the force, and the flow of catharsis through him. Every stroke of the needle across his skin feels like resolve, and she finds herself growing calmer as the tattoo takes shape. She lines it first, giving herself an edge to work against, then begins the careful shading in of the solid black. It won't be easy for Wrench to come in for a touch-up fighting in a war, so she needs to make this as uniform as possible. She slips into the focused meditation she usually finds in the hum of the tattoo gun, and the spread of ink across flesh.

Wrench doesn't flinch or move once during the entire process. He keeps himself rock still, in a manner that hits her all at once has been trained into him. What have they been put through, she wonders, to know how to remain unmoving in the face of constant pain. She has to set the thought aside, to be examined at another time, so her needle doesn't grow harsh and cruel in her grasp. There is, of course, plenty of pain, considering the location and simply the nature of tattooing, but she doesn't let it become any worse than necessary.

He sits so well that she finishes in record time. The solid black statement stares defiantly across his face, and she gently wipes it down as Wrench takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. She's not sure he actually blinked at all during the time she was tattooing, though he must have done. She gets close to his face, staring carefully at every endge of the tattoo, and the stretch of black at it's core, ensuring she hasn't missed a spot, or wavered in her lines. Satisfied, she leans back, stretching her arms above her, before patting Wrench on the shoulder. “It's done.”

He sits up, a little faster than she would have liked, but she gets the sense he needs to see. She's proven right when he swings his legs straight off of the bed, and marches over to the mirror before she can tell him to slow down.

Wrench stops, and stares at his own face. There's something blistered and painful in his presence in the force, yet also something wondering and cautiously pleased. She wonders what it must be like to be constantly surrounded by the faces of people who look just like you, looking for ways to make your own identity among an army of people physically exactly the same. She wonders if he's finally looking at his own face for the first time, and knowing it to be only his. A little part of her weeps for this man, but she doesn't let any of it show. This is not like Trix. Trix needed empathy and support. Wrench needed her to be quiet and to respect his choices.

Wrench takes his own time to examine his new face, and the line of his shoulders straighten as he takes on the aftermath of his decision. He turns to her, all the anger bled out of him, leaving only determination behind. With confident steps, he approaches her and nods. “Thank you,” he says, reaching into his pocket and counting out exactly 75 credits. No more, no less. He hands them to her, and she takes them with a nod of her own.

“It should be bandaged, to protect it,” she says, but is unsurprised by the shake of his head.

“I'll go to the medics on the ship if I need to, but I need to wear this openly.”

She doesn't argue, and as he walks out, she hopes she gets to hear the story of what happened when the chief officer saw it from him. She hopes she hears it from him directly, years down the line, when he's looking perhaps for a touch up.

She doesn't let herself consider what “decommissioned” may mean.

#star wars #the clone wars #clone wars #OC characters #OC clones #fanfiction #Star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #tattoos #tattoos as healing #crossposted to ao3:CentrauGuardian

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chezzabellesworld · 3 months

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Virgo, Venus style

Have a style that is noticeable in some ways, subtle, but then you have people like Kim Kardashian, where you have to add the Sun and rising into this position of these people who ever Virgo Venus is going to be Scorpios. The other side and libra is also Sagittarians and Virgos and Leos,.

Blake, lively, I believe is right, is one of my best styled on the carpet, but I wanted to go away from the carpet in the stylus and go to streetwear and home because a lot of these placements are models and actresses et cetera so Bridget Baldo, Sophia Loren and Bella Hadid give perfect Virgo Venus, where it is very classy Not too eccentric attention to detail is definitely a vital trait anyway, but I believe these women all have prominent Virgo in the chart and then you get like Kim and Kylie who are both Leo and Libra sons with water moons so there’s definitely like a spectrum when it comes to this Venus signbecause as we know the Kardashians, like to blackfish and other peoples races, yes Kim is a Armenian, but Kylie is not and the funny thing is Kylie looks more like Kim and in the show Kim was getting influenced by Kylie when she was dying to feel older.

The dresses are definitely giving Virgo on the red carpet attention to detail the shades stuff at the expense you know how to save the right things to get what you like they often love to shop less being nitpicky and tidy all the time they will have an area of their life. That is a complete mess.

Kayson point, Kanye West came into Kim‘s life and he changed the whole wardrobe. This is when he was still in his dark twisted fantasy phase and was wearing like the dark coats dark clothes, but not too over the top how he is now did have a thing of clothes and making a team like I said used to do it and he left both had his moons and prince was also a Gemini with a water rising, so I will post a separate post of that error of them and the king, Kylie era so people are definitely influenced by Virgo Venus, but taking consideration and mix up your style a bit with your rising sign with it and also your sun sign.

Like I said with Bella Hadid, her address is on the catwalk and on her day-to-day life is very viral energy. It’s not too subtle and it’s not too over the top it’s perfect and it’s good quality good quality network, good quality jeans, but also fine with labour son, and then we have Blake lively. Who’s got many Virgo planets in her chart and she puts it all together with Leo rising should be a showstopper.

#astro observations #astro community #astro placements #astrology observations #astrology #astro notes #astroblr #virgo venus #virgo sun #virgo #virgo rising

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serpentarius · 3 months

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Anton and Viago want to #SaveOFMD

“Babe,” Anton calls out to Viago, who’s been lounging in the other room while Anton’s catching up on work. “Can you grab me the charger? Laptop’s dying and I’ve gotta finish reading these manuals tonight. Think it’s by the sofa.”

He hears Viago shuffling for a minute. But then, the silence drags on a bit too long, so the werewolf checks in again. “Vi? S’it there?”

No response, still. Barely any sound actually. Though after nine years of being together, and the most recent five of those living together, Anton’s learned that vampires are amazing at sneaking up on people, on account of being able to levitate and move at paranormal speeds. And the completely unnecessary need to breathe. Natural predators, them.

“You alright in there, love?” he tries again, voice tinged with a tiny bit of concern this time.

And suddenly, the vampire - his vampire - appears at the threshold of Anton’s study. He’s not floating, but walking slowly. His mouth is formed into what appears to be the biggest pout-frown Anton’s seen on him in months, maybe even years, and even from where Anton’s sitting he can see his eyes are glassy. He’s staring down at the phone between his hands (the Galaxy Note that Anton had bought him for his last birthday, equipped with a stylus since they’d learned that touch screens didn’t register vampire fingerprints), but he still isn’t saying anything.

“Babe!” Anton immediately gets up from his seat and goes over to him. “What’s wrong??”

He’s just put a hand to Viago’s face, the action silently urging the vampire to speak despite the tears now spilling down his cheeks, and puts his other hand on Viago’s shoulder.

“Anton,” Viago’s voice wobbles. Christ, Anton’s heart always feels like it’s been pierced when Viago is upset. “It has been cancelled.”

(Ficlet continues under the cut! Happy ending impending, I promise ❤️️)

He feels his own face twist with confusion. “What has, love?? What’s been cancelled?”

“Our pirate show,” and there’s a frantic panic in the other man’s tone, now, lips quivering and brows furrowed in disbelief. “Our beloved pirate show!”

“Our Flag Means Death?” Anton exclaims. He starts to shake his head, “No, no - what? No way, Vi, where’d you hear that?”

Viago’s cheeks hollow, as if forcing himself to hold back more tears.

“It is all over the news outlets.”

“What?” Anton repeats. “But I was just on Twitter a few days ago and it was - it seemed like a sure thing! Samson put up some not-so-vague posts on Instagram, and Jenkins was engaging with the fans–” “He is the one who has announced it!” and now, Viago has turned his phone toward Anton, and Anton’s eyes take a second to focus. He’s met with a picture of a familiar unicorn masthead, beautiful and backlit, and then he scrolls down to see the caption–

And his heart sinks.

OUR FLAG won’t be returning for a third season.

“What the hell,” he wants to yell, but it comes out as a soft, broken whisper instead. “No, what? This has to be a joke…”

The vampire shakes his head sadly.

“What the fuck?” and now, the werewolf feels the volume rising in his chest. "What's the network thinking, doing this?!"

