#I'll write for the chosen

[attadale]

Spiritually burnt out reader + sweet caring John :( <3

Spoiler for the chosen2, fem!reader, worried John, maybe not canonically accurate (??), def should count my writing as a warning💀, english is not my first language, not proofread!!

Note: It is hard (specially as we start to believe and live for Christ) to not have at least one burn out when we (for example) feel like we cannot accomplish God's commandments; making us feel like a dissapointment to him. When he is more than faithful and willing to forgive us ♡

Your flesh is completely dried out in these terms; your spirit willing to fight contrary to a body where you remain, in which you live everyday, with it's great and not so great feelings.

Your spirit so burnt out it manifests through the low energy John watches you walk with, the one you speak with and it's an endless worry to watch your eyebags turn your eyes so dull. To not be able to hug this broken spirit you carry; the load is such that it looks heavy on your back even though this is beyond physical.

The worry threads through his hands when he puts them over your pale skin. He prays with you, unable to not keep eyes open when he is aware yours are closing sadly. You look so softly tired; but actually too tired. Your faith remains in a string and he reminds himself to strengthen it before it's too late. Because it's a scary thought that somehow brings him hope. Because it does mean hope.

You have faith.

“I chopped too many slices,” you look up at him, eyes droopy and heavy. Putting a stop to the previous task.

“It's ok, love, I would eat them all if it's you who cooked.”

You laugh at his loveliness. John would eat food made ashes if it's you who cooked them. If it meant something to his lovely wife; even though you always cleared up how bad your cooking might be.

“John, I never cook. I don't know how to,” you admit childishly, actually lamenting not knowing how to.

He picks up on your dissapointing tone just as soon as he wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer by the hip. It is pleasurable; to know John supports your body, as much as your mind, and your mind as much as your spirit, your center.

You lean even more into him, subconsciously seeking his warmth. You feel how you can't sink further and disappear in him as desperately as you want to. Your head is buried on his chest, and he melts, cheek comically pressing against the crown of your head.

Both of you stay like this for a while. He swings you back and forth and recalls the times you did so. A very sudden heaviness on his heart as he acknowledged how many times you held him like this; when James was gone; Sometimes John wouldn't shower, he wouldn't eat, wouldn't move.

You inhale and exhale exhaustingly, the puff of breath warming John's heart, resting in the depths of his chest. And in the silence comes up the presence of a third among the household; among you and John.

Your breaths take away all recordable sound, and your spirit takes in all non tangible presence. He is here, I am here, this is healing, you think to yourself. You get lost between John and His warmth. Then your mind races back to what you call reason, awakening in a peace that is aware of the issues you need to address, but is faithful; He is faithful.

John is muttering words you then comprehend as praying. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders with your body still trapped in the hug, some circles soothed over the fabric of his tunic with your palms, faintly massaging the skin underneath it.

John smiles relieved, eyes lovely as you state “amen” after the prayer ends.

#the chosen fanfiction #the chosen #the chosen x reader #the chosen john the apostle #john the apostle x reader #big james #the chosen big james #yeah im done #I'll write for the chosen #but for now #only my drabble ideas bc Im scared of not fulfilling #or doing right the requests I might get😭 #btw with the HE and thrid person: yes I mean God :) #idk what this is #I tried yall

[simlit]

Chosen of the Sun | | forest // sixty-nine

Into the Woods |​

Tayuin ventures back to the forest where Taiyo and Therion encountered the Witch. To successfully break Kyrie’s curse, he will need to pass one of the following challenges via an ability check: STRENGTH | WISDOM | DECEPTION | ARCANA | SURVIVAL The challenge will be decided by a random roll. To better the odds, Tayuin will choose two of the Chosen to accompany him. The two characters with the highest votes will join the party. You may choose two.

[ Vote now ]

next / previous / beginning

#ts4 #ts4 screenshots #ts4 story #ts4 bachelor challenge #chosen of the sun #if you vote more than two people it will take only the first two #I'll leave this for a bit #it'll be a mini hiatus because I need to write everything out #obviously all the following scenes are dependent on the winners

[vargaslovinghours]

Fandom: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac (But really Vargas lol) Rating: Teen and up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

What, exactly, did Scriabin take from Edgar when they separated?

My first multichapter fic for Vargas! :D Yay!

(Pls read Ch. 1 first - Ch. 2 is also recommended, but as long as you're caught up on the first, you're good to go!)

-----

Side B

What the fuck.

"It's, it's possible that if, maybe whatever happened earlier, whatever caused all that blood and for us to be knocked unconscious-"

What the fuck.

"-and if I suffered a head injury, then maybe-"

No. That's enough.

Scriabin pushed away from the closet door he'd defensively pressed himself up against and put his hands on Edgar's shoulders, which quieted him. He looked at him expectantly, with eyes that Scriabin somehow only just now realized were casually guarded, curious, uncertain in a way that denoted inexperience. That was so messed up, that was completely wrong. Edgar should've been on guard, absolutely, but only because he knew exactly what Scriabin was capable of. He really didn't want to look at him right now if this was what he was going to be seeing instead.

He spun him quickly and pushed him out the door before he could protest. He got one last look at those wide, confused eyes before he slammed the door behind him, bracing it shut with both hands for good measure.

What. The fuck. His head came forward, making a dull thud as his forehead connected with the door. He doesn't remember me? His fingers curled on the door. What does he mean he doesn't remember me?! How could he not know me?! One hand pushed through his hair; his scalp tingled and that was so weird, he felt it and it was so weird- We literally just- He literally just-! As if pulling him screaming into life wasn't bad enough, now he had decided to play some sick prank!

This can't be true. It's just like him to try and make jokes at the worst possible time, he has no tact.

There was a timid knock on the other side of the door. Scriabin jumped as it resonated through his skull, his elbow, pressed to the door with his hand buried in his hair, set his jaw. Then silence.

If he was really trying to get back in, clear things up, say he was only kidding, he'd actually try.

Nothing.

Scriabin's blood was ice as he went over it again. The way he'd said his name. The vacant look in his eyes as he said it, like his mouth knew its shape but none of the meaning. No fear, no realization, nothing that really felt like Edgar, just sound, just noise.

Maybe he really had-

Oh god. His knees gave out, and his arms had no practice at holding him upright, not yet. His hand slid down the door, his other hand guarding his head as his hair fluffed against the grain.

How could he do this

This is all his fault

Stupid, idiotic

He can't do this to me

I can't believe him

I can't believe this

How dare he leave me alone like this

Thoughts spiralling, and all he could do was hold himself down, press his fingers into the back of his neck, force his chest to his knees and maybe he wouldn't immolate under it all. He was shaking, from tension or fear he couldn't tell, his mind too hazardous and loud to cut through it all. He was shaking, dizzy, and if he moved, letting go would surely kill him.

He can't do this to me.

He breathed. And breathed. And swallowed. Eyes closed, heart pounding, sure. Confusion and dismay, whatever. Pain. Fine. So be it.

This isn't like me. A hand untethered from his vice grip in his hair, and he stayed attached to the floor. It connected with the carpet below him and became a new lifeline. He pushed up and away into a limp sit, arms already burning slightly from holding himself up after all that. He shook his head mildly. This isn't who I'm going to be in life. His body, this fear response be damned, he was in control now.

Regroup. Let's- a mental pause, barely a quarter of a second long as he turned the word in his head. Let's pretend it's all true- what does that mean?

He flopped over, leaned upright with his back against the door, heels of his fists pushed down into the carpet to scootch closer. Moving was so awkward still, very unfitting.

He was acting normal. Well, Edgar's baseline for "normal" had changed considerably, so maybe put an asterisk on that. Not that he was ever normal to begin with, but normal-for-Edgar, -ish. That means he has to have some memory.

Scriabin held out a hand, arm slung over his knee, one finger held out. He had recognized his glasses. One. The apartment. Two. Which key to use. Three. He had said Todd's name. Four.

His stuff can be discounted, he's had all that for a while. Back down to one. The kid is a new fixture. Which means he remembers the last couple months at least. He shook his head and brought his hand up to comb through his hair. Well...it's fuzzy for me, so it probably is for him, too. Scriabin remembered everything in as much clarity as the last couple months allowed, there was no way Edgar would know more even if he had all his memories.

Speaking of which, Scriabin could remember everything. He flipped through; the last two months and bringing Todd in, Edgar's parting words to Johnny, his and Devi's conversation - he grit his teeth - and further back, everything along the way, all the way back. False dreams, shared childhoods, everything that was once Edgar's alone, he still remembered it. Nothing was out of place which made it all the more strange!

This is so fucking weird, if I remember everything, then why would he-

He stopped short. His purported purpose had been to replace Edgar. Take him over completely. If he bought into the conceit for a moment, just to play in the space... He was alive now. That was not as intended; it shouldn't even have been possible.

Did he...give me his memories? Like, all the way? Not just to borrow, to shape him, give him legitimacy - he was alive now. His own person. Separate, embodied, and whole. Was this the price of life?

That's stupid. But possible, he couldn't discount. If this - he brought his hands up and looked down at them, watched himself touch his own chest and felt it beneath his coat, shirt, the nerves firing as his slid his fingers up himself - if this was possible, then...

He continued for a moment, curious and reverant, all of him new and privately exciting, to exist and to touch, to feel, smell, see, all of it clear and fresh and penetrated deeply into his mind, as if a layer of film had been lifted from his senses. The moment passed as the memories, unbidden but important, cluttered in around him again.

