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allthelittlecreepycrawlies · 10 months

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Originally another thread for @grtr3's little sangyaoFES, this one got even more heavily edited than the other, with a whole ending added and such. Could be read as a prequel to A Second Glance

Title: The Golden Cure

Ship: pre-SangYao

Tags: Sickfic, Mostly Fluff, Author Has Nothing Witty This Time

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His new sect leader had warned him that of all the sect territories, Qinghe Nie's was the coldest when winter hit.

Staring out at the heavy piles of snow as he shivered, Meng Yao thought that Nie Mingjue had still managed to undersell just how cold it could be this far north.

Well, there was nothing else to be done for it. He'd lit both of the censers that had come with the room, had worn the warmest of the clothing he'd taken from the disciple stores he’d been shown, and was wrapped in the heaviest of the blankets he'd been provided.

And still he shivered.

He turned his attention back to his desk, trying to concentrate on the day's unfinished records, but it was only a matter of moments before another set of harsh, chest rattling coughs escaped his mouth.

"Here."

Blinking through watering eyes, Meng Yao found a little golden bear on a stick being held in front of his face.

"What is it?" he asked, hating how rough and alien his voice sounded.

"It's made of salted jin ju paste and honey. It'll help with the pain in your throat," Nie Huaisang said as he laid down a tea tray with more of the bears sticking out of a jar and a pot of tea that had a strong smell of xiangcheng fruit.

Meng Yao took the stick, eyeing the golden bear a little warily, then popped it into his mouth.

The taste wasn't bad. He could see using these for flavoring tea on occasions.

He watched as Nie Huaisang poured them both full cups, and then took notice of the faint tremor in his hands and how pale he was.

Oh.

Now he remembered overhearing his sect leader discussing winter preparations with the head of the infirmary hall, and one of the topics had been supplies for when his younger brother’s health took a dive "like it does every winter."

Which meant Nie Huaisang probably knew about all kinds of remedies and treatments for bad weather illness from personal experience.

Reassured, he simply rested his too-heavy head on his hand, letting the honey bear slowly melt in his mouth.

"This is your first northern winter, isn't it?" Huaisang asked as he set a steaming cup in front of him.

"Mm-hmm."

"Ouch, and with this one predicted to be especially harsh, too. On the bright side, with how hard you've been working, you should have your core built up enough that next winter will hardly touch you."

Meng Yao took the bear out of his mouth to speak. "If that's the case, why are you so adamant about not improving yours?"

Huaisang rolled one shoulder in a little half-shrug. "Most of my health issues are things I was born with. And some of them a core just can't fix unless I were to break all the way through to immortality."

A fair point, though it made Meng Yao a little morose about his own training goals. He rather hoped that the pain from cold spearing into injuries that had never fully healed wouldn't be on the list of things a stronger core couldn't fix.

"Then I will defer to your medical knowledge,” he said instead of any of those thoughts, pushing his uncertain feelings down deep.

Nie Huaisang snorted, amused. "Medical knowledge, he says. All I know is the stuff healers do to make picky kids not complain about how bad medicine tastes."

Still, the honey bear was helping soothe the roughness all the coughing had left in his throat. "It's good advice all the same. Thank you."

Nie Huaisang grinned at the praise, then motioned to the tea cup he'd set out. "Once you finish a couple of bears and the tea, we're heading to storage to get you some proper fur blankets, okay? Then I'm going to order you some heavier robes. Though… actually…"

Meng Yao looked up, not liking the frown on Nie Huaisang's face as he tapped his cheek in thought. "Gongzi?" he asked hesitantly around the honey bear.

"You should have had winter clothing and blankets given to you already. Didn't one of the quartermasters talk to you?"

He could tell the truth; that when he’d picked up his first allotment of supplies on being brought to the Unclean Realms, the man who’d handed them over had snidely implied that it was all the generosity he’d be getting from the sect, and anything more would be coming out of his pay.

While no one had actually made good on that threat, they'd given him enough runaround that he'd learned to stop requesting anything months ago.

He could say so. Nie Huaisang would believe him.

He could-

No.

No, he wasn’t going to do that.

Bad enough that there were some who mockingly accused him of hiding behind the sect leader; he didn’t want to give them any ammunition to use against his tentative relationship with the young master as well.

He bit the last little part of the melted bear off the stick and laid it down. “Things have been busy. We probably just missed crossing paths,” he said.

“Hrm… If you say so,” Huaisang murmured, still looking dubious. “Alright, then. Next time you need something, come to me first, got it?”

“Your brother already disapproves of your spending, gongzi. Won’t he get angry?”