Viago’s face crumples. Another shooting pain in Anton’s chest. “It is not a joke,” and he’s openly sobbing now, unable to hold them back anymore, and on reflex Anton pulls him close, wrapping one arm around his waist and placing his other hand on the back of Viago’s neck, letting him settle his face into the crook of his neck. “It’s not fair,” Viago muffles out, voice thick, “Why would they do this?”

“Christ. I really don’t know, babe,” Anton murmurs. He’s at a complete loss for words - his stomach is flipping and the upset is rocking his core, and he's angry, and off-balance, and there’s nothing he can say that can make this better. “I genuinely don’t know.”

Perhaps another partner would tell their sobbing significant other not to get so upset about a television show. That these things happened all the time, that this was just how the business went sometimes; that time would heal the wound, and that something new would eventually come and take its place.

But that’s now how Anton feels.

Since its release, Our Flag Means Death quickly became their thing.

Even with him working more evening shifts these past few years–in an attempt to adjust his sleep hours to spend more time with Viago–the opposing nature of their natural schedules still weighed on them some days.

So having this shared interest together - something to look forward to, one of the few things they would never dare to participate in without the other - was lovely, and deeply special. Nothing could replace what this show meant to them.

It started out as quite a lighthearted viewing experience. They enjoyed the new episodes every week and giggled in delight over pirate shenanigans, and couldn't help pointing out the somewhat uncanny physical similarities of the actors playing Ed and Stede to Viago and Anton themselves.

It wasn’t until more than halfway through, though, that they realized a romance plot was building up between the leads. As the story progressed, there were more moments that pulled on their heartstrings, almost entirely in sync with each other. When Ed's eyes would light up around Stede, or when Stede tucked the red silk into Ed’s vest and told him you wear fine things well, Anton would glance over at Viago, and his chest would swell at the sight of him. Happy, beautiful, clearly very touched by it all, and just a second later, glancing right back at Anton with love in his eyes.

And then, the kiss. Anton and Viago had both been holding their breaths during the buildup, anxiously watching Ed and Stede talk through their feelings on the beach, hoping the moment was coming, and yet still rocked by pleasant surprise when it actually did.

But then, Stede didn’t show up to the dock. And Ed went back to the Revenge. And then, they were at the finale.

The pair of them were already emotional wrecks partway through the episode, and then suddenly they were screaming through their tears when the final shot closed on Stede in the dinghy.

"How the hell could they end it there!" Anton had yelled, now on his feet and just inches away from the television. “How could they end it like that??”

"I think that David Jenkins is an evil genius!" Viago had yelled back.

“Stede has to find Ed!” Anton continued. “I mean, they’ve gotta have a series two now, right? Right?”

“He has to find him,” the vampire had said with wide eyes and his hands clasped in front of his heart. “He has to!”

(Anton’s not ashamed to admit that, when they’d tumbled into bed together soonafter the finale, they held each other even tighter than usual. With every kiss, each breathless gasp and tangled limb and treacle-sweet term of endearment whispered into the other’s skin, the I love yous flowed freely from them, even long after their bodies were spent. Ed may not have known how Stede felt about him yet, but Anton had long ago made it his life’s purpose to never let Viago forget how much he loves him.)

The wait for the news on series two renewal was grueling, particularly because it seemed the network was taking a ridiculously long time to renew a show that was so clearly a hit, having already amassed a gargantuan fan base.

During these months, Anton had become somewhat obsessed and found himself on Twitter - an app he had previously avoided like the plague - only because it allowed him to monitor for any Our Flag-related news. Unfortunately it had become somewhat of an addiction, though luckily whenever Viago would ask what had gotten him so glued to his phone, Anton felt he could be honest, and Viago’s irritation would ease once he’d snuggle up to Anton so they could scroll together.

At long last, the series two news came, and the pair of them celebrated for the entire following week. Celebrations included a season one rewatch, Viago overindulging on blood bank baggies, and Anton overindulging in one too many rye and gingers. (And sex. Lots of sex.)

When series two finally aired, it was even better than ever, and they’d filmed it in Aotearoa! The couple hadn’t been able to make it up to Auckland to try and catch a glimpse of production while it was happening, but that hadn’t mattered much. It didn’t take away from the distinct, glowing sense of pride Anton felt, and he couldn’t wait to see the breathtaking landscapes of his home country dazzle the silver screen.

And it definitely didn’t disappoint. Even with the heartbreak of Izzy’s fate at the end, both he and Viago felt like this series had been an even grander rollercoaster than its predecessor. And in their hours-long discussions after the fact, they agreed that Ed and Stede being on their own for a little while was a good idea; that they needed the chance to be away from pirating to sort their own relationship out.

“They will return to the ship, though,” Viago had adamantly stated. "I do not think they will make very good innkeepers, after all. And I do wonder if that Frenchie will make a suitable captain…”

“Frenchie’s plenty capable, babe! Plus, he’s got a ship full of badasses to help him out if he ever slips up.”

“This is true. They have Zheng the Pirate Queen and Auntie, and Fang!”

“Don’t skimp on the merit for the rest of the crew,” Anton points out. “Even with Buttons gone, Jim and Oluwande know their way ‘round the ship. And Lucius is a proper pirate now, and you’ve got the veterans like Pete, Wee John, and Roach... plus, oh, they’ve got the Swede back too! And I dunno if Spanish Jackie’s ever sailed but I’m sure she could teach them a thing or two about something - man. They must be having a ball of a time on there.”

“Ja, you are right of course, my love,” Viago replies warmly, and he zones out for a moment, likely getting lost in the idea of the pirate family at sea. Then, suddenly, “Ooh, I have just had the best idea! We should make a party for Calypso’s birthday and invite all the others! We can decorate the flat and wear pirate-y costumes.”

“And buy a barrel of rum?” Anton adds cheekily.

“It would not be complete without that, of course. And of course, also a barrel of blood for us vampires.”

Anton grins at him. “Brilliant idea as always, love.”

Because yes, at this point, they had already successfully gotten the other vampires and werewolves into the show. The idea had initially been met with some resistance; Vladislav revealed he had a personal vendetta against pirates (Anton reminded himself to ask about that history at a later time), and Clifton only exclusively watched shows about crime, with lots of gore and violence to boot. (“But pirates are the ultimate crime-committers!” Anton had told him, which was apparently all he needed to trick Clif into it).

But by the end of episode one, every single one of them was invested. From there, they organized regular watch parties, and as they watched, Anton would think warmly of how their own mismatched group - the Te Aro pack and Wellington vampires, absolute misfits, so wildly chaotic and different from each other, and yet still able to become as close and loving as family over the years - were sort of like their own Revenge crew.

Oh, god, Anton thinks now, suddenly snapped back to the present. “Fuck,” he says aloud. “The others are gonna be devastated about this.”

Viago’s shoulders droop and he nods sadly. “They will be very upset. I am afraid Vladislav may go on quite a rampage once he hears of this.”

“Can’t believe how much he loves the show,” Anton can't help but chuckle fondly. “Even despite his messy past with Kristoffer Trondson.”

“Yes,” a small smile plays at Viago's lips. “I am proud of him for getting over his deep, intense hatred for pirates.”

The disappointment quickly returns, a creeping grey cloud of hopelessness and dread filling the room as the reality starts to sink in.

“Fuck. This sucks, love,” Anton exhales, suddenly feeling tears pricking the corners of his own eyes. “This really sucks.” Viago says nothing, only pulls him back into a crushing embrace, and they stay like that for a while.

The next day, Anton's sadness morphs into rage.

“Apparently the CEO at the top-top is some soulless corporate arshole,” Anton growls later that night, the harsh glare of the computer screen causing his eyes to strain.

He had barely been able to get through work today, his mind so distraught by the news of cancellation that he had to take himself aside and snap his brain out of it. Now, he's furiously sipping at his flat white while Viago hands him his blue-light blocking glasses. “He's a known homophobe, apparently, which - Christ, isn’t surprising at all, is it - and determined to burn the whole company to the ground! He’s gotten rid of everything of substance, Vi, just so he can get more money out of it. Absolute shithead of a man!"