There were still a lot of questions, and most of them couldn't be answered without Edgar, ugh. If getting anything out of him before had been like pulling teeth, he was very sobered to think about how it might be now. Depending on how much Edgar remembered, maybe he could start piecing things together.

Did he do it on purpose? Did he know this would happen? There's no way he would have been willing to if he had- But he couldn't ask him things like that. Even if he did remember, admitting something like that...

He was just spinning his wheels at this point. Better to gather what he could from the man himself. He looked up, preparing to stand.

Ah-

The room was still in something of a state.

Edgar would be annoying, or at least distracted by trying to pick up the clothes and uncarefully unpacked items strewn about the floor from Scriabin's very successful excavation of his old glasses. The clutter would have to go if he wanted his full attention.

He grumbled as he pushed off the door to pick up the first few things. First day of life and I'm already his maid. Figures. He's always needed me to clean up after him.

Silence.

Somehow it only just hit him. Thinking alone in the late hours, planning things behind Edgar's back, it was nothing new. But a barb unsunk into his mental flesh was left out in the wide emptiness, poised to stab whoever happened upon it next, and he was the only one here.

He felt very small all of a sudden, and he didn't like it at all.

His eyes blankly scanned the room, looking for nothing, until they settled on the toy at Edgar's bedside. His toy.

He dropped the items he'd bundled into his arms and made his way over. He picked up the small simulacrum, turned it over in his hands once, and stared at it.

He wouldn't know this. Not really. He brushed a thumb up and over the little mouth, the contours of its small face. Retroactively, I've never been this at all.

I'm no one to him.

Does this mean we can start over? The thought struck him like lightning, freezing his heart in his chest. He was fixed solid, staring down at the small figure in his hands.

Before he could even think, he'd already thrown it through the open closet door, landing noisily in the box he'd dug through with a clatter. He grabbed up the fallen clothes and items and stuffed them back in the box, burying the toy in mundane detritus, then closed the cardboard flaps and slammed the door of the closet for good measure.

His breath was laboured and he glared, like wishing it gone would make the closet itself disappear.

Answers. He needed answers, more than anything.

He ripped the door open, and there was Edgar who looked up, staring dumbly back at him and carrying the clothes he'd shed earlier over his arm. Something in his mind clicked over, and he didn't think about it.

"Alright," he caught his breath for half a second, "what do you remember?"

Edgar just kept on staring, mouth open, eyes unconfident behind weak glasses. Scriabin huffed irritably, I don't have time for this, and moved towards him, arm outstretched.

"Come on." Edgar gave a small startled sound behind him as he grabbed his collar and dragged him through the doorway. He threw him across the room, not bothering to watch his arc as he closed the door behind him. The bed was that way, he'd be fine.

When he turned back, Edgar had managed to catch himself, though already halfway on the bed. Scriabin stood with his back to the door, feet planted and he crossed his arms. No more speculating around impossibilities, tangible and present as they might be, it was time for a proper interrogation. It was at least preferable to-

Edgar made a face at him and scooted back, offering a seat next to him on the bed. Equal footing briefly flashed through his mind and while he wouldn't consider it ideal, nothing today was really going his way. He sighed, then made his way over and sat across from Edgar, who was eyeing him with a certain degree of caution. At least the feeling was mutual.

"Spill." He re-crossed his arms and leaned towards Edgar. "What do you know?"

Edgar hesitated, apparently thinking, his hands laced and fingers agitatedly if quietly rubbing the backs of his hands.

"I want to verify some things first."

Scriabin snorted dismissively. Where had Edgar's overly-trusting nature gone? A serial killer, well he's an honoured guest, but Scriabin? He didn't even distrust him for the right reasons.

He gestured with an open hand, Go ahead, then tucked his arm back in.

"Todd's last name?"

Pfsh. At least it was proof enough that anything Edgar knew, Scriabin did as well. As expected.

"Casil. His stupid bear's called Shmee in case you forgot that too." Edgar shook his head. No he hadn't? If only he could just check!

"Do you know our phone number?" Obviously he did, so he rattled it off quickly, Edgar nodding in turn. He flipped his hair in time with the last digit, careful to keep his eyes covered. It was a bit of a timid attempt, being the first in this body, which was a minor blessing he supposed.

Edgar mulled over what he'd given him for a moment, then a moment longer, then a moment even longer. His eyes searched absently, gazing down into his own hand, his other on his chin, lightly thumbing his goatee. He was focused on names and numbers, but those were child's play compared to everything, everything Scriabin still wanted to know. It was frustrating on a visceral level, watching him struggle with such simple innocuous nothings while the most important person in his life was sitting right in front of him.

He was supposed to be the most important.

It was frustrating.

"You really don't remember anything, do you?" He didn't hide the sneer as it shaped his voice - odd the way his body just did that now, did things without him actively thinking them into being. Even things like the little waver that made its way in that he pushed back down and under. He was frustrated, angry, tired - any emotionality could be attributed to those, nothing else.

Edgar didn't answer, just kept his gaze locked to his face. That was almost worse. Watching him fumble through things, it wasn't fun, but at least he wasn't trying to pry. He could see him try to look past his bangs, and the fact that he didn't know better...

Scriabin looked away for a moment, then thought better of it. Best defense is a good offense.

He reached for Edgar's face, for those damn scars, ever-present reminders. Edgar shied away, not wanting to be touched suddenly by someone he didn't know. As if Scriabin had ever cared about that.

Well, things were different now. Maybe he didn't really want to touch him anyway. Not yet.

"Do you remember these...?" Instead he framed his face with his hands less than an inch from his skin, and even there he could feel the heat coming off him. Edgar reached for his face, looking away from Scriabin as he touched the angry red marks. He winced minutely, then glanced back at Scriabin, searching him, his expression guarded again. Scriabin could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"...Johnny?"

"Fuck." Fuck! "Of course you'd remember him but not me." God damn it! It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, just because Johnny came first by a hair's breadth, just because he wasn't in Edgar's head, with Edgar's fucked up little obsession with the murderous stick figure- It limited what he could get away with too, if he remembered that far back. Absolutely nothing was going in his favour.

"I'm sorry..." He sounded genuinely remorseful, and it stuck in his throat. Disgusting. "So you know Johnny, too."

"Unfortunately." Scriabin tucked his chin to his chest, arms crossed again in close proximity. This sucks. Edgar just kept rambling, unaware as ever. His excuses held this time at least, one point in his favour, no points for bringing his annoying habits with him despite everything.

"I don't think I've seen him for a couple months now? Everything's awfully..." He gave a vague gesture and Scriabin uncurled slightly. He was giving him room to contribute. He shook his head.

"You haven't."

"Have you?"

He returned to his tight coil of sulking. Not like he was keen to meet up and chat, but he couldn't explain why he hadn't had the opportunity to either.

"I remember he called, too."

"Ugh," barely above breath. Enough about Johnny! Again, Edgar continued obliviously.

"Although I don't really recall what we talked about, not for a while..."

Of course not. I took over for half of those.

He perked a bit, and Edgar focused more on him, patiently setting his hands in his lap.

"You know."

He could play this to his advantage. Give Johnny some well-deserved karmic justice for fucking him over so many times. It was almost better that Edgar didn't know - Scriabin had been trying to get him away from Johnny all this time, and if he really had forgotten everything, not just the moments when Scriabin took over but every moment they had shared, then that meant it coincided almost perfectly with his first meeting with Johnny. Blank spot after blank spot after blank spot, all lined up immediately after getting his face slashed.

He could work with that.

"It's probably trauma." Edgar startled and his hand shot to his temple, lightly touching his hair.

"Like, head trauma?" Scriabing almost laughed. Yeah, probably that too. But that wouldn't help his case.

"No." He leaned in, taking a more intimate, secretive tone. "Think about it. When did things start getting fuzzy?" If he was right on this - which of course he was, but not being able to verify, not being able to see that he was right, it was disconcerting - but if he was, Edgar's memories of Scriabin should start with that first fateful encounter, give or take. A bit of reframing here, a touch of implication there... It probably wasn't even an outright lie; if Edgar's memory were perfect after experiencing everything Johnny had put them through, that would be some kind of twisted miracle.

His only real concern was their "childhood" - how much had Scriabin pulled with him? Would that throw off his story? But that was so far back, there was no way Scriabin or Johnny could be implicated in that. As long as Edgar didn't bring it up before he thought his way around it...

Edgar stayed quiet for a long while. His eyes raced behind closed eyelids, searching, scanning, retracing - Scriabin could almost see the moments where he hesitated, stopped and went back, then starting recollecting again. He wished he could see it for real, watch him unfold himself, touch those memories again, hold up his own in contrast. Even just hear Edgar's thoughts as they went by, feel the emotions he felt. But he couldn't, so he just stared as unblinkingly as this new body would allow, just watched as Edgar went over everything on his own.

He finally opened his eyes, staring back into Scriabin's though he was sure they were still hidden. He felt naked and awkward and Edgar still hadn't said anything. If he could just see like he was supposed to, or if Edgar would just tell him, he wouldn't have to ask. I have to do everything around here.

"It was after you met him, wasn't it?"

"You think it's...mental trauma?" An unspoken 'yes.' Relief flooded him, and he pushed ahead.