“He complains about inks or aviary supplies, he can’t complain when I’m making sure his best aide doesn’t spend the whole season sick because he’s not been equipped for the weather.”

A fair point.

He still probably shouldn't be allowing this. While it wasn't the same as Nie Huaisang pulling heir rank on his behalf, everyone in the sect knew he wouldn't personally go commissioning clothing and such for just anyone.

Ah, but that particular ship had already sailed, evidenced by the braids and guan in his hair.

(And the little custard cakes that appeared like magic in his desk drawer on occasion, but no one knew about those besides the two of them.)

And… honestly… a part of him enjoyed the fact that his young master saw him as someone he wanted to spoil. Someone his young master would make the effort for.

He smiled as he reached for the next bear on a stick Nie Huaisang held out to him.

"Very well. I accept your offer."

#mdzs #cql #mostly cql #sangyao #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #fanfic

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transmandrake · 1 year

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Feel like talking about art... I worry a lot that I've passed some kind of 'peak' in my art, not per se skillwise but productivity wise.

'I made a 65 page full colour full shading comic chapter and had it printed! Oh my god, I could never do that now', I think. But thankfully in this age I've seen this exact thing happen to so many artists slightly older than me... intense productivity in school, sudden drop in early 20's, figure shit out in late 20's. It makes sense, art was basically the only thing keeping me together for many of those productive years, and I was miserable.

And now, yeah, I'm back in a high stress environment, but this time I'm managing my own progress and am doing things I want to do on some level, that aren't art. Is it any wonder people go on massive hiatuses when theres no longer One Thing they want to do?

And well also. The classic. It is bonkers the amount of people I grew up admiring who crashed and burned in college and then get diagnosed with, well usually several things but especially ADHD. I'd like to think I'm "learning from other's """pitfalls"""" by nipping that revelation in the bud early (healthcare system tho... pls gimme anything... an appointment, maybe...) but I've been ruminating a long time on art advice and life advice and a lot of the time it's not possible to 'skip' on doing the 'wrong' thing.

So much art advice is like 'man i wish i learned anatomy or x thing when I was younger, so much time wasted' and yes it seems true in hindsight, learning anatomy is pivotal to my current art... but I think I had to *get* to a point art and well growing up wise where that was even something I could fully comprehend. Theres lots of things where, yeah, I'm sure sitting 12 year old me down and getting them excited about Bones and Muscles wasn't *impossible*, but there was like 100 mini lessons that have no names I had to learn first. It's like, a skill tree in a video game. You have to learn fireball I and II before great fireball IV or whatever. It's easy to say man, why didn't I learn Hard Thing sooner, I would have been so much better by now, when in order to be able for Hard Thing you had to learn all the smaller easier things it leads to. Going straight for the big guns isn't impossible, but you'll end up having to go backwards at some point. In fact I feel like that's what's happening to me now!

I'm like, why is my art shit conpared to a few years ago, why am I half-assing everything, and you know what I spent 5 years only doing full colour full shading stuff because that was The Inevitable Artistic Conclusion and doing Less would be Wasting My Time! And I think that was the right choice actually. *Because* it made me learn that thought process wasn't true.

Also ummm FFAK by kosmicdream who I am sheepishly not tagging basically rewrote my brain? A 6000+ and not even half finished comic drawn with maximum speed and not sweating the details? And its great? And at no point did I think the story was worse off for not being polished to 100% 'completion'? Preposterous!

Well, not really. Loads of comics are like that. I knew I didn't want to be like them. But hm, its a conscious choice now rather than a feeling of shame at not completing things. The reassurance that, it's okay to not finish things, and it's okay to do less in order to finish things. Balance. FFAK just really punched that lesson into my skull rather than the light jabs of comics I'd loved before. I can count the comics I read as a kid that actually *finished* on like, two hands max. I reevaluated, what do I want to be, perfect incompletion or finished imperfection. And chose both and neither because I'm a vile little contrarian.

Am I going to finish my comic? Finished doesn't exist, so no. Does that mean my tedious perfection is justified as long as the unfinished work is what I envisioned? Also no, because I am not the same person I was when I stopped lifting the pen and my idea of perfection is also always just out of reach. Also it's. A story. I want to tell it. Not look at it.

Like, just... do what you want. What you want will change, you can't put a box around it. But also develop discipline, because that box helps. It's always breaking and expanding and shrinking but the box has to be there. You have to try. But you won't succeed. And that's okay, because that's not the goal. It's a dance, not a house.