Viago makes a displeased sound. "He deserves nothing but curses," he rumbles, but then his tone shifts into one of hopelessness. "So what it is we can do now? I am not ready to say goodbye to our pirates, Anton."

“I know, babe. I know how much they mean to you,” he sighs. “How much they mean to us. I mean... fuck, we still need to see Ed and Stede get married! And the rest of the crew needs to get back at Ricky, and kill the English, and just... ah. What a numpty fucking decision this was, not to renew."

They spend the rest of the evening away from the computer, because everything Anton sees about the news is making his blood boil, and he needs to keep that shit in check - he rarely wolfs out at random anymore, but this one seems to be getting to him. They go for a lovely walk to the waterfront, and try to distract each other as best as possible, and settle in for bed in the wee hours of the morning.

It's not until Viago finds Anton, just a few hours later, sniffling on the couch with his phone out in front of him, that Anton realizes how deeply the hurt is settling into him.

“My love,” Viago joins him on the sofa, blinking a bit blearily. “What is it you are crying about?”

"Sorry, 'm sorry, babe," Anton wipes at his face, "I didn't mean to wake you, I just - couldn't stop thinking about it, and now I'm reading someone's post about how the show saved their life - helped them realize who they were, that they didn’t have to hide anymore, and it just - just made me…”

But he isn’t able to finish the sentence. Because Viago knows. They know each other so deeply, now, that they don't always have to speak out loud for the other to understand. Viago just presses him close, wrapping his limbs around Anton’s and slotting them together the way they’ve done so many times before. A perfect fit.

“I think that perhaps we should stay off the interwebs for right now, liebling,” Viago whispers gently, stroking his hair. “Because it is making us too sad.”

“Yeah,” and it comes out a bit choked, “Yeah. Think you’re right. Think we need to get our minds off this for a bit.”

A few days later, Anton gets a ping on his phone. A text from Stu.

Have you seen this? followed by a link.

Anton is confused at first, but then he clicks on the link, and his eyes go wide.

Hours later, he hears the front door click open; Viago's back from his visit with the vampires, and starts talking to Anton about some Vampire Council business, and normally Anton loves to hear about the wildly dramatic politics of the supernatural world but today, he just yells out at Viago to join him in the kitchen.

"Got something to show you!" Anton tells him, leaning over the island with his laptop open.

“What is it?” Viago asks curiously, shrugging off his white cape.

“Right, okay, so - I know we said we’d take a break from the internet, but look,” and once the vampire is standing next to him, he points to the screen.

He shows him the tab with the official petition, first. The link that Stu sent him. Renew as a Crew, it reads, followed by a short blurb. A petition that already has tens of thousands of signatures and counting.

Then, he cycles through to Twitter, slowly going through the newsfeed where they see multiple articles from major news outlets condemning the cancellation decision, and numerous trending hashtags about saving the show; countless initiatives and analyses from fans, advice on what the best course of action is to get the show back; letter-writing campaigns and posts tagging other networks to consider picking up the series, celebrities voicing their support, an endless amount of fanart and fanfiction, screenshots and GIFs and videos, posts from people celebrating the friends and community they've made through the show — “Look babe,” he feels his own eyes crinkling at the edges. He rests a hand on the small of Viago’s back as the vampire leans over him. “They’re not going down without a fight.”

Viago examines the screen, taking over the mouse and scrolling for a while. Finally, he looks back to Anton with a sparkle in those big, beautiful brown eyes, and a genuine smile that lights up his entire face.

“Then neither will we.”

Anton smiles back at him, and then makes a show of cracking his knuckles.

The ideas are already circulating in his head; he's already sent the petition to their immediate social circle, and considers sending it to the folks at work. He and Viago can start writing letters to the network, and send as many emails as possible - Stu could help with that tons, too, what with his IT background - Anton could even get in touch with the few film industry friends he has, see if they have any insider knowledge or advice. Maybe their little Wellington community could even start up a sub-initiative of their own.

“Let’s go get our damned men back.”

SIGN THE PETITION HERE! And follow Renew as a Crew on Twitter for more updates. Love you all! We can do this!!

#renew as a crew #this fic just flowed out of me because I love the show so much #I wouldn't have discovered vianton without it #our flag means death #viago x anton #flash fic friday #this is very meta and weird I know #but I couldn't help it!#these two are just as upset as we are #and they want to #save OFMD #vianton #wwdits #viago von dorna schmarten scheden heimburg #anton the werewolf #what we do in the shadows

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fumiko-matsubara · 1 year

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A warm-up portrait of Kaede 🍮

My stylus pen just arrived in the mail today and I immediately went to try it out~

Also I tried to make sense of Kayano's hairstyle, considering the length was very inconsistent throughout the series.

Instead of simple twintails, I imagine her hair to be twisted downwards and then held up with hair clamps, hence the volume of each "tail". That makes it possible for her hair to be still long, but also look shorter with the twintails.

#assassination classroom #ansatsu kyoushitsu #assclass #kayano kaede #kaede kayano #my art #digital art #my illustration #warm up portrait

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fascinatedscrawls · 3 days

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Phic Phight Prompt: Kwan starts a poetry club and invites everyone at school to the first monthly poetry slam. Some unexpected poets show up.

Word Count: 1881

For TheSilentBard

Summary: When Kwan revives the old poetry club he gets a bigger crowd than expected. Danny's sure no one is going to forget this meeting, especially not Mr. Lancer.

The club room is full to bursting, students - some excited, but most reluctantly - occupying each of the cheap chairs scattered almost haphazardly around the place. Slouched in one of the back corners, Danny watches Mr. Lancer pick his way through the messy array of seats to get to the front of the room with a dead-eyed stare.

"Excuse me, pardon me, please don't leave your - oof!" The teacher trips and nearly falls, barely catching himself on the back of a chair instead of braining himself on it and all Danny can muster the energy for at the sight is a slow blink. "Lord of the Flies, Mr. Baxter! Do be more careful with where you rest your feet!"

Closing his eyes even if he knows he can't sleep here Danny hears a snort which could only come from Sam. Technically, unlike him and Tucker, she isn't required to attend the club session for a chance at extra credit because she's acing the class.

"It hasn't started yet." Tucker points out helpfully, stylus still tap tap tapping away at his PDA. "You could leave. If you actually wanted to."

The teasing barb hits its mark once again and Sam slouches further into her seat with a tsk.

"I'm here to watch how hard this bombs." In her pause for emphasis, Danny can almost hear her rolling her eyes. "I haven't wasted fifteen minutes of my afternoon just to leave before the show even starts."

"So you admit that you're attending the new poetry club for fun." Tucker snipes, smile clear in his voice. There's a scuffle over Danny's head as Tucker ducks whatever Sam threw in retaliation. Used to it and too tired to participate, Danny slumps down until his head is resting on the back of his chair. The smooth plastic is uncomfortable and his spine is already protesting at the angle, but pushing himself back up is just too much work.

Now at the front of the room, Mr. Lancer speaks to Kwan at a volume that's likely a little louder than he thinks. Or, Danny grimaces as something else flies over his head and Sam hisses, it could be some kind of ghostly hearing he's developing.

Ancients he hopes its not that, but it would explain why he's finding it so hard to sleep these past few nights. Even for the evenings without ghostly visitors he's barely getting a couple of hours at a time. He opens his eyes to glare at the injustice of it all, which looks a lot like the pockmarked ceiling of the club room.

"Now, we're all very excited to see the old poetry club get enough interest and funding to finally return after over a decade with no members," Mr. Lancer says catching Danny's attention and likely repeating himself for what must be at least the third time if Kwan's disinterested smile is anything to go by. Two encouraging pats on his shoulder courtesy of their teacher twists his smile into something closer to a grimace for half a second before it settles into a more natural expression. "I know you had something in mind for the first meeting and hopefully, by offering that extra credit today you'll see membership continue to improve. However, if things go off the rails you can count on me to help with your inaugural meeting."

The words would likely be more comforting if someone didn't yelp in the back of the room just as he said them. Wincing, Danny closed his eyes at the loud noise before a tingle at the back of his throat made him straighten up abruptly. Eyes wide and far more alert than before, he stares open mouthed at a handful of ghosts calmly floating in through the closed door, drifting towards the front of the room without any care for who might be sitting in their way.