"Edgar. He stabbed you." Edgar gripped his shoulder, his eyes closing again and he looked to be in pain. That was a very effective reminder at least. "Do you even know why?" He shook his head and spoke throught half-grit teeth.

"I must have made him mad, but I don't remember-" Of course not, I did that.

"Your mind is trying to protect you." Not. But one of us has to with your inexhaustable deathwish. Scriabin reached out to touch him properly, but Edgar pulled away. He didn't follow, still not yet. Play up the pity. "He messed you up so bad," with a curl in his tone, an I told you so that barely made it to words even privately; how long had he been holding that in? "Surely you must've felt like you wanted, you needed to get away from him, that he wasn't good for you, that you-" He'd told him so many times, some it must have stuck, some of it had to have-

"Then-!" Edgar's eyes shot open, wide and desperate with an edge of disbelief. A strangled gasp escaped him, half-choking him as he tried to speak. "Then why can't I remember you?!"

He almost began rolling off the cuff, but really, he still didn't know for sure. And it definitely wasn't like he could tell the truth even if he wanted to; who, who hadn't lived it, would believe him? Edgar certainly wouldn't, not with his lack of imagination. He had to dress this up, weave a narrative that was plausible, had the perfect mix of truth and falsehood to stand up to scrutiny.

Huh. Ironic.

"I..." No. Some of this was Edgar's fault too. "We...argued."

"Argued?"

"I... Mng." He wanted to aim for some kind of levity, but his throat had tightened on him. He just wanted to tell this stupid inside joke and not have it affect him, not have it mean anything, and here he was getting emotional? He'd say it and fucking mean it. "It's not like I'm in your head, so-" spat out in a rush, there, he'd said it. Haha, isn't that so funny. He swallowed harshly, pushing down everything he felt into his stomach acid. He was in control. He was fine. This didn't shake him. "I can't know for sure," another humourless laugh inside, "but I was against your relationship with Johnny. Maybe you shut me out so you could keep seeing him with no pushback."

It certainly wasn't outside the realm of possibilities of what Edgar would do to avoid taking Scriabin's extremely basic advice about fraternizing with serial killers. How many times had he been ignored up to this point, only to culminate in the ultimate 'I don't know what you're talking about.' Pfeh. I bet he wishes he'd thought of this sooner. It did nothing for his painfully stuttered pulse.

"You know, I've been trying to convince you to stop going back to him for a while, but, well..." He waved his hand at Edgar's hand still death gripped into his shoulder, and Edgar averted his eyes guiltily. At least he showed some remorse. Better than his nigh constant apologia.

He stayed quiet a moment longer, and just before Scriabin made to fill the silence again, Edgar struck him with an intense look.

"What are you to me?" Ugh. Of course. There was not a single good answer for that. Even if he told him everything- no, especially if he told him everything, there was no way Edgar would believe him. But coming up with a convincing lie on the spot, when they were so clearly something to each other - even he needed time to come up with something workable. How could he have ever prepared for a situation like this? It was never meant to happen, so many things were never meant to happen!

He continued at Scriabin's silence. "You know Nny," Ugh! Even his awful nickname. "And Todd. And...me." He couldn't refute it, so he nodded tightly. "Do you live here?"

Technically he had, and technically he hadn't. Still, going forward, it would be easier to let Edgar assume that he did. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go at the moment anyway.

"Yes."

"Are we..." He searched him, looked him over as much as he could and he wasn't subtle about it. If only Scriabin had his proper glasses, he'd let him look as much he wanted, behold his spectacle! As it was, he just felt self-conscious and it was very unbefitting. "...family?"

The baggage on that. He did not feel like opening that particular can of worms in either of their current states. He turned his head and flipped through any number of halfway decent ways to phrase it until he hit on something Edgar would remember. Better not to contradict for now.

"You told Johnny you have no family when you met."

"That's true..." Edgar blinked, processing. "Wait, did I tell you that?" Scriabin startled. Even after he'd accounted for his memory! Of course he had to pick his story apart now, he never knew when to leave well enough alone.

"When you-" No, he had to be involved. "When we bandaged your face."

Edgar mulled on that for a few seconds, taking on a thoughtful pose. "I only remember being alone."

"You don't remember me at all. What do you want from me?" He huffed.

"No, sorry, you're right."

"Thank you." He was right!

Where had Edgar expected him to be? There was something weird about how he'd said it. He filed the thought away for later.

"So, if you've been living here, where..." Edgar looked around the room, then back to Scriabin. "Where have you been sleeping? Todd's already on the couch..."

Scriabin couldn't help as a smile sprung to his face. If he was going to present him with such a perfect opportunity, well, he'd better take it. He even had the decency to look nervous in response! This was too good.

"Would you believe me if I said right here, in bed?" He again tucked his chin, playfully this time, his hair falling further in his eyes. Even through the dark tangles he could make out Edgar's face immediately bristling with heat.

Ooh. That's such a fetching shade on you, my dear.

"But-! I, I haven't been sleeping on the floor!" He was visibly sweating!

"Correct." His smile grew. This was too easy, and he needed an easy win right about now.

"W-" He leaned forward on his legs, though refused to get any closer. When he spoke it was a harsh whisper. "Why...?"

Scriabin shrugged easily, not bothering to reign in his smile in the least. "I mean, where else, right?" He leaned in since Edgar refused to, and oh. He was blushing all the way up to his scalp. Hilarious. "You certainly didn't seem to mind." He couldn't hold back the slightly musical tone or his eyebrows inclination to move on their own. His body knew what he was getting at, and he could see it only increased Edgar's fluster. All the better.

"Well I do now!" Edgar darted up and away, stumbling in his hasty retreat. "If you'll excuse me!" though he was already practically in the hallway by the time he said it. What a display, and Scriabin's laugh was loud and natural.

Finally, something positive. He'd managed to fumble his way through, not his best work in lying or manipulation, but he'd set some important groundwork. He'd gotten some answers, and he could start to shape some more believable stories around them.

The biggest hurdles were Johnny and Devi. As long as Edgar didn't meet with them too soon - or well, at all would be preferable, but he doubted he could just keep him locked up, as much as the idea appealed to him. There were so many things that were possible now, things that he had the ability to do, given the right circumstances... All of that in due time. For now he had a yarn to spin.

He listened as Edgar fumbled in the hall, the sheer sound of cloth being pulled and folded over an arm barely perceptable. Was he really going to try to sleep on what little was left over? Maybe he'd give up once he realized the pickings were thin and beg Scriabin to let him sleep with him. Hah.

While he was out, Scriabin made his way over to the pajamas drawer. They were all old and soft, even just to his hand. They'd do for now, until he could get his own. It wasn't like he hadn't worn all this before anyway.

By the time he'd finished dressing, his clothes discarded on the opposite side of the bed to where Edgar had set up his little nest, Edgar had finally gotten himself a set of pajamas. He wondered for a moment if he'd dress with Scriabin in the room again, though maybe his intense stare drove him off. Who could say. He patted the bed with a wide grin when he returned and was dutifully ignored. He settled down to the side, and Scriabin laid on his arms to look down at him.

"Ugh, lame."

"I don't-"

"Yeah, whatever." He'd heard it all before. At least he could literally look down on him like this. He folded his hands and leaned just a bit further, looking him over. A desire he hadn't realized he had surfaced in the dark and quiet. "Give me your hand."

"Sorry?" Scriabin held out his hand expectantly.

"I used to hear your heart beat every day." Edgar looked at him incredulously, but Scriabin was unperturbed. "Let me hear it again."

He hesitated but eventually slowly offered his arm. "...Okay."

He pulled his arm up and placed his thumb against his wrist. He felt a strange mismatch - where he'd been expecting one heartbeat, there were two. He covered his surprise, near shock at the realization that of course he had his own body now, by pulling harder on Edgar's arm, directing him up to his ear.

"Wh-"

"Shh." Quietly. He had wanted this, wanted this body, this separation, this freedom for so long, and now... He spoke quietly, his voice betraying nothing. "I'm listening."

Edgar's pulse was erratic, but he hardly paid attention to it. His own fingers on Edgar's skin, warm and pliant, and Edgar's fingers twitching in his hair, he could feel it, he was trying not to touch him- This hesitation was killing him, every jerky movement away not from fear of what Scriabin could do to him, just uncertainty, like he was still a stranger- He pressed him harder to his head, and he could feel goosebumps under his fingers. He wanted to just hold him there until all the memories they'd shared poured back through him, into his blood, into his breath.

Where are you?

But he replied in that same uncertain, guarded tone that indicated he didn't know, not really.

"C...can I have my arm back now?"

He pushed him away. "Fine." Edgar curled his hand protectively against his chest, and he noticed he rubbed it slightly, he probably hadn't even realized.

He mumbled out a harried "Good night," and it was almost enough to make Scriabin smile. Almost. He could still affect him but this wasn't enough, it wasn't right.

He laid his head on the pillow, not bothering to pull his arm up over the side of the bed. If he twitched in the night and touched Edgar, well, that could mean anything. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he did it on purpose. Plausible deniability was one of his greatest assets.

As it was, he was just tired. Maybe he didn't pull it back because he hated the thought of sleeping alone, pushed out and forgotten, and hated it more that he was even thinking something like that. How pathetic. He didn't need anyone, especially not Edgar.

But he was tired. Not in his right mind.

Does this mean we can start over...?

The thought echoed and died, and he slept.