You might want to build a place to dance easier but you've gotta dance. And you suck at dancing but you love it. And if you don't love ot anymore, go work on the house until you want to again, and you'll think, why am I building this goddamn house instead of dancing, and you'll keep forgetting that the house exists to dance in. Then someday you come back off the scaffolding and realise, woah, holy shit, dancing here is going to be so much better.

And you think, why didn't I make the house like this in the first place? Well, because you only started building the house when you didn't want to dance, imagine if you made the house perfect, and then stopped liking dancing? Well you'd be me, you'd knock that house down, and you'd rebuild it all shit, because you didn't need the house to dance, you needed the process of building it. You can make that perfect house all the time, but you can only make a shit house once. No matter how you try, you're gonna figure out why the house is shit, and make it better.

And you'll say, why didn't I make this first before! I'm learning so much! And you'll remember why, it's because everyone said 'man, don't make a house like I made it. Look at my new house, its so much better, do that! I wasted so much time on the shit house!' But they didnt. They learned. You made their perfect house with no understanding of why it was perfect. You had to break it, to rebuild it, to retrace the steps, to learn.

#oh god I finally made my point #long post #does this make sense I dont know #hit post and maybe someone will get it but its okay if no one does its the process not the result

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2lim3rz · 1 year

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THE SKIN THAT BURNS [Warhammer 40k Fanfic]

This is an unfinished fic and likely won't be finished so.. I'll reblog this with how the ending was supposed to be

CONTENT WARNINGS: Body Horror, Daemonculaba (it's very existence should be a content warning), I'm not sure on words but seriously this isn't like one of my hee-hee-haa-haa oh no there's weird dark stuff, this is one of my earlier attempts on going full ham seeing how wretched I could get in a serious story.

Another raid on another Imperial planet. Another day passing by, which would lead to seconds and minutes and hours going by too.

Of course, the planet his leader had chosen was unprepared for their assault. They never went far enough into their territory to get spotted, at least by the heavier hitters. Each time they ventured out, it was harder to remain out of the Imperium’s gaze. Harder to throw off their scent away from the Inquisitorial hounds.

Not that it mattered, much, but “stealth” was best for their plans. Gathering the manpower for their forces was long and arduous enough. Recruiting renegades was bad enough, not to mention the half-breeds and daemons.. No, it did not matter. Not to Charákoma, anyhow. Those that commanded him could tell him to destroy a star with only a bucket and he would.

..Maybe he’d use more than a bucket though. That would be hard if he didn’t.

With bolters barking and chainswords roaring, Charákoma watched his brothers charge ahead. With old Slul whirling his makeshift weapon above his head before slamming it upon the fragile humans beneath and Malothar equally sending doom and damnation with a volley of explosives. Trekh, as always, fought nigh-alone, semi-avoided and just veering off by himself.

::Squad Epsilon, proceed to Target Twelve-Two. Squad Theta, proceed to Target Seven-Seven.::

The vox crackled in his helmet, the left side giving a small ‘pop’. He would need to get that fixed soon. The more it popped the more it got louder. Soon it was going to get deafening and akin to being near one of those blasted noise makers.

Trekh parted from him, off to rejoin his squad and a new armor-clad man took his place. By unconventionally sliding across the asphalt, creating a horrendous shriek.

Megálo. Getting onto his nerves as always, even as he trotted up and clapped Charákoma on the pauldron.

“Lady grabbing, as usual!” Megálo groaned right after his greeting. Charákoma could only snort.

“I’d rather grab women than face off what Epsilon has to.” he had heard too many stories from Trekh about how viciously the mortal mothers fought for their sons. Some would also be taken for their purposes, but not many. The less memories the recruits had of past lives, the better. So he was told.

As Charákoma rounded a corner, he watched from his peripherals as Megálo and Malothar split off from the group, as did the others. Effectively leaving it to be himself and Zephious. Entering the building, there seemed to be no one in the lower floors, a sheer oddity in the city. Caution became the first option chosen and they, too, split apart. Zephious treading the stairs lower while Charákoma took the route up.

Short of completely offlining his suit, Charákoma walked with slow, steady steps to remain as quiet as he could be. The droning whine of the mechanics within the ceramite armor still felt deafening. Scanning his head left to right as he cleared rooms, it was obvious that everyone had left in a rush. Everything was a mess, with most having their necessities gone. The humans with them would relish in finding more food here, but that wasn’t his job.

A whimper, quiet and perhaps easily missed among the relative noise of distant fights and screaming, echoed into his own hearing. Akin to a predatory animal, his head snapped towards it. A large ventilation shaft with its grating attached was all he could see. A perfect hiding place. Walking towards it, he holstered his bolter and yanked the grating off.