Another aborted scream or two rings out before Mr. Lancer even has a chance to turn to address it with a, "Edgar Allen P-"

The last of the English teacher's oft stated and highly creative use of the famous poets name as an epithet cuts off in the face of the man himself.

Or more accurately, the ghost himself.

Mr. Lancer coughs behind a hand, clearly having a hard time believing his eyes. At least a third of the room is on their feet, but when the ghosts do nothing more than mutter to each other they clearly start to relax. After months of ghost attacks and at least a few weeks of less dangerous hauntings happening all over town it looks like most of his classmates are willing to risk a sudden, potentially dangerous turn around in an attempt to earn a few more free points for class.

"Poe?" Mr. Lancer finally manages to squeak out. He looks ready to faint as the ghost nods a greeting (the ghostly raven on his shoulder doing the same, pulling a snicker from a few people around the room including Tucker), but holds it together with a gulp as he straightens his tie.

"Shakespeare, Poe, Dickinson, Frost - what do you know," Sam mutters as she identifies more of the ghosts on stage than Danny could have managed. It's no wonder she's actually passing the class. "Maybe this won't be so bad after all."

"How," Mr. Lancer visibly swallows back his nerves even as his hands shake. "How nice of you to join us. Will any of you be participating in our poetry readings today?"

"Yes. As always, we're here to share our works -" One of the ghosts (is it Frost or Dickinson? Wait, Danny corrects himself, he's pretty sure Dickinson is the lady actually) says before getting interrupted by the raven.

"Evermore!"

The ghost sighs at the spectral bird, but they clearly expected the interruption as they don't comment on it. Instead they go back to consulting with the ghost beside them, quietly discussing which poem they'd like to read today if their only faintly indistinct mutters are anything to go by.

"Delightful!" This has absolutely made Mr. Lancers day if not his whole month judging by his wide smile. He turns the slightly manic expression on Kwan who flinches under the force of it. "Perhaps we can hold off on your planned presentations until after our guests have, ahem, graced us with their works?"

It sounds less like a question and more like an order, especially when Mr. Lancer doesn't even wait for a response before motioning Kwan to a nearby seat.

Danny relaxes into his own with a light sigh of relief as the scattered conversations around them take on an edge of awed excitement. Not a fight then. Huh, he's actually not sure why he thought there was going to be one when clearly these ghosts are just here to indulge in their obsessions.

He quickly puts the thought out of his mind and settles in to hopefully enjoy a performance straight from the horses mouth (maybe that will be what finally helps him understand iambic pentameter), which means he jumps along with half the students when the door gets kicked in.

"Freeze, ecto-scum!" Two white suited men shout in what has to be a practiced synchronization of words and poses. Both of them have ecto guns in their hands. Hilariously, neither of the blasters are pointed anywhere near any of the ghosts.

"They should probably take off the sunglasses." Sam snarks, now on her feet and sounding more relaxed than her tense posture displays.

"But without them they'd just be odd wedding ushers." On Danny's other side Tucker eyes the GIW agents with all the suspicion they're due.

"I think they'd be just as blind either way," Danny points out, sliding his chair a little further back in case he needs to disappear behind his friends. It's looking more likely.

Or it is before Danny gets a look at Mr. Lancer's face.

Danny has done many things that his teacher does not approve of. He's missed class, forgotten homework, fallen asleep on his desk, and even attempted to cheat on his exams, but never before has he seen Mr. Lancer look like this. Instinctively, he finds himself hunching his shoulders in an attempt to make himself smaller, less noticeable, in the face of someone clearly ready to rain hellfire upon their enemies.

The GIW are making an attempt to aim at their foes only to find themselves blocked bodily by one enraged vice-principal.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Lancer grinds out, frowning hard enough that Danny starts to wonder if the expression hurts him to maintain. His words are polite, but the tone is very clear: he doesn't hold even an ounce of respect for these invaders. "Our poetry club was just about to start. Please see yourselves out if you plan to be disruptive."

The white suited agents protest loudly, but it's abundantly clear that between Mr. Lancer and the students who were excited for a chance to hear from the masters (or possibly, just very invested in this afternoon's extra credit) that they won't be capturing or shooting any ghosts today.

That's good, because Danny's too busy trying to slow his heart rate down after he finally noticed Sidney Poindexter hovering just behind his shoulder. It took Tucker pointedly clearing his throat and Danny's pretty sure he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of the glowing teen.

"I see you've found the Dead Poets Society," He pushes his glasses back into place with a bland look in the face of Danny's weak glare. "I had wondered where they got to when they missed our usual club meeting."

"They meet regularly?" Danny asks, but doesn't get more than a nod in response before Sam cuts in with a question of her own.

"Why at the school? I'm sure there's other good places to meet."

"I invited them and offered it as a neutral ground." There's a pause as Danny shares a look with Sam and Tucker, all of them imagining the circumstances behind some famous poets needing specifically 'neutral ground' to meet on. Danny winces as he suddenly remembers every bruise or worse that he's gotten since ghosts started visiting Amity Park's very clearly not-at-all-neutral ground. Sidney ignores their silent conversation, not looking away from the ghosts quietly arguing at the front of the room. "It certainly made the poetry club less repetitive, so I've let the weekly meetings continue."

"So what you're saying," Tucker grins as the door to the classroom is slammed shut and locked, muffling the indignant agents' argument, "is that we're definitely in for a show."

"Well, I could imagine worse ways to spend my afternoon." Arms crossed, Sam settles back into her chair and, following Sidney's example, ignores how Tucker's smile somehow reaches new heights of smugness.

"Well, at least it will be an interesting extra credit assignment."

And maybe, if he's lucky, it'll be a reoccurring one. Danny could really use the extra help passing any of his classes. Besides, if the stars in Mr. Lancer's eyes are anything to go by, Danny wouldn't be the only one checking in on the poetry club's weekly meetings from now on. Danny might as well get some extra points for keeping an eye on some positive ghost-human interactions.

#phic phight 2024 #one shot #danny phantom

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starlitangels · 1 year

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Letters

Have some sweeter fluff as an apology for yesterday’s pain. Forgive me? 2.4k words

(I’ve been imagining the ship as an impossible combination of the starship Enterprise, the Serenity from Firefly, and a pirate galleon so... yeah that’s why descriptions of the ship I write probably don’t make any sense)

—

“Devlin, can I borrow these?” I asked, hefting two tablets up into my arms.

“Of course. What are you going to use them for?”

“I’d… rather… not say. But nothing bad, I promise.”

Devlin scrunched his eyebrows. “Alright…”

I smiled. “Thanks. I’ll come back up to the bridge in a bit.” I moved to leave—and paused in the doorframe. “By the way… have you seen Albus?”

Devlin glanced at the ceiling with fluttering eyelids and gestured vaguely. “He’s probably doing something I’m going to have to patch up later. Last I saw him, he was in the canteen doing a handstand against the wall.”

“… Huh. Alright,” I said.

“Why?”

“When I haven’t seen or heard from him in a couple hours I get worried that he’s doing something he shouldn’t.”

“You and me both, sister,” Devlin said, sounding tired.

I sighed. “Hey, why don’t you put the ship on auto-pilot for a while and go get some rest?”

He shook his head. “I can’t. I have too much to do.”

I raised a brow and narrowed my eyes in a stern glare. “Devlin York,” I warned. He whipped his head to look at me, looking a bit startled. “Promise me you’ll take a break and get some rest.”

He blinked rapidly. “I… I will.”

I smiled with self-satisfaction. “Good! See you later!” I strode off the bridge.

Wandering the ship, I peered into every room in passing, looking for Albus. The tablets were meant to be carried by crew members and weren’t particularly big or heavy—but two stacked on top of each other were a bit unwieldy. They kept trying to slide against each other and fall out of my arms.

I finally found Albus where Devlin said he’d been—in the canteen. But instead of doing a handstand against the wall, he was holding onto one of the metal trusses that supported the ceiling and was pulling himself up, lowering back down, and going up again. Facing away from me with his ankles crossed.