#💟 #Fanfiction #Blank Slate AU #Edgar #Scriabin #Todd #Shmee #He's technically in there but once again no speaking lines :P Yet anyway lol #It's fanfic time again! I fell into yet another writing fugue and finished Chapters 1 and 2 in like four days lol #If you'll notice tho ♪ Neither of those chapters are featured under the cut :3c Pls do read Ch. 1 at least to get caught up before diving in #This one took a bit longer but that'd be because it's Almost as big as both previous chapters combined lol #I'll update it to the chapter list in a few days! Y'all get a preview here :D It'll be the same there with slightly different formatting #Decided to try something new since tumblr doesn't normally allow underlines but it's very important to Scriabin's syntax #I promise they're all just links to the first chapter lol - you're welcome to check but I promise I didn't put a sneaky link anywhere lol #My one gripe is that it doesn't look as good on-blog :/ Fine on the dash! But I'm not willing to sacrifice the dark colouration on the links #Italics were chosen as the only light feature for a reason ♪ #I mean at least it's not Bolded lol I'll take it #These were a lot of fun to write so far ahhh <3 I've been wanting to dig a little deeper for a long while now! #I mentioned this idea offhandedly in the tags of Incoming Outgoing but ahhh it's very rewarding to put to words :D #Fun Fun Fun

[suddenrundown]

ot3 camping is a great scenario (to Me) because from eliot’s perspective it’s the most romantic thing he could possibly be doing (pre or post relationship, doesn’t even matter), from parker’s perspective it’s a Challenge she has to Survive (which is a challenge she’s up for...for like 10 minutes before she’s bored) and Hardison’s like “i’m in hell” from the word go

#actually sorry camping trip for eliot is only the 2nd most romantic cuz its one step below fishing in the dark #which is Thee Pinnacle of Romance to him and i stand firm on this hill ive chosen to die on #leverage #ot3: hitter hacker thief #parker #alec hardison #eliot spencer #idk why im obsessed with the idea of an ot3 camping trip lol but i am #keep suggesting it as a prompt on the last 2 fic exchanges AND I'LL DO IT AGAIN because no one has seen the Potential in it yet i guess #why dont i just write it? well because I Don't Want To #or rather i do but its at the bottom of my list of things to get to lol

[marrowwife]

A WIP INTRO

"Listen. I'm sure it was a good thing, in whatever backwoods village you crawled your way out of, to be kind, and helpful, and friendly. But you matter now, you're Sainted--- we're Sainted. We're the strongest players of the Court. And in the Court, being kind is a weakness. Being kind will get you eaten alive."

His retreat was cut short with a firm grip around his arm and a pair of eyes, brightened almost as gold as they had that terrible day in the great hall. Alaryk wondered if this was the first time Perryn had ever stopped smiling. He wondered, staring at the boy burning with an intensity as fierce as the High Summer sun, if a single smile had been real to begin with.

"Teach me." Perryn said, and he sounded like the roar of a wildfire, like the intimate crackling of a hearth. "You said it yourself, we're Sainted. The same. So teach me how to be like you."

Alaryk wrenched his arm free, and the thing inside him howled and writhed and whispered terrible promises. "You are nothing like me."

ABOUT

Title: Ravenous

Genre: NA Fantasy

Themes: Monstrosity, Queerness, Identity, Trauma, Legacy & Family, The Nature of Good and Evil (Constructed Morality), Nature vs Nurture

Tropes: The Chosen One, The Main Trio, Coming Of Age, Anti-Hero, Moral Greyness, The Boarding School Setting, Medieval Fantasy Setting, Knights vs Monsters, Rivals to Friends to Enemies to Lovers, The Orphaned Hero, Sun and Moon Coded Characters, Child Soldiers (kind of), More TBA

BLURB

Idrismark is a kingdom fractured, the land sequestered between impenetrable mountains and the gnawing, ever creeping monstrosity of the Ravening Wood, the burial place of the Betrayer. What is left of the inhabitable is ruled by the whims of the Noble Houses, originally claiming lineage of the Six Saints, individuals with untold powers who defeated the Betrayer and held back the corrupt magic of the Wood. Now the Houses are the Upper Class of Indrismark's population, all trained in the arts of Knighthood but focused in the games of Court politics.

It is only the Sainted that truly provide safety from the Ravening Wood, those with the strongest blood ties to The Six and a fraction of their power, most often sacrificed in the war against the Wood. Therefore, when two Sainted appear in one generation, a peasant plucked from the masses and a Noble's son, all of Idrismark is watching. The common people in joyous relief, having been subject to the increasing ferocity of the Ravening Wood. And the Noble Houses in rapt, hungry calculation, ready to do anything they can in the mad scramble for power a Sainted is want to inact upon the Court.

Alaryk has known his place since the moment of his birth. Son of the House Lupei. Disappointment to his father. Neither a first son and heir, nor the daughter his father had hoped for in a third child, to be wed in alliance and used as a pawn in the games of the Court. Alaryk used to pray to be Sainted, to become proof of his Father's power, his House's power, to be useful. But the Sainted were rare, and House Lupei had not produced a Sainted in hundreds of years. He should have known that the truth had never been an obstacle for his Father.

The Academy, where all Noble children are sent to learn how to fight the Ravening Wood, was going to be hard enough. Now with the mantle of Sainted balanced precariously on his shoulders, Alaryk must navigate the politics of Nobility, the grueling regimen of squirehood, the baffling intricacies of making friends, all alongside desperately trying to control the power he has been given. Because Alaryk is not Sainted. His magic is not the magic of The Six, it is not pure and good and heroic. Alaryk is a liar and his magic is ravenous.

TAGLIST (ask to be +/-)

@houndmouthed @tragicbackstoryenjoyer @philocalizt @waestlandbaby @andromedatalksaboutstuff @writingmoth @serenanymph @moondust-bard @ashfordlabs @carnocus @real-fragments7

#writeblr #wip #wip intro #wip introduction #wip: ravenous #fantasy #queer fantasy #the chosen one #wip: cry of the ravening wood #marrow writes #aesthetic #writing #snippet #ch: alaryk #ch: perryn #pl: idrismark #why was it so hard to write a blurb for this thing #I'll probably change it #but its doing its job for now

[valyrfia]

Are the words in Max's wrist "Il predestinato"? 'Cause I was a bit confused at the end

Hi anon! I appreciate my Lestappen soulmate fic leaves a LOT unsaid so let do a quick run down.

So in this AU words on people's wrist don't necessarily lead them to people, but rather sort of give a person some sort of clue as to their life path, and it could be good or bad or just neutral. So Max's parents both have matching marks of '33' which they believe refer to each other but in reality refer to Max (a self-fulfilling prophecy, since Max later chooses his racing number based on his parents' mark). Daniel has a McLaren race car (which will be explored in detail in Part II trust me), and all that really means is that a McLaren race car represents something about his life path. Charles has the number 16, which he later chooses as his racing number because it's on his wrist. But soulmarks are deliberately vague and confusing in this universe and could refer to multiple aspects of a person's life.

The words on Max's wrist are "for rarely man escapes his destiny" (the fic title). From a VERY young age Max has been told by people around him that his mark refers to his giftedness at racing, so by the time he's an adult he's pretty much certain that all it means is that he's destined to be world champion. However, yes, Charles then being referred to as Il Predestinato by the press sends Max into a panicked spiral, half because Max is jealous and terrified that Charles will 'steal' his destiny from him (especially after the back-to-back wins in Spa and Monza in 2019) but also because well, if Charles is the embodiment of destiny, what does that imply for Max and the words on his wrist telling him for rarely man escapes his destiny"?

There is a Part II coming and I hope to make some of these ideas a little clearer there! But thank you for reading nonetheless, it means so much to me <3

#max's words were very very specifically chosen so there's an ambiguous double meaning max is foiled by his black and white thinking though #this was one of my favourite fics to write but perhaps it did need a beta although someone in the comments did guess a twist for pt 2 #i did hide the comment for spoiler reasons i'll reinstate it once pt 2 is up #for rarely man escapes his destiny #lestappen

[sightkeeper]

A'ight, for some reason I've gotten quite a few pushy people today. I have every intention of getting back to Chosen Faces as soon as possible, but badgering me for it doesn't make me want to work on it. Please be patient, thanks ❤

#Ran Writes #chosen faces au #if anyone else brings up that it's been a while since an update #or asks when the next part is coming out #you'll be ignored #I'll have more energy and time to draw come the next few weeks and I intend to

[tracle0]

Prophet WIP

Hundreds of years after the six gods' potential death, a single prophet is born. When his twin brother is possessed by a holy sickness, a race begins to preserve or destroy the last relics of dead divinity, and refuse or give forgiveness for errors of the past.

Starring!

Theodore Novak (Theo): the prophet. Desperately does not want to be a prophet. A nervous wreck most of the time, becomes a little strange when he grows comfortable around you. Has not seen his brother for almost a year, and eager to apologise for previous cruelties.

Cain Kavon: The brother, and vessel to the Blight. Controlled by his anger, and by having his mind changed around him. Schizophrenic, and suffered from his brother unknowingly encouraging a delusion to dangerous levels in the past. Prideful and headstrong and terrified thrilled to now belong to the Blight.

The Blight: The divine sickness. Sourced from human anger and frustration at the gods. Recently escaped the trap the final god put it in, weakened and needing something to reside in as it gains power again. Exploits others anger and frustration to get what it wants.