Only to have something slam onto his optics and stick there. Jolting his head back, Charákoma choked out a hiss before he realized he still had vision in his right optic, and more-or-less had it in his left. Whatever the substance was, it was semi-clear.

Inside the vent was three women. One elderly but still strong looking and two that were younger. The one that had clearly thrown whatever the goo was had another weapon, some sort of metal rod that she swiftly jammed up at him with a fierce roar. Part of him wanted to laugh at the woman’s attempt to fight back. Even as she began to yell and kick when he yanked the pole away and grabbed the three. It was an uncomfortable hold for him, and certainly uncomfortable positioning for them with how rough his armor was.

But the fighter certainly wasn’t giving up. The one that writhed in his hold (the second gave up as soon as she had seen him) was making the task of grabbing the fighting woman difficult as she skittered back. Grunting, he snatched a hold of her ankle, twisting himself to the side to lean further into the vent to pull her out.

“Quit fighting, it’ll be easier for you-” he couldn’t figure out why he bothered as her booted foot took chanced kicks at his chest. Not that it would do anything, but he supposed it was good for her own psyche.

Wrestling a very angry and terrified human with one arm was a task and a half, but he soon had a hold of the women. It’d be difficult to return to the ship like this but.. Charákoma paused in his steps before dropping the two he already held, swiftly filling his hand with his bolter.

“Walk, or say goodbye to your legs.” then they would only have to worry about whatever horrors would await them if they didn’t bleed out first. The whimpering one already got on his nerves as they began to trek downstairs. A walk that was quite quick for him, even walking as slow as he did, but was much longer with his captives plodding ahead of him.

“Hurry up.” he hissed, relieved as they flinched and skittered down quicker.

::You find any, Zephious?::

::Found a whole group of at least sixteen females. Men thought they could fight me off.::

::That many? Any to add to Epsilon’s group?::

::No. All too old or clearly wouldn’t have made it. One moment. Change that to thirteen.::

::Hrm.::

Their exchange was curt enough, even as he listened to the distant crack of a bolter going off and screaming. Unlike some others and even Trekh, he and Zephious didn’t have much in common to exchange much conversation on the field of a paltry raid as Malothar and Megálo did. The two women in front of him began to cling to each other as the writhing fighter stopped in his hold. Clearly, the knew now what they were in for even if his presence somehow didn’t beat it in them. Meeting upon one of the floors, the two women Charákoma captured joined Zephious’s thirteen, more-or-less.

“Thirio, what is with the one you’re holding?” the man rumbled to him after barking the order to move. Charákoma had moved to more-or-less the back of the group as Zephious took the front.

“..She’s a fighter.”

“And? Chop a leg off or something. What does it matter?” It took him a moment to take in his battle brother’s words as he glanced down to the woman that stared at his arm, as if trying to come up with an escape plan.

“I have ideas. I don’t want this one to go.”

The Iron Warrior at the head of the group stopped for a fraction of a moment, causing the herd of women to stumble and one breaking from it in a run. An action promptly stopped as Charákoma shot her waist, exploding the bottom half of her body into a gory mess.

In that half of a moment, Zephious grunted and resumed walking.

“Have fun discussing that with Roko.” was all he responded, leaving the rest of their walk in silence. Made all the more strangely uneventful as they escorted the fourteen through the fighting. Their numbers further dwindled to nearly eleven, but one was rescued by her comrades. Whether she would live the further ordeals of what was to come was questionable at best.

Charákoma partially hoped that she would die soon. It wouldn’t be quick and easy, but it would be a release for what was to occur to her soon.

Megálo was the first to approach him, looking down at the woman he still held. He could almost see his smug face, pocketed with holes where extra teeth began to grow (and were torn out) where they shouldn’t had, from behind his helmet.

“Keeping a personal prize, Thirio?” tilting his helmet, the Iron Warrior used the warm end of his bolter to jab her arm, causing her to yelp and try to pull herself out of his hold again.

“Perhaps. What’s it to you, Péos?” two could play at the last name game if Megálo really wanted to go that way.

“Nothing, I just didn’t know you had it in you to worship the Prince.” he snickered.

Charákoma bristled at that comment, giving a noncommittal grunt as he shifted his hold.

“Who says she’s not a sacrifice to Tzeentch?” the God’s name felt like heavy chalk, as if he tried to swallow powder “Or a gift to Nnn.. to the Plague Father.” he never understood his brothers that followed the Gods. He always felt.. off saying their names. No wonder the average human and his brethren used their titles and nicknames.

Nonetheless, Megálo regarded him silently before rolling his head into an exaggerated circle as though to mimic the rolling of eyes.