And conspicuously missing a shirt. Which was draped over a chair bolted to the floor near him. I made a face and went over to the table nearest him. Pretending not to notice and making a pointed effort not to look.

“Hey there, faithful,” Albus said in that voice he always used when he was flirting. “Come to take in the view?”

“Not on your life,” I retorted. I set one of the tablets on the table in front of the chair where his shirt was, and set mine down on the chair next to it on the round table. “Come sit.” I indicated the chair with his shirt.

“What for?”

“I did your stupid fighting lessons. Now I’m going to teach you something.”

Albus chuckled where he was still dangling off the truss. “And what could you possibly teach me that I don’t already know?”

I sat in my chair and indicated his again. “Sit,” I snapped.

He dropped off the truss and scooped up his shirt. “Okay, okay. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Say that again and I’m going to hit you,” I threatened.

He smirked. “I’d like to see you try. Have I mentioned you’re hot when you’re angry?”

“Once or twice. Now sit. Down.”

He pulled his shirt on lazily, covering the dark Bastard Mark on his chest, and plopped down into the chair. “Alright. I’m sitting down. What is it? What do you think you can teach me?”

I took the stylus out of the casing of the tablet I’d borrowed and wrote on the screen. With a flick of the wrist, I slung the words from my tablet screen onto his.

Albus’ dark eyes narrowed. When they looked up at me, he looked a bit miffed. “Faithful—you know I can’t read.”

“That’s the point,” I said. I scooted on my chair so I was closer to him and tapped the top of the first letter I’d written. “This is the letter A. We use it to denote a few different sounds. Ay, ah, aw. It’s actually the first letter of the alphabet.”

“Okay…?”

I tapped the next letter. “This is the letter L. It makes the ul sound.” I moved to the next one. “This is B. It makes the buh sound.” The next. “This is the letter U. We usually use it for the uh and oo sounds.” The last of the first word. “This is S. It makes the ss sound.”

“And all of this is relevant to what?”

“Shut up and let me finish.” I tapped the first letter of the next word. “This is Y. At the beginning of the word, it makes a yuh sound. At the end of a word, it’s usually an ee sound.” The next letter. “This is the letter O. It makes several sounds too. Oh, aw, uh sometimes. If there’s two together it makes the oo sound.” I moved to the next one. “This is R. It makes the er sound.” And the last. “This is a K. It makes the kuh sound.”

Albus blinked slowly, owlishly. Looking from my eyes to the tablet screen and back again. “Why do I care?”

I sighed and leaned closer to his tablet screen. “A-L-B-U-S Y-O-R-K. Albus—” I underlined the first word. “—York.” I underlined the second. He stared at the letters. “That’s your name. This is how to spell your name.”

He looked up and met my eyes again. “Faithful…”

“I don’t think I can fully teach you to read in the time we’ll have together. It’s hard and a lot of the rules don’t make sense when it comes to spelling. But the least I can do is teach you how to spell and sign your own name.” I gave him an encouraging smile and pulled the stylus out of his tablet’s casing, holding it out for him. “Go on. Give it a try?”

He took the stylus from me. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“It’s not a sin to know how to write your own name. And besides, when have you cared about things like that anyway?” I looked down at my own tablet screen and scribbled my own name on it. “Try copying my letters on the line below. Or trace right over them. Whichever feels best for you.”

Albus narrowed his eyes at his screen.

I added Devlin’s name to my tablet, but mostly watched Albus. He was tracing my letters.

“Hang on,” I said.

“What?”

“Holding the stylus in a fist isn’t an efficient way to write. It slows you down—and it hurts after a while.”

“Faithful, I’m a warrior. Holding my hand in a fist for a long time is what I do.”

I scoffed and rolled my eyes. “That’s not what I meant,” I said. I copied how he was holding his stylus. “See how this lifts your arm so far off the table? That puts a lot of strain on your forearm muscles. So when you’re writing for a long time, they get really sore.” I held both hands out toward his hand. “May I?”

He huffed out his nose in almost a sigh and set his hand in both of mine. I readjusted the stylus and reconfigured his hand and fingers around it, showing him how I held it.

“Sorry we’re doing this on tablets. It’s a little more difficult this way. I couldn’t find any paper on board. Plenty of writing utensils, but no paper. Which is an oversight I’m sure Devlin will be very grumpy to hear if I point it out to him.”

That actually earned me a chuckle. “Eh. Vinny’s always happiest when he’s grumpy about something.”

I glanced at Albus’ face. “Something you have in common, then,” I said.

He opened his mouth to protest, thought for a moment, and pursed his lips in what was almost a smile before looking back down. “This feels weird,” he said instead, nodding at the stylus.

“I’m sure it takes getting used to.”

“Why do you say it like you’re not sure?”

“Because I learned to hold a pencil or a stylus like that a long time ago. I remember learning but I don’t remember getting used to it. I already… just… am used to it.” I finished configuring his hand. “There. Try writing that way. Rest your arm on the table. It’ll ache less after a while.”

Albus grunted and followed my instructions, going back to tracing over my letters. He did that a few times before moving down to the area below mine and copying them.

“Why are you watching me?” He sounded grumpy. As usual.

“Just monitoring.” I bit the inside of my cheek between my molars for a moment. “And I never noticed how you scrunch up your nose when you’re concentrating.”

Albus’ ears turned red and his neck went blotchy. “Shut up. I do not,” he grumbled, finishing the K of York and starting over on the next line. I’d spelled everything with capital letters. I doubted he would understand different casings of letters yet, and I doubted we’d ever get to a point where he’d need to learn that—for some arbitrary ancient reason—we used two forms for the same sounds.

I suppressed a smile as best I could and looked down at my tablet, writing something else on its screen before flicking it over to his.

“Recognize any of those letters?” I asked.

He studied it. “The, uh… the A. The… what’s this one called again?”

“U.”

“The U. And… the L.”

I let my grin tug on my face properly. “That’s faithful,” I said. “Seemed easier than teaching you my full name.”

“What are the other letters?”

I leaned closer to his tablet again. “That’s an F. It makes the ff sound. You know A. The one next to it is I. Putting the A and the I together is what makes the ay sound in faith. The letters after that are T and H. On their own they make the tt and hh sounds, but together they make the th sound. Apparently back on Ancient Earth there was once a separate letter for that sound called thorn but it got phased out of use.” I moved to tap the next letter with my stylus. “Then the F again. And you recognize U and L. F-A-I-T-H-F-U-L. Faithful.”

He glanced up and looked at me. I met his gaze. His eyes were so dark. A pair of unfathomable bottomless abysses. I couldn’t quite read his expression. He opened his mouth as though to say something. My eyebrows twitched upward, expecting to listen.

One of the double doors to the canteen whirred open. “What are you two up to?” Devlin asked.

The silence—and the silent tension—shattered immediately.

Albus covered his tablet screen. “None of your business,” he said. The blotches on his neck darkened. I slid my hand under his arms and tapped the clear button on the notes screen we’d been using before clearing my own. Devlin gave me a look with knitted brows.

I shook my head and got up, holding out a hand for Albus’ tablet. He passed it over immediately, along with its stylus, which I tucked away before putting the one I’d been using away and scooping it up. I met Devlin’s gaze. “Is something wrong, Devlin?” I asked, raising my eyebrows expectantly.

His eyes were still narrowed. “N… no. I’m just checking in on everything.”

“Mother henning over faithful now, eh?” Albus joked, getting out of his chair and pulling his shirt back off before jumping to catch the ceiling support truss again.

“No,” Devlin retorted with a roll of his eyes. “This ship is meant to be crewed by a minimum of twelve people and I’m trying to do it on my own as best I can. Which means doing safety sweeps by myself.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Albus said. I pointedly kept my eyes away from him as I moved to leave the canteen.

“Need a hand, Devlin?” I offered.

“If you’re willing to offer one, sister, I would be grateful.” He followed me out of the canteen.

“Have fun, you two!” Albus called sarcastically.

Devlin moved as though to flip him off, cast a quick glance at me, and dropped his arm.

The doors to the canteen whirred shut behind us. Devlin fell into step beside me. “So… are you going to tell me what that was about or would you rather not?”