Raya Glick: The student. Provided a place for Theo to go to when he was asked to leave home, and uses him as an assistant to her history PhD on exactly what happened to the gods. From an orthodox temple background. Drives around the country in a van, investigating the gods current forms. Straightforward and non-nonsense.

Featuring the complexities of brotherhood, the thin line between “prophet” and “schizophrenic”, a divine and glorious anger and a desperate attempt to reach someone who may already be lost to you.

Tagged under #prophet wip. Comic sans PowerPoint.

#writerblr #writing #am writing #my writing #original story #wip intro #prophet story #hey fellas this is the last wip intro like this I'll be posting in a while isn't that exciting! #we have almost finished tidying up this blog!!! So you know the stories I have and what I work on hell yeah!!!!!!! #prophet WIP has my heart truly? It is the one I am working on at the time of writing this #I'd love to get it finished one day truly. These two lads man #it's? It's more low-fantasy than my other stories? soft magic system and a focus on people rather than plot yknow? #oh there's also Maybe a Hero in this story #like a character who I need to name still but. They're chosen by the gods to be the Hero of this story #maybe more on them later!

[catsafari25]

A/N: Hello again, and with this I think (?) I may have succeeded in writing enough bionicle fic to get it out of my system (unless another plot bunny hits me like a cannonball, but... eh, we'll see) and thus, here is the companion piece to the Vakama & Roodaka oneshot.

This time, exploring the scene where Vakama entered the Great Temple, from his side of things! This was also partially inspired by the scene in Challenge of the Hordika where Nokama is almost physically repulsed in trying to enter the Great Temple :)

x

In the tunnels beneath the temple, Vakama must stoop.

At first he shuffles, mutated arm tucked against him and his sole hand brushing only briefly along the floor to steady himself, but the passages are dark and deep and lined with creatures which seek out the weak. The eyes that watch him are not hungry. They keep their bellies too full for that.

In the end, it is easier quicker to drop to all fours, to share the weight between claw and tool that feet alone cannot. His altered form folds into the new stance with frightening familiarity. It's comfortable.

Natural.

The crown of his mask grazes the tunnel's ceiling, but only in passing. His gait is sure. Well. Surer than the ungainly slouch it had been before.

It was said – back when Matoran were awake to say such things – that even the strongest swimmers of Ga-Metru would hesitate before plunging into the depths of the protodermis sea. Not because the creatures there had any fondness for the taste of Matoran. In truth, it was thought that the rahi actively disliked the flavour. No, it was because the way Matoran swam was indistinguishable from the rahi's usual prey. Only when they had sunk tooth and jaw into their meal would they realise their mistake.

It was an annoying, if harmless mistake for the rahi.

Matoran couldn't say the same.

Vakama's early crawl through the passage had been like that of a Matoran swimmer: functional, but slow and indiscernible from wounded prey. Creatures drag themselves down into these depths to die, in hopes that they will be devoured only when they are too far gone to feel it. The eyes are patient. They will wait to see if this newcomer is similarly inclined.

And so when Vakama drops to his haunches, the eyes blink. Reassess. He moves less like the hunted and more like the hunter now, more predator than prey, and the eyes – and teeth – keep their distance after that.

The path Vakama stalks through was once a protodermis pipe, made obsolete even before the cataclysm. Newer conduits had been built, more efficient, more resilient, and this one had been disconnected but never dismantled. When he reaches its origin, it takes some effort – and his blazer claw – to break the seal across the hatchway, but when he does, one of the temple's protodermis purification chambers looms above him.

The room beyond is quiet.

Unmarked.

He doesn't realise he's stopped until the chittering of his audience draws closer. The snarl he throws back echoes off the pipe's walls, and the eyes retreat, but do not leave.

Vakama curls his hand around the lip of the hatch, and then falters.

Something is wrong.

It's not a pain, because the feeling does not hurt as it ought, but something is undeniably, fundamentally wrong. It causes his breath to catch, his hand to flinch, and it would be so easy, so easy, to turn and walk away, only...

Only he came here for a reason.

The wrongness flares, amplified for a moment, and then he pulls himself up. The eyes watch, but do not follow. Do they feel it too? Can even such base creatures sense the innate malice the temple exudes?

He clambers out of the purification chamber – empty and abandoned now – and stumbles upon his landing. He catches himself, but does not rise back to his feet.

Wrong.

This is wrong.

And at the edge of the wrongness there is a strange sort of terror. It dreads the same way the fire fears the sea, the same way the prey fears the predator; it is the meeting of two primally antithetical forces where only one can survive. It whispers turn back through his mind.

He moves into the next room.

It's one he knows well. Light filters down from the rot-stained windows, centering – as it had the day he'd first seen it – on the suva, and casting long sentinel shadows of the columns standing to attention around it. A crack mars the suva, its stone dome now split cleanly in two from the quakes, and – drawn by some desire he cannot identify (instinct, curiosity... nostalgia?) – he approaches.

It seems so small now. Even bowed and altered in his Hordika form, he looms over the Ta-Metru symbol he'd once had to stretch to reach.

Unbidden, his hand moves to the niche where once he'd placed a Toa Stone – where once he had though himself chosen, duty-bound, destiny-gifted – and falters a breath from the stone.

The wrongness spikes.

Screams.

And with a twist of something he will not call horror, he understands it is not originating from himself.

But from the temple.

It is repulsion. It's alienation. It's recognising him, but as other, as rahi.

It's disgust that a monster would dare enter its sanctuary.

In the Ta-Metru carving, stone once polished to the point of fragmented reflection, he sees a glimmer of his own face. Neither Toa nor Matoran. Nothing blessed by Mata Nui.

Vakama recoils.

And then a wave of his own disgust, propelled by that fury that runs so close to the surface now, rolls through him. If you didn't want us as the Toa, you should've stopped Makuta from choosing us, he thinks, and digs his claws into the stonework.

The wrongness sings.

But he knows it for what it is now, and his morphed, clawed hand gorges scars through the carving. The stone is soft. Its makers had never imagined someone would take a blade to it.

There comes a tapping from across the room, echoing brazenly off the ancient stone walls, and Vakama retreats instinctively into the shadows. A Rahaga enters.

Norik?

No, this Rahaga's armour is more akin to a Po-Matoran than a Ta-Matoran's, the colour of dust and stone. Vakama tries to recall the Rahaga's name – and then dismisses the attempt.

It won't matter, in the end.

The Rahaga walks as he always has, stooped and slow, but clearly unhindered by the temple. He passes by the suva and runs one gnarled hand across the stonework, his movements marred by curiosity rather than reverence.

The rage arrives a fully-formed creation. It drowns out the wrongness, floods the apprehension, and he is moving before he's decided that this is the path he wants.

It is not pain, for it does not hurt as it ought.

But it does still hurt.

x

Whatever the Rahaga might once have been, they are old and weak now. Four are captured before Vakama's rage has a chance to cool, but the ire is no less dangerous when it does.

(That's the thing about Ta-Metru; it's not a place of fire so much as it is of magma. And magma doesn't extinguish with the cold; it sets. It moors itself into place, an unmovable, burning force.)

The rage settles, solidifies around his heart and lungs and carves a home between his breaths.

(Magma is not fire. It does not leap blindly from one source to the next. Instead it advances. Slowly. Steadily. It finds a channel, a destination, and it engulfs all in its path until it reaches it.)

He finds the last two remaining Rahaga, pathetically ignorant to their brothers' fates and still scavenging the temple for answers. He hears the way Norik appraises his sister's translation, relief clear in his voice that they are one step further on this wild rahi chase. Relief, surely, that the Rahaga are one step closer to regaining their Toa form.

(And Vakama's anger has found its destination.)

He does not descend on the Rahaga's leader the way he has the others. No. Norik will know what's coming for him first. He gets to fear. Vakama waits until Gaaki has gone, until Norik is alone, and then he circles. The wrongness thrums in his veins, weighing him down and labouring his breaths. It doesn't matter. Let Norik hear his approach.

Norik doesn't try to run. Vakama will give him that much. (A wise choice. Vakama intends for this encounter to last, but if Norik runs, Vakama cannot be sure he won't chase.) Instead, the malformed once-Toa calls out and actually tries to approach him. Stupid. Doesn't he know that he won't win any fight, transformed as he is? As both of them are? No, instead, he tries to talk. As if they are equals, as if Norik has done anything to deserve his respect rather than his scorn. As if he has earned the temple's forgiveness for his trespassing.

Even when Vakama raises the fate of Norik's fellow Rahaga, Norik attempts to sway him with the illusion of reason, talking of duty and unity, as if he's not using the other Toa Hordika to chase after a rahi myth for his own desires. As if their roles are in any way comparable, both Toa of Fire once, both leaders, it's true, but Vakama hasn't forgone his duty to chase after selfish needs.

And it stops now.

Vakama circles closer, and Norik is still talking, unease in his voice, but not fear. Still searching for the right words to turn Vakama to his bidding as he has the other Toa Hordika. Ever the voice of two-faced logic.

Why won't he just shut up?

Does Norik think him to be as gullible as the others? As quick to desert his duty as them?

And Vakama knows he wants – needs – to shake that assurance, that arrogance out of Norik. Needs to see that facade of self-righteous wisdom crumble into the terror of his situation.

The growl begins deep in his chest and, unleashed, it becomes a roar. He rears out of the darkness, into the weak sphere of light surrounding Norik – and there, there he finally sees true fear fill the old fool's eyes.

Something slams into Vakama and he reels, his roar cut short. His hand reaches automatically, defensively, to his mask. He finds only water there. It clings to him, imbued with some sort of power – he can feel something other in it – but otherwise impotent.

"Leave my brother alone," Gaaki snarls. She stands in the doorway, small and hopelessly overpowered, but her shoulders are tensed with a stubborness Vakama recognises. Already, her spinner is powering up for another shot.

Well. Two can play at that game.

Vakama's rhotuka fires into motion, but the water has seeped into the mechanism, and dowses the fire before it has a chance to catch. He gives it a withering look, before turning the expression onto Gaaki. "Very clever."

Another water spinner hits him, but this time he is braced for it and all it does is wash harmlessly off him.

"Is that all you have?" he asks. His blazer claw splutters, but the claws on his hand flex. After all, there's more than one way to defang a muaka...

Gaaki steps back. Good. She knows she's outmatched. "It's a devastating attack underwater," she offers, and her words are strong but there is a cracked edge to them.

"Then you'd better start finding a puddle," Vakama growls, "before my claws find you," and he drops into a run, feet pounding and fangs bared and that ever-present wrongness humming about him.

She doesn't flee. Just like Norik, she stands her ground, gnarled fingers wrapped tight around her staff. Her eyes are hard, but he sees the way her hands shake.

How long will her resolve last, Vakama wonders. Before or after the claws find their mark?

He never finds out.

He's knocked off his feet before he reaches her, and when he hits the ground, ropes of energy pin him to the earth, like a water-bound rahi caught in a net.

What–

Norik.

He'd forgotten Norik.

He thrashes against the restraints, but they hold strong – for now. His blazer claw splutters again, but it does nothing to the energy that binds him.

He stills as he hears footsteps approach.

The two Rahaga hobble into his line of sight. Gaaki is breathing hard, as if only now is she allowing herself to feel the fear. "You left that late, Norik," she says, and even the breath that follows sounds more like a shaken wheeze than a nervous laugh. "Almost too late."

"I only had the one shot. I couldn't afford to miss," Norik replies. "He's got our brothers. Gaaki, go find–"

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," she retorts. "I only went for a moment before, and look what would have happened if I hadn't returned."

Vakama tilts his head as well as the energy net will allow. He grins at the Rahaga, anger curdling it into a sneer. "Yes, Gaaki, you're very good bait, congratulations." He shifts his gaze to Norik. "But you've always been so good at getting others to do your dirty work, haven't you, Norik?"

Norik doesn't even have the decency of guilt. Instead, he simply looks tired. "Whatever you think you know–"

"I know the truth! You don't care about the Matoran, you only care about yourselves!" He strains against the ropes, and although they do not break, there's a little more give in them than before. He slumps back to the ground, breathing hard. "You might have the other Toa fooled. You might even have the temple fooled, but not me," he growls, and the temple's hatred presses down on him, straining his last words.

Gaaki places a frail hand on her brother's arm. "Norik," she says, and there is such unbearable sorrow in her voice. "He looks in pain."

"It's not my doing," Norik assures her softly. "My snare spinner only binds."

Vakama snarls. "I don't need pity from the likes of you. I know what you are."

"We're allies, Vakama," Norik says, in that insufferably reasonable way of his. "Friends."

"You're frauds," Vakama snaps. He twists against his restraints. They slacken, just a touch. "Liars. You don't deserve to walk these floors."

And the Rahaga stand there, unburdened by the temple's hate, strangers to this land, to Metru Nui, and yet it is Vakama the temple repulses? After everything he has forgone, the life he's abandoned, the friendships he's lost, Mata Nui punishes him?

His rhotuka fires off a fire spinner, and it goes wide, cracks a wall. Norik and Gaaki stumble back, Norik preparing another snare shot, but the energy net holding Vakama snaps. Vakama lurches forward, suddenly free, and slams into Norik.

The snare spinner wraps itself around a column. It lights up the room with crackling energy.

A blast of water grazes past his shoulder, too shy of hitting Norik to commit to taking the easy shot, and Vakama reels towards Gaaki. He fires with a snarl, but hears the snare spinner coming again and ducks at the last moment.

Again his own attack misses and the shot cleaves clean through a wall. Something on the other side begins to smoulder.

Then it begins to rumble.

It's a low sound at first, as deep as the earth and just as vast. Almost like a distant growl. But then the cracks begin to spiral out across the roof, along the columns, and the room buckles.

The light flickers. The frames of the high windows above collapse.

The world becomes fragmented, filled with flickering images. Falling masonry and toppling pillars and dust – but the sounds never relent. Even in the depths of the passing darkness, the thunder continues.

And when the dust settles, so does an awful silence.

Vakama straightens, or does his best approximation of it. Fragments of cracked protodermis fall from his shoulders, his head, his back. He withdraws the hand which has somehow found itself raised above Gaaki, knocking aside the stone slab caught against his arm.

Where's Norik?

Both Hordika and Rahaga stand side by side, that quietness disturbed only by the skittering of stone shards settling. There is wrongness in his breath, his head, and it's impossible to separate where the temple's ends and his begins. But any moment now, Norik will reappear from the wreckage, bearing that ever-same holier-than-thou look, and the anger will rise anew in Vakama.

Any.

Moment.

Now.

"You've killed him," Gaaki says, and her voice breaks that terrible stillness. She draws in a half-breath that cracks into a sob. "You've... oh, Norik..."

No.

No, it was an accident. He hadn't meant to– Norik had simply been in the wrong place. It wasn't as if he'd taken a blazer claw to Norik, or hit him directly with a fire spinner. He'd only meant to... what? What had he only meant to do?

Something swings towards him and he grabs the staff before he even registers what it is.

"He's not dead," Vakama says, and maybe if he says it, he might even believe it. He snaps his gaze to Gaaki, as if her grief is bringing it to pass. "He's not. He's not as easy to kill as that. When the others– when the Toa find him, he'll be fine. Fools like him always find a way to survive."

Gaaki attempts to pull her staff free, but her strength is no match for Vakama's. He wretches it out of her grasp and tosses it aside.

"Stop that."

She doesn't listen to him, only steps back and charges up her rhotuka. The grief in her eyes fogs into hatred.

The water spinner hits him but does little more than rock him.

"Stop."

Gaaki screams, a sound of rage and anguish, and releases a volley of spinners as ineffectual as the first.

Vakama's patience – or whatever had held him in place until now – snaps. He lunges forward. His claws close around the joints of Gaaki's rhotuka and pins the mechanisms harmlessly into place, in the same manner one might pick up a baby ussal crab by the widest edge of its shell. She thrashes, but Vakama's grip holds.

"I said, stop," he snarls.

She's breathing hard, her gasps sharp-edged with agony. "You killed him," she says, voice hoarse and hateful.

His insides twist, and – Gaaki hauled by his side – he starts the ascent to where the rest of the Rahaga are trapped. He doesn't look back to the rubble. Doesn't glance for one last glimpse of Norik's resting place.

He's not dead. He's not dead he's not dead he's not

The wrongness, the hatred, has woven so deep into him, it's almost a part of him now.

Toa don't kill. Vakama can't remember who taught him that (he recalls, briefly, the flash of a gold mask, but it comes with pain – grief – and he pushes it aside before it can take root) but it gnaws at him like a trapped stone rat. Toa don't kill.

But he was never meant to be one.

And if the Great Temple – if Mata Nui – thinks a mistake was made in Vakama's destiny....

Well. That's somebody else's problem.

x

The Hordika that returns to Roodaka is different from the one she sent out. There's something new in his eyes... or perhaps something lost.

"How was the temple, Vakama?" she asks when it's just the two of them.

He looks to her. Beneath the anger, beneath the rahi, there's almost a haunted look to those eyes. It vanishes a moment later, but Roodaka never doubts her own eyes.

"Unwelcoming," he replies, and Roodaka smiles. She could have suggested Vakama pick the Rahaga off one by one in the chaos of Metru Nui, outside where her Visorak could have been an aid... but the temple had been too good an opportunity to miss.

"Good." She sets a hand on his shoulder. "You owe no loyalty to Mata Nui, Vakama. Not anymore."

He rolls his shoulder, but not sharp enough to dislodge Roodaka's hand.

"One thing I do not understand," she says. "What happened to the sixth Rahaga?"

The Toa growls. It is a gutteral sound, rooted deep in the chest and at home in a way it wasn't before. "You wanted a message left for the other Toa. I needed a messenger."

"Alive?"

Vakama shrugs his shoulder again, and this time she lets him roll her hand loose. "Does it matter, so long as they understand?" he growls.

No, Roodaka concedes as she surveys the remains of the Toa before her. She supposes not.