I took a deep breath. “Albus can’t read,” I said quietly.

“I’m aware. Most bastards aren’t taught. Especially when they become warriors.” He still looked confused.

I shrugged. “He made me do some fighting lessons with him. I figured I’d show him how to write his own name.” I leveled a glare at Devlin. “But don’t tell him I told you.”

Devlin’s eyes widened. “I won’t. I swear.”

“Good.”

“Sister, if I may ask… where do you find compassion for him? He’s vulgar and violent and brutish and—”

“And he’s still human,” I interrupted. I sucked in a breath. “Look. I met him because one of the higher-ranking sisters at my temple decided I needed to be taught a lesson in caring for everyone no matter who they were. He came to us injured. I patched him up. I asked him to come with me on my journey. And this mission… I finally understood the lesson that sister was trying to teach me.” I met Devlin’s eyes. “He’s not a monster, Devlin,” I added quietly. “And I’ve come to wonder why your father was the one that committed the sin yet Albus is the one to suffer because of it. He was innocent of the sin. His birth wasn’t his fault. So why is he the one getting punished?” I shrugged. “Worth the thought.”

“Sister…”

“What do you need from me for the safety sweep?” I interrupted before he could say anything more.

“Oh. Well, um… follow me.” He turned at a junction of corridors and I followed.

—

Tagging my GB peeps: @palilious @gwenifred @halscafe @ryn-halo26 @staplesmainbitch @dollscircus @miloeveryday38 @zozo-01

#Good Boy Audios #GoodBoyAudios #fic #GBA BW #GBA Bastard Warrior #GBA Faithful #GBA Albus #GBA Devlin #Starlit Fic #YES this is the fic I thought of last night and stayed up way too late writing

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nemisisnemi · 20 days

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mmm bright and pastel colors go chomp.

drawing my persona as headspace! basil?

#drawing this was a struggle as my stylus kept cutting off and not working randomly #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland oc #art #twst persona #persona #watch me draw a matching leona one #omori #omori basil #omori game #headspace basil #pastel colors #bright colors #bright colours cw #nemi rambles #nemi draws

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hereforthefanficsandromance · 13 days

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Fan Prize Story #3: Finding the Way Back Chapter III

Masterlists

AO3 Blogger Tumblr Audio Versions

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Chapter Summary

Cal's psychometry brings light to your feelings for him. Rating: 18+ Words: 3.2K

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The noisy sounds of life rouse you from your sleep. A low roar of animal noises constantly sounding informs you that the mission is not yet complete.

As you shift, Cal’s voice rings out, a reminder that you slept beside him. “Good morning.”

You rub the sleep from your eyes and stretch. “Morning. How are you feeling?”

He grunts while shifting. “It hurts, but I think I can walk, but I’ll probably need a hand. I don’t think I can put much pressure on it.”

You nod, eyes taking inventory of what supplies you’ve scattered around the campsite. Reaching into the bag, you search for food and water to prepare you both for the tiresome journey ahead. Cal thanks you, and you eat in silence before you pack up.

Your stylus rolls out of the top heavy bag as it falls over. You shove it back inside, wedging it between the light blankets that were crudely folded.

You bend at an angle to allow Cal’s arm to drape across your shoulders; catching his right hand in yours to pull him to his feet. Every touch feels electric, your mind focusing in on how his body feels against yours. You try to stay friendly, but the eagerly pumping blood causes a light sweat throughout your body. At least the humid planet will disguise your nervous reaction.

“Are you steady?”

Cal shifts, trying to figure out how to best walk with one leg. “Yeah.”

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It’s slow moving, working back up the steep path that you had originally climbed down. There’s too many times that Cal loses footing, almost dragging you both down to the bottom of the cliff. BD jumps from Cal’s shoulders, opting to walk ahead of you both, scanning the flora along the way.

It’s a grueling trek. The last ten feet are nearly vertical, requiring you to lean your body into the dirt. Each step feels impossible and you have to fight to not look down. Cal yelps as a rock catches his foot, slamming his injured leg into the cliff-side. You hold him tight; he presses his entire body weight against you until the pain subsides.

Despite the terrifying conditions, you can’t help but imagine his body against you under different circumstances.

But you push those thoughts aside, focusing on the final few steps over the edge.

You get the ball of your foot on the flat land, but the dirt gives way. All your strength works to fall forwards, toppling to safety. You twist to fall on your back, pulling Cal upwards and cushioning his fall with your body, both landing with a grunt.

His leg miraculously takes no further damage and you breathe out a sigh of relief. You lay there a moment, you on your back and Cal on top of you, both breathing heavily.

Then awkwardness takes over as you realize the compromising position. Cal tries to lean up but struggles to without hurting himself, his face going red. Your first instinct is to push him away, but you move slowly to avoid tossing him back over the cliff, rolling you both further from the edge.

Cal moves off your body, rubbing the back of his neck, sweaty and pressing his lips together. “Can we please take a break?”

You flush. “Yeah, sorry!”

Cal and you sit in the dirt, dirtying your clothes and panting, desperate to cool down. You pull water from the supply bag and toss some to him. He chugs, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he drains the vessel. You look away as soon as he is done, draining your own supply.

You almost choke on the final few drops as he reaches behind his neck to pull his shirt up and over his head, revealing a tight tank top underneath. Eyes roaming the length of freckled skin pulled tight over his hard worked muscles.

Cal’s words cut into your ogling. “Hey…thanks for telling me about your past last night.”

You take a couple of moments to recover. “Oh, yeah, sorry for burdening you with it.”

He meets your eye, his eyebrows furrowed. “It’s not a burden. I want to know more about those I care about.”

You are someone he cares about? A half smile crosses your face, trying to play down how his words make you feel. “It’s kind of embarrassing…”

He cocks his head, watching you. “Why’s that?”

You wring your hands anxiously. “I don’t know, just, talking about my love life to another Jedi…feels taboo.”

“I guess so, but I feel closer to you for knowing.”

You don’t respond, instead reaching out your open palm, requesting his shirt and tossing it into the bag. “We should probably keep going. We still have a lot of ground to cover.”

Cal nods, attempting to climb to his feet before remembering he needs to wait for your help. “Agreed, but I don’t think we’re going to make it back by nightfall. We should stop the next time we find a good place to rest for the night.”

You check the sun’s arc in the sky, he’s right, the cliff took hours to scale and light is slipping away. “You’re probably right. Let me help you up.”

The next leg of the journey tests your patience, but not because of supporting Cal. Instead, annoyed that you will have to spend another evening alone with him. You had been so sure you would reach the ship in a day, but this has not gone your way.

There is already guilt gnawing at you for having shared your past with him. You don’t want him to know you too well. You can’t stand the thought of anyone getting close, not again. But the hours under his arm are nice, even if you both are sweating through your layers of clothes.

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Finally, your path intersects with a clearing near the river’s edge. You and Cal only glance at one another before dropping to the bank to drink and clean your faces and exposed skin in the flowing water.

Cal speaks first. “This spot looks good. A lot less wyyyschokk web than the last campsite.”

You laugh through gulps of fresh water scooped up in your hands. “You think that’s a concern? We did seem pretty safe last night.”

Cal shockingly undresses to his underwear, earning a blush from you. “I hope not. I don’t have it in me to fight yet, but you’ll keep us safe.”

You nod and give him privacy to wash himself, and his clothes, while you unpack the supply bag. He finishes before you, and requests help to move to the grassy campsite, still dripping, laying his clothes out on the ground near your already kindled fire.

You head over to the water’s edge to wash yourself in more privacy, grabbing a spare set of clothes you had packed. Cal quirks an eyebrow at your forethought and shrugs as you leave.

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As you’re finishing up your quick bath, you barely acknowledge that Cal is unpacking the bag. He pulls the blankets from the depths and your silvery stylus falls out. You move forward to join Cal and retrieve your treasured item, but he reaches for it first.

You’re about to thank him when he freezes in place, his eyes glazing over, holding the object. That’s weird. Why would his psychometry activate on your stylus?

Your stomach drops, and time slows down. Nausea overwhelms you, and your mind races to correct the mistake. But it can’t. You can’t undo what he’s seeing.