#bionicle #cat writes #lego bionicle #do i have a weakness for the hordika arc? you'll never know #(yes. look i was a well behaved 12year old kid who loved plots about characters going feral. i ate the hordika plotline up) #(and two decades later or there abouts i still have nostalgic fondness for it) #heya so how do we feel about vakama returning to the temple and finding it is repulsed by him? #a discovery that might not only confirm he wasnt chosen by mata nui but has been forsaken #and yeah this was the fic i technically titled 'damned' #but also casually thought of it as 'god called to let you know he hates you personally' #because that's definitely a normal thing to name a fic #also yes i like the idea that roodaka pushed vakama to enter the temple knowing he would feel abandoned by mata nui #and thus helps sever the 'destiny' part of the three virtues #i like the idea that just like matau had to invoke the three virtues to get vakama back #roodaka worked on severing vakamas ties to the three virtues to get him to turn his back on the others #and while she succeeded with unity and destiny #duty she could only derail or corrupt rather than sever entirely #and that (esp since duty is vakamas whole shtick) is why matau reminding him of his duty finally worked #i'll probably add this and the stasis tube au to ao3 in time #but for now it goes here

[thyandrawrites]

I've never really seen anyone talk abt this before, but have you noticed just how much natsuo looks like enji, especially young enji? Even when rei talks about how she started seeing him in the kids, a picture of natsuo shows, and it makes me think about how it must be to be a near spitting image of a man who doesn't even acknowledge you exist. if anything I'm shocked people haven't utilised this for maximum angst potential in fanfic

I don't know about others, but I have talked about it! Respectively here and here.

To reiterate what I've said before:

With one addition: Natsuo dyeing the red out of his hair partly because he doesn't want to look like his abuser and partly because he doesn't want Rei to see Enji in him when Natsuo first visits her at the hospital...

#Natsuo is so slept on as an angsty character tbh #Every single detail about him is pure pain... #Let's not even get into his chosen career... #Ali replies #Todoroki natsuo #I'll admit that I've been sleeping on his character too tho #I love him so much but I don't write him as much as I'd like #He's a minefield of repression grief and self-hatred

[queen-of-obsessing]

not me collecting all these babygirl men like infinity stones

#i wanna see them go on an adventure together #maybe i'll write a book about that #judas iscariot #the chosen #isildur #the rings of power #graydon hastur #willow 2022 #merlin emrys #bbc merlin #luke dimyan #maxim baldry #tony revolori #colin morgan

[sammy8d257]

The First Meeting - AvA Mafia AU!

An AvA Mafia AU! Oneshot

AU created by @sammy8d257 and @k1ttyadventurer

Written by Sammy8D

Word Count: 2185

Characters: Chosen (He/Him), Yellow (They/Them), Dark (He/They), Second (Any Pronouns), Green (He/They), Red (He/Him), Blue (They/She/He), Victim (Any Pronouns)

CWs: Blackmail, Mentions of violence

Summary: When Noogai passed down the family business to him, Chosen knew it would be tough, he knew there would be surprises. Hell, they’ve already had their fair share of them when the supposed “first victim” of the gang’s dealings, turned out to be more useful alive than dead. Now that stick figure, affectionately nicknamed, “Victim”, was one of the most valuable members of the "Noogai Family". And yet, despite that, despite Chosen’s willingness to adapt to anything, despite Chosen literally being created to fulfill this role, he was not prepared to deal with these four very persistent stick figures.

[ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: May, 2021]

<= v =>

Chosen pinched the bridge of his forehead. When Noogai passed down the family business to him, Chosen knew it would be tough, he knew there would be surprises. Hell, they’ve already had their fair share of them when the supposed “first victim” of the gang’s dealings, turned out to be more useful alive than dead. Now that stick figure, affectionately nicknamed, “Victim”, was one of the most valuable members of the Family. And yet, despite that, despite Chosen’s willingness to adapt to anything, despite Chosen literally being created to fulfill this role, he was not prepared for the situation that sat in front of him. 

So here he sits, in one of the many backrooms of the quaint little restaurant young Second hosts as a front for the group's more, illicit activities. The orange stick figure had come to him in a panicked state, trying their best to recount their run-in with one particular persuasive fellow with a laptop filled with documents that should never see the light of day. Through the rushed and jumbled words, Chosen got the jist of what had transpired and more importantly, what needed to be done. That was why four brightly colored stick figures were seated across from him, looking for a chance at something that Chosen wasn't sure he was ready to give. 

“Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t just let Dark here dispose of you.” 

As Chosen spoke those words, the bright red stick figure standing to his right side cracked his knuckles. Judging by the reactions from the group, there was no doubt that upon Dark’s face was his signature smile, the wide grin filled with sharp teeth and malicious intent. Chosen’s eyes slowly scanned across the stick figures before him. 

Seated furthest to the right was a light blue stick figure clothed in a loose dark blue jacket. A small bottle of an unknown substance hung by a silver chain around their neck. Despite the more relaxed and aloof attitude Chosen had observed when the four first arrived, he could see how sharp the blue one’s eyes were, seemingly categorizing everything within their surroundings. To the left of them sat a red stick figure, a slightly darker shade of red than his Right Hand Man, Chosen noted. He was the fighter of the group if the hand wraps along his knuckles and wrists were anything to go by. Right now, he was cracking his neck and eyeing up Dark in anticipation. There were no doubts that the stick figure was deciding whether he could square up to the infamous Dark Lord of the Noogai Family. The green stick figure next to him was reacting similarly, albeit in a much more subtle manner. Chosen watched as the green one carefully reached into his dark green vest only for a grimace to appear on his face. The stick figure was probably reaching for the gun that he gave up as both a show of respect toward the head of the gang and a sign of peace between the two parties. Chosen was rather surprised at the weaponry the green stick figure was carrying. The pistol was a pretty little number with an engraving upon its handle that he was positive couldn’t have been bought in any public stores. And lastly there was-

“I know for a fact you won’t.”

And lastly there was the source of Chosen’s current headache, the stick figure whom Second had informed him, was simply named Yellow. The most confident out of all of the stick figures in front of him, Yellow sat high in their seat with a self-assured smile upon their face. A pair of dusty yellow headphones hung loosely from the stick figure’s neck while they adjusted the glasses that sat on their face. Chosen took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, bringing his hands to rest in front of him. 

“And why might that be?” Chosen asked. Yellow leaned back in their seat and lifted one hand in the air. 

“Well, I have a timer set to release all the information I gathered on your little group out onto the internet.You’ll be ruined within minutes and only I know how to stop it.” 

“Yeah right, I cou-” Dark was interrupted as Yellow leveled their stare at him. 

“I cracked through your defenses in under 5 hours. If you so much as breathe incorrectly on the code I created, it’ll automatically release every single dirty detail the Noogai Family has been hiding. But if you’re willing to risk that, fine, go ahead and try to kill us.”

Dark snarled at the challenge. It was no secret that despite being Chosen’s Right Hand and also one of the best fighters, Dark also prided himself on being a damn good coder as well. To see his work be so quickly broken through by someone as young and as smug as Yellow, must have infuriated Dark to no end. Chosen sighed and gestured for Dark to stand down. 

Meeting the yellow stick figure’s gaze, Chosen spoke in a hard voice, “Okay, you have my attention. What is it exactly that you want from us?”

“Well! As your orange friend here may have told you, me and my buddies are looking to join your group!” Yellow said with a grin so big it nearly split their face. The other 3 nodded in agreement. With furrowed brows, Chosen let out another sigh. Right, Second had told him that this group was looking to join the gang. It wasn’t that Chosen was adverse to gaining new members, rather the opposite actually. The big boss knew that in order to gain more power in the Interspace, their gang would have to have more members than just the original four. But still, he never expected this would be how they would grow. Chosen always assumed people with prior connections to the Family would join in first, though that certainly wasn’t the case now.

“Let’s say we are looking for new members.” Chosen tilted his head to the side. “What can you bring to this group?” 

The grin on Yellow’s face seemed to get even wider. “I’m so glad you asked sir.”

Yellow placed a hand on their chest. “You’ve already seen a bit of what I can do. But basically, I can be your go-to guy for anything code related. I can get you any encrypted information you need. I’m a bit of a master hacker if you will.” 

Dark scoffed and crossed his arms.

“Green here is our weapons specialist. He’s versed in multiple types of weaponry. Whether it be a gun or a bo staff, he’ll be able to wield them all.” 

“I’m gonna need my gun back by the way,” Green said with a cocked brow. “It wasn’t easy to get and I’d appreciate it if I didn’t lose it so soon.” 

“Don’t worry,” Second spoke up for the first time since the four had arrived. “I’ll make sure to get it back to you.” Green jumped at the sudden intrusion and jerked his head towards the corner where Second was standing. The orange stick figure sent him a small wave and Green nodded once in appreciation. 

Yellow continued, “And if weapons aren’t you thing, we have our very own close combat specialist. Meet Red! He’s the powerhouse of the bunch and knows all about hand-to-hand fighting.”

Red beamed at both Yellow and Chosen at the praise. “Yeah, I’m pretty good at fighting.” Chosen nodded along with Yellow’s explanation, happy that his earlier suspicions were confirmed. 

“And lastly,” Yellow gestured to the furthest stick figure from them. “We have Blue. Don't let their quiet demeanor fool you, Blue has a mastery over poisons and knows more about the sneaking than anyone I know. If you need to take out someone quietly, Blue's definitely the one for the job." 

The stick figure in question gave Chosen a mock salute, a calm smile on their face. From the other corner, Chosen watched as Victim nodded at him, no doubt interested in the more stealthy aspects of this stick figure's skill set.

Chosen hummed, interlocking his fingers in front of his face. These four definitely had skills that could be beneficial to the Family. Especially if Red, Green, and Blue were as skilled in their areas of expertise as Yellow. They were good. Almost too good. Chosen's contemplative look turned accusatory as he leveled gaze across the group.