The memories of spending hours sketching his face on spare pieces of paper. Desperate to capture his beauty and stare into his paper eyes late at night. You could die from the horror of knowing you had touched yourself to one of those drawings. The stylus wouldn’t, couldn’t, be showing him that memory, could it?

“Cal…”

His mind returns to his body. You both stare at one another in shock. His expression is unreadable, and you can’t bear to maintain eye contact any longer. You shake your head, bewildered, and your feet pull you away, into the darkening woods.

Your ears rush with blood and you faintly hear Cal calling to you from afar. Tears well and pour from your eyes, struggling to reconcile with the humiliation you feel. It’s too much. You sob, curling into a ball at the foot of a majestic tree.

Shame overwhelms you. You consider abandoning Cal and living in the woods forever.

You’ve lost everything. Your home, your partner, your trust in the Force, and now Cal. The way he looked at you, it was surely in disgust.

He doesn’t feel the same way about you, and now he has seen how you feel about him, in the worst possible way. It’s not fair. Why do you have to continue to lose?

A tug.

You freeze, not daring to wipe the tears from your eyes. Hand inching towards your lightsaber.

Another tug, so hard you can’t ignore it.

You spring into action, closing your eyes tight, gripping the hilt of your lightsaber. The muscles in your legs take over, leaping high into the air and back flipping. You’re lightsaber activates as you move, the glow perceivable through your eyelids.

You land on something hard and pierce the blade downwards, your eyes finally opening. The creature, a smaller wyyyschokk, screeches and collapses. You maintain your balance, riding its descent, not pulling your blade until it has crumpled beneath you.

A held breath finally escapes your lungs as you realize what you’ve done. More importantly, how you’ve done it.

The Force, it called and you listened. All you can do is stare at the kill and think over the last few years, searching for answers. Trying to determine if the Force abandoned you, or if you abandoned it. If your desperation to find a home blinded you to its call. Finally, arriving at the decision that it doesn’t matter, the Force is with you again, and you feel ready to trust in it, it saved your life.

You breathe out the words, “I felt it…”

Then drop to your knees, eyes instinctively closing, every muscle remembering how to drop back into meditation.

You don’t know how long you stay there, but when you return to the waking world, four words pour from your mouth. “I can trust Cal.”

You take off at a sprint, running through the forest. Trusting the Force to alert you of any danger.

You arrive, breathless, to the campsite, Cal’s head whipping upwards, a blank stare on his face. You stare back, all bravery subsiding.

Cal, now dressed, recovers first. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-”

You shake your head and raise your palm to stop him. “No, I’m sorry you had to find out that way.”

His mouth searches for the right words. “I’m-”

You stride towards him, sitting beside him at the fire, looking into the flames. “I like you, Cal, more than I meant to.”

His eyes are on you, his hand reaching for yours. “Listen-”

You shake your head, returning his gaze. “I didn’t mean to put you in that position. You don’t have to say anything. I will make sure that we get back to the Mantis tomorrow and once we arrive at a more civilized planet, I’ll go. I can start over again. It’s not a problem. I won’t stick around and make you uncomfortable. Please don’t worry about-”

Cal’s expression changes wildly as he processes each word from your mouth. Finally, his eyebrows knit, and his voice raises. “Stop!”

You snap your jaw closed. His features soften, regret in his eyes from his outburst, then he sighs. “I need you to listen to me. I’m not bothered by what I saw. I, uh, was glad to see that you feel the same…”

Your mouth falls open. “What? Why?”

Cal’s shoulders raise shyly. “Because I like you too…I have since we met, but we never really had any alone time together, except for missions. But those aren’t exactly great times to discuss feelings…”

You resist the urge to cry.“You…felt the same?”

He nods, then reaches for you again. “Come here…please?”

You take his hand and allow him to pull your body to sit against him, his arm wrapping around your waist. He nods to the droid on his back. “BD, think you could watch the perimeter?”

BD beeps and boops and scurries off, just out of sight where the fire’s glow no longer casts its light.

You are both silent for a moment, watching the flames lick towards the night sky. “I get why you didn’t want me to know.”

“You do?”

“After what you told me last night, yeah.”

His arm tightens around you, saying what he isn’t.

You look towards the heavens. “Cal, we shouldn’t pursue anything…I’m still struggling to trust anyone.”

The next thing you know, Cal’s free hand cups your chin, pulling you back down to earth, and crashing his lips into yours. There’s a moment where neither of you move, enjoying how your lips fit against one another. Cal’s hand slide around to the back of your neck as he moves slowly against your mouth. Just as you open your mouth to accept him, he pulls away.

“Cal…”

He presses his forehead against yours. “You don’t have to trust me yet. I’m willing to earn it.”

Your eyes close as you breathe him in. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to.”

A few tears escape from under your eyelids. His fingers brush them away. “Will you let me?”

You nod a minuscule amount and that is all the encouragement he needs to kiss you again, this time deepening it, his tongue sliding against yours, testing the waters. A small moan sounds from your mouth, encouraging his pursuit.

The two of you take it slow, savoring the feel of kissing for almost an hour without speaking. His hands stay mostly on your face or tangled in your hair. Though he once brushes the side of your breast as he slides his fingers down your arm. Your mind is electric, each touch freeing you of the pain you have suffered before this moment.

Cal finally pulls away, chuckling softly while looking at your mouth, his eyes hooded. “Hey, this is an odd ask…but with my leg, I can’t really take this further-”

You nearly jump out of your skin. “Of course! We should stop.”

Cal holds you close, his lips curling upwards. “That’s not exactly what I meant…”

You look up into his eyes, questioning his words. He catches his lower lip on your top lip, giving you a playful kiss as your noses bump. “I meant that if you’d like to keep going…you might have to be on top…”

Your face heats and you shake your head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He kisses your nose. “Hurt me?”

“Well, yeah…I mean, I’m-”

You look down at your body, and Cal follows your eyes. “Still clothed?”

You whine, feeling suddenly very self conscious. “No, Cal…I don’t want to crush you…your leg…”

He gives you a coy smile. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

You chew your lip, not speaking.

He uses a finger to tilt your chin to look into his eyes. “I’m pretty strong. I may not be able to do the legwork, but I’ll help you ride me.”

You gasp, then recover. “I don’t know.”

He shrugs. “I won’t make you do anything. But if you want to, I’d really like to.”

There isn’t a world where you give up the opportunity to sleep with Cal, so you squeeze your eyes tight and nod. Cal does his best to undress you both, removing his shirt before helping you with yours. You feel shy being exposed in front of him, but his eagerness to touch every inch of you puts your mind at ease.

Cal slides carefully out of his own pants, giving you a look to request you do the same. You oblige and can’t help but look at how his erection bobs against his lower abdomen, a sure sign of the effect kissing you had on his body. You want to reach out and stroke it, but you feel more comfortable letting him lead this time.

Once you are both naked, Cal’s lips reconnect with yours. His fingers sliding along the curve of your breasts while the other hand tugs at your back, silently urging you to straddle him. You are resistant, but allow him to convince you into his lap, taking care to not bump his injured leg as you mount him.

His hands find your hips as you position your body over his. He pulls you down, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. Cal watches in fascination as you sit, taking each inch of him into your body.

He lets out a guttural moan and barely keeps his eyes open as you take him the first time. Your eyes are long closed, your head thrown back in ecstasy, feeling him slide perfectly into your body.

“Stars, you feel so good wrapped around me.”

Once you are full of him, you rise, until the head of him barely stays put, his hands gripping you hard, slamming you down onto him. The sensation of his length slamming into your cervix draws moans from your lips.

Cal presses his mouth messily against yours, trying to maintain as much contact with you as possible in the fucking. He bucks his hips upwards to meet you, wincing slightly at the effort. You try to stop him, but he won’t allow it, seemingly unable to stop the need to fuck you back as you ride.

Each stroke feels like a drug, and one of his hands releases its grip. His other hand, doing a surprisingly good job of assisting you on its own. You whine when his fingers press to your clit, rubbing small and tantalizing motions on the sensitive bud.

He grunts while speaking. “I promise to give you more when I’m not injured.”

You can’t help but imagine what he would be like mounting you, railing you like a jackrabbit, unimpaired by his injury. Cal brings your thoughts back to his current touch as pleasure shoots up your spine, prompting another loud moan. He smiles against your lips, knowing he has figured out how to touch you. You wonder if he is using the memory he saw to aid his movements.

As pleasure builds in your belly, you struggle to ride him, hovering off his lap as he rubs your clit closer to orgasm. Cal fucks up into your clenching cunt, grunting into your mouth with each motion, desperate to take you over the edge with him. Your eyes clench tight as he draws the same little pattern with his fingers.

Your body begins to milk him, clenching down hard while moaning loudly. Cal only thrusts a couple more times before cumming deep inside of you, both your mouths hanging open against one another. Neither of you move, enjoying the feeling of being together as one.

Exhausted, you climb away from Cal’s lap; he uses the Force to pull your sleeping mat beside his. You both lie down, tangled in one another’s arms, pulling the blankets atop your bodies. Your heartbeats pound over the sounds of your collective breathing. Falling into a comfortable sleep, feeling finally safe, resting against him.

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factorialsotherfandoms · 4 months

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XCOM AU, set a bit before the whumptober exhaustion prompt (and maybe gets a chapter 2 covering either Mike's PoV post-rescue, or Pac's PoV of the rescue, but... well, I'll leave it 1/2 on ao3 until I have time to write it. It might be this evening, it might be in months, who knows). By this point the first of the eggs have been recovered, but Mike /does not know about them/. Because he was caught before then. As such, his info on what some things are is incorrect.

How the soul-bond works is not something I've explained and not something Pac and Mike quite understand, but tldr the further apart physically they are the harder it is to do anything with it, and more faint the 'passive' bond is. As in, what they just feel and get without putting effort in. Also the further they are apart the quicker doing shit like 'shielding each other from psychic powers' will tire them out. Pac absolutely ends up unconscious not long after Mike the first time around.

TW: torture, magical mind manipulation, serious head injuries

Pac is faint in Mike's brain, and for once it is a blessing. He hangs onto that fact, onto the fact he can tell his soulmate is safe - safe and not nearby - and bares his teeth at his enemy. It's been weeks now, if not months, pinned to the wall, tortured and starved and unable to move. The muscles in his arms are past strained, hands long number and still up there.

His glasses are shattered on the floor and, for some reason, it makes him even angrier than the rest.

One Cucurucho sits in the corner, a desk dragged into the cell in a mockery of professionalism. It has a tablet and stylus at the ready to take notes.

Mike refuses to give it anything of use.

And then the aliens. Two Sectoids are held on leashes by a Federation Guard, ready to be unleashed at any moment.

And then the Hunter, the Federation's pet sniper, something once human, twisted and corrupted and changed. Faster, sharper, with eyes that see further and hands too steady and psionics the likes of which not even the Order have seen before.

The Hunter, the Assassin, the Warlock, the Federation's three perfect soldiers. Human DNA spliced with alien, then turned out to destroy the world.

He holds a pistol under Mike's chin, pressing up and into the soft flesh just there. Still Mike hisses and snarls and refuses to give in. His body is littered with scars and injuries from the torture, his nails broken or gone, his teeth bloody, his skin torn.

Still he does not give in.

"You will tell me," the Hunter demands. "Where are the eggs. We know your people stole them, boy..."

"I don't have a fucking clue what you're talking about," Mike snarls back, trying to push forward and only catching himself on the gun.

There's some few surviving chickens who live on Kristin's farm - Philza's mentioned them before, and sometimes they get a delivery for the canteen - but he slipped last week and mentioned that. Whatever eggs the Federation want, it's not them.

"Of course you do," the Hunter continues. "How could you not? Hasn't your little friend let something slip to you? We all know about him. We all know you two do the..." his tongue flicks across his lick, and for a horrifying moment Mike remembers the Cell of years ago "/research/."

How dare he, how fucking dare he bring Pac into this. Of course they know about him - about them - but how /dare/ he.

"Haven't done research in years," Mike just about manages to gather some spit, aiming it at the Hunter's eye. He misses, but does hit his deathly-blue tongue. "Neither's he. Tubbo and Aypierre took over R&D years ago. You know this. You tortured him, too."

Cucurucho's blank eyes are watching them now, the tablet placed down and hands folded atop the desk.

"Are you sure about that?" the Hunter's fingers move over the trigger.

"We're not so stupid as to let field agents know the details of R&D," Mike lies through his teeth. Like you could ever keep him and Pac from the labs. "Moron."

"Then I guess we have no use for you."

The Hunter's finger twitches. Mike fucking dares him to try.

He definitely went to pull the trigger, but then freezes.

"Wait."

The robotoic, familiar voice of Cucurucho says. The creature - fuck knows if its an alien, a robot, or some lab-grown abomination - slowly stands.

Slowly walks over.

Keeps its hands clasped before it.

"I will take over this investigation," Cucurucho says, completely bland.

The Hunter lowers the gun.

The Federation worker and both sectoids drop dead.

Cucurucho's eyes glow purple, and it reaches one set of claws to Mike's cheek.

He throws every secret he can from his mind, throws it all back at Pac, along their strained and distant bond. He hides the core of himself there, too, everything he should be or could be or wants, hiding in the security of his soulmate as a creature of the Federation tries to break into his skull.

Even so distant, even so far apart, Pac manages to throw a shield around them.

Keep the information safe.

Keep everything that Mike /is/ safe.

Keep Mike from dying once again.

He can feel Pac's questions now, now he's forced himself into their bond, and their terror merges into one. Mike's still linked to himself, can still feel his brain bleed information as Cucurucho rips through it, reading not just his mind but his very soul. Steals everything there - or rather copies it - from schematics of old weapons to the identities of the prominent Order members to Mike's memories from before the war.

Claws scrape along Pac's shield. The essence of Pac's being holds the essence of Mike's being closer, entwining them and the truly /dangerous/ information together for as long as he can, keeps the shield up as long as he can.

It's agony, agony, agony, to feel something tear through Mike's very soul. But he's also closer to Pac than he has been in - in months, he reads from Pac, closer than he's been in months - and he drinks the comfort he can from his soulmate.

Even like this, even expending so much energy to twine over continents, Mike still cannot feel Pac's words.

Mike tires the faster, torture and mind fuckery taking their toll, but even Pac is flagging before Cucurucho pulls away.

Mike is aware of all of himself at once, of course, starts instinctively placing memories back in their proper place while Pac tries to cling to him longer.

"Useless," Cucurucho deems him.

Relief he didn't let anything slip floods Mike, even as Pac grows in terror. The grip they have on each other is slipping, slipping, slipping..

Cucurucho returns to its desk.

The Hunter raises the pistol.

Mike readies himself to die, and Pac refuses to let him go.

It's not a gunshot that comes; the pistol slams into the side of Mike's head.

The force is too much; Mike's head cracks to the side, and he feels something break.

Everything goes black.

When the world comes back, there are hands on him - he doesn't get it, doesn't understand, but Pac is still distant - reaches to cling to him as soon as the black fades - so Mike doesn't care. He doesn't have the energy to reach along the bond for Pac, but he knows how to fight and fight and keeps on fighting.

His skin is torn and he tears skin in turn and he doesn't know what is happening, but the hands are not human hands and the claws are distinctly monstrous claws so he fights and he fights and he keeps on fighting.

He sees but does not understand, touches but does not feel, listens but cannot hear, so he keeps on fighting.

A rifle butt cracks across the back of his skull.

This time he can hear Pac's scream as light turns black once more.

#qsmp fanfic #qsmp mike #qsmp pac #qsmp cucurucho #qsmp tazercraft #qsmp au #qsmp x xcom #hybrids and similar count as human for internal monologue and legal purposes so long as they are naturally occurring and native to earth #the hunter assassin and warlock are actually proto-eggs #proofs of concept before they started making eggs for purposes of possession #they became too individual to overwrite and so are now the federation's genetically engineered supersoldiers #its not actually seconds between the two cracks to the head its days #mike is... really not in a good way by the time people find him

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