"What are you hoping to get out of this? From what you've told me and from what you've shown, you four seem very qualified for positions within the group." Chosen's voice was cold. "I'm finding it very hard to believe a couple of highly skilled individuals like yourselves aren't already part of another gang.” 

“So I’m going to ask you again,” The skin of Chosen’s palms glowed a dangerous red. “What are you hoping to get out of this?”

There was silence for a moment, only the hum of the ventilation filling the dead air. The four stick figures in front of him were deep in some sort of non-verbal communication, simply consulting with one another through nods and stares. In the back of Chosen’s mind, he wondered how close they were to each other that allowed them to do that. Finally, the group seemed to come to a conclusion and Yellow spoke up once more.

“You may not believe us, but we aren’t part of any other group. You guys were actually our first choice when we all decided to look into this type of business.” Yellow gestured an arm out to the rest of the sticks. “The four of us are from a web-based sticks fighting game. We were literally built to fight but after years of doing the same thing over and over again... Well, we got really bored. And then with all the extra time we had, we each decided to master skills that interested us.” 

Yellow placed a hand on their chest, their tone taking a more sincere note. “I’ve researched hundreds of other groups beforehand. Although you guys are newer and still very small, we all agreed that the way you run your business aligns the best with our group's own beliefs. You guys still do illegal things, but,” they paused to readjust their glasses. “The Noogai Family is still the best option in comparison to almost everyone else. And because of that, we’re willing to dedicate ourselves to this Family.”

The rest of the sticks nodded in agreement. Yellow themself, sunk back into their chair, seemingly winded from their speech. Bringing a hand up to rub at his forehead, Chosen also leaned back into his seat with a sigh. The silence returned once again. After a few minutes, he spoke,

“Okay. Against my better judgment, you’ve convinced me.”

There was a pause before the room erupted into cheer. Dark’s indignant shout of “WHAT-” was drowned out by the ecstatic celebration of Red, Yellow, Green and Blue. Rounds of high-fives were being given to each other along with excited hand flapping. Not wanting the celebration to get too out of hand, Chosen signaled for the four to quiet down. 

“Don’t go celebrating yet. You four have exactly one week to prove your loyalty and that you can be a reliable asset to this group. Second.” Second perked their head up at the sound of their name. “I want you to escort these fellows to a separate room and go over the rules. Also make sure to gather any necessary information from them.”

“Of course,” Second said softly. Turning towards the group, they motioned them to follow their lead. “Right this way guys.”

All four of the stick figures stood up excitedly before bowing towards Chosen.

“You won’t regret this boss!” The grin was back on Yellow’s face. Chosen sent a look toward Victim and with a nod, the dark gray stick figure followed the group out the door, shutting it softly as they went. 

And then, there was silence again. 

Chosen let out a sigh. Standing up he placed a calming hand upon a fuming Dark’s shoulder. 

“With all due respect,” Dark said through gritted teeth. “What were you THINKING letting these… these fools into OUR Family?”

“They seem very capable. I thought very hard on my decision and for now, I’m confident in it. Just trust me on this alright?” Chosen gave Dark’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Besides, we need to start growing. We won’t get anywhere if our group just stays the four of us.”

Dark snarled and shrugged Chosen’s hand off his shoulder. “Whatever you say, Chosen One.” And with that, the pissed off stick figure stalked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Chosen slumped back down into his seat. Closing his eyes, Chosen allowed himself to relax ever so slightly. Noogai said this wouldn’t be easy but Chosen wished he was also told just how hard it was going to be. Regardless of the outcome, he could feel that this would be a new chapter in the history of the Noogai Family.

#Sammy8D writes #AvA au #animator vs animation au #AvA Mafia AU #alan becker #animator vs animation #ava shorts #the chosen one #ava chosen #yellow stick figure #ava yellow #Hoo boy I can't believe I'm actually posting this #It's been almost 2 years since I wrote this and despite it being this long #I'm still pretty happy with this little bit I wrote for the worldbuilding in this AU #I only have this oneshot and the original concept art for this AU #but hey! maybe I'll actually get some more stuff done with this in the future! #Sammy8D Stick Stuff

[simlit]

Chosen of the Sun | | forest // sixty-two

| @maladi777

A Heart's Pursuit |​

Aster’s curse has broken. Considering past events, there are three viable routes the proceeding scene may take. The audience will determine which of the following characters Aster will interact with. The winner will stand opposite him during this important reveal. This poll will have no bearing on the overall challenge winner, but will heavily influence Aster’s personal route and, inevitably, how his story here will end. You may use whatever logic you like to cast your vote.

[ Vote now ]

next / previous / beginning

#ts4 #ts4 screenshots #ts4 story #ts4 bachelor challenge #chosen of the sun #cc: aster songleaf #this is our first poll of this particular type #only because I did not want to be the sole decider of who to write this scene with so I'll leave the choice to the vote #I like all three potential scenes #keep in mind that this is not necessarily a coupling vote #i.e. this may have romantic implications but not definitively #however it will heavily tip scales so do with that what you will

[chloeseyeliner]

help, now that i have stopped tearing up at every mention of the series, the young royals forever documentary and the bts videos have brought my past obsession with film-making back-

#beware: rambling ahead!!! #so when i was in high school a secret dream of mine was to go to film school #because i was mesmerised by the whole process of writing and directing and everything the crew typically does during filming #and i was reading so much stuff about all the different angles and symbolism and the like #but of course my mother wouldn't let me #(very neil perry of me lmao) #and i mean i was trying to be realistic too #because i don't come from money and greece is not exactly a great place to be an artist #(since i wouldn't be able to go abroad and chase my dreams or something like that i am not the main character in a disney movie) #so like i threw this dream into the bin along with being an astronaut (i was bad at physics because no one ever explained anything to me- #-before last year of high school i still don't know how i technically aced my uni entering physics exam lol ANYWAY) #and don't get me wrong #i like the path i have chosen now (which was at the beginning at least also against my mother's wishes but she thinks it 'has money' so- #-she 'allowed it' as if- i won't say anything worse i'll regret later i'll just leave it be) #i like it very much because i can help people and maybe contribute to making this world a better place #i just... #i watched the documentary some days ago and it's all i can think about (along with the show of course) #like i LOVE the cast #but the crew is magnificent as well #what they create is like magic #anyway #young royals #filmmaking

[seriousbrat]

I feel like I'm not especially good at or interested in prose tbh but I've always found it fairly easy to write natural-sounding dialogue. I could happily write pages and pages of nothing but dialogue like it feels like I can Hear These People speaking in my head and I know exactly what they'd say

#its why i love screenplays #and also gravitate towards iceberg theory style of writing #like i like bare bones 'this happened. she went there. And then she fell asleep' #like obviously that's a bit of an exaggeration and its not like it doesn't take skill to do it well #i love raymond carver or hemingway where words are chosen carefully and you have to read between the lines #things are implicit #i honestly should probably challenge myself to focus more on prose lol #oops this is on the wrong blog but i'll just keep it here

[arsonist-chicken]

Okay my fellow ADHDers or whatever else is up with your brains that makes it hard for you to study and study on time and study in a way that you actually remember stuff:

How do you get yourself to actually sit down and study? For me, the "oh shit deadline/exam soon, we can focus for a bit in emergency mode" hasn't worked in a long time now, which leads me now to an exam last week or so I put off to February and another one I would have tomorrow that I'm almost positive I won't go to because I never was in the lecture (clashed with another mandatory one) and only just now downloaded the stuff the professor provided, and I'm about ready to fall asleep so I know I won't manage it in time anymore anyway. And I have two other things I'd need done by tomorrow and I already know I'll cry during christmas break because of being overwhelmed not only because of staying at my parents' and missing my friends but mostly because I'll be overwhelmed at the prospect of January coming up with all the presentations and exams etc etc to get done, next to preparing for my main translation exams in February and getting started on my thesis.

So. HOW do you sit down and actually make yourself study? I came home at 7:30pm today, it's now 3:40am and I'm queuing this so that someone might see and have some sort of advice, because in that time I have finished one sentence of a translation that I'd been putting off for two weeks - ONE sentence - and revised the translation but like, very half-assed. I did not study for the exam although it was RIGHT THERE in my brain the whole time and I KNEW it was the most important thing and still, my brain just went kinda "eh 🤷🏼‍♀️" and I naturally didn't get my bills or even something I'd enjoy doing done. Just did fuck all for several hours that I swear didn't feel that long.

So, yeah, any advice on how to get yourself to actually START working and then sticking with it would be very much appreciated.

#body doubling only works somedays but often esp in the library i'm also irritated by other people #pomodoro etc doesn't work at all #help #adhd #mine #yeah i'M not doing that exam it's in 12h and I need to sleep now; I'm doing it in february #it's about how to build streets or whatever. not my studies but from the technology faculty as a chosen credit thing. #idk man i'm tired i can't think anymore. i chose it when i still thought i was going on erasmus so I'd be done in december #and not have clashing exams and leaving times #which btw i'm still upsetti spaghetti over. for ONCE i did everything right and put my whole heart in the application and they went na sorr #anyway. good night. #i'm exhausted and idk how i'll manage this semester and then it only gets worse because then there's a goddamn thesis to write #and after that i hope i'll be able to have some summer off at least before i start to work and will only have 5 weeks off a year until i die #or maybe retire if there still is a normal retirement age by then 👍 #yeah i“ #xm #jesus #i'm very excited to start fulltime work a #can you see it?