“I’m not going to take your plaything away, if that’s what you think.” he told Charákoma, soon gesturing to the crowd “I’ll even make sure Malothar doesn’t get her taken away.”

“..Thank you, Megálo.” He was helping him, but why? Clearly so that he could get a favor in turn later. He wasn’t up for that, but all the same, the more voices he could get to convince Malothar Roko, the better.

Leaning down (and partially raising) to the woman, Charákoma whispered to her as Megálo stalked away to herd the women and a group of young boys onto some ships.

“I’d be as still as possible, if you do not want to end up as they do.” This was too much just to sate some fickle curiosity, but Charákoma was too deep in as it was. He may as well commit to it at this point. Looking away from him, the woman looked staunchly at the ground. He could feel her trembling and the jolt of a choked back sob.

Crying wasn’t going to be uncommon. It never was. Soon the screaming would happen, however. Glancing towards the group, he frowned beneath his helmet at the sight of a son and mother getting torn apart from each other. One boy even tried to fight back, picking a rock off the ground and throwing it in a futile effort. They were struggling in their own ways. Some chose to pray, others cry, and others fight.

None of them would win. They never did. Even as he raised one gauntleted hand to scrape at his optic to get rid of some of the goop. It only smeared so he stopped picking at it, he’d clean it at the base himself.

The ride from then on back to the ship, and therefore back to the home base, was uneventful at best. Spending it in his quarters, leaving when needed and keeping his new captive inside. The most eventful occurrences being his need to tie his captive into restraints and keep his brothers from getting too curious. It wasn’t too difficult except for Trekh’s sudden insistence on keeping watch on his activities.

For the first two days of a three day journey, at least.

On the final day before they were to disembark, the woman decided to speak to him instead of suddenly sit in silence and weep quiet angry tears.

“What are..What are you going to do with us?” her voice was sharp and full of hate even past the pause. Driving Charákoma’s attention to her.

“You will see.” was all he could will himself to say, looking back down to his combat knife that he sharpened idly.

“Fine.” a long pause before she spoke once more “Why me, then? The others stayed in a group except for me.”

That made Charákoma truly pause, looking at the woman from her angular face and sharp nose. To her scowling mouth and dark eyes.

“You fought me when the others didn’t.” surprise hit him when she yelped out a stuttered laugh. Possibly from disbelief, or at least he assumed.

“I thought.. I thought Astartes were good.”

Settling the blade onto a table, Charákoma looked back to the woman. Astartes being good.. An impossibility, the amount of lives he and his brothers took (even if they were the Imperium’s enemy) and the lives that the ones against him stole were astonishing.

“They never were. The weakest of us and them are ten times stronger than you. To think an Astartes was ever good is to be lying to yourself. To think the Imperium and life you lived was good is-”

“You think I enjoyed my life?”

Charákoma was stunned to silence at how brazenly she cut him off.

“..What other purpose did you have living it? A life without free-” another laugh cut him off and she glared at him sullenly. He noticed then, how hollow her cheeks were. How her hands were covered in scars and calluses. That she was thin, but had just enough on her to consider her bare minimum healthy.

“And soldiers have free will? Serving..” she shuddered “Whatever the priests say you..you serve..”

It was his turn to look away again. To the plain ceiling of his room, an unforgiving iron grey.

“The Gods of Chaos. Nnnrrrn.. The Plague Father, Master of Fates, Khhhorne, Slaa..” Charákoma stopped as he watched how she shrank more and more away at their names. Fully flinching as he invoked the Blood God’s name and looking with horror as he began to say the Prince of Pleasure’s name. It was just like how she jolted in his arms when Megálo said Tzeentch’s name.

Right. Mortals could not readily handle the Chaos Gods as well as they could. He had seen it time and time again with the people that served them. They either went completely in or hardly at all, never in-between as his brethren did.

“We’re not talking anymore of this. Tell me, what was your life like?” Leaning back, Charákoma was tempted to take off his helmet as he watched the woman shuffle further into the corner she was in, sighing all the while.

“I can always aim my bolter at you and demand you tell me.”

The glare returned for a moment.

“I was born, then when I was old enough, I worked in a factory. I was at home when you and.. and your… your daemon warriors tromped in and shot us all to the stars!” she started quiet enough before raising to a yell. Charákoma liked the fierceness. He was sure if he gave her his knife, she’d come at him for his blood.

“What is your name?” the question clearly caught her off-guard by the way she blinked.

“What are you going to do with me?” so she was diverting his question now? Shrugging, he picked up his knife again and ran the sharpening stone along it slowly.

“In a sense, I’ve mostly saved your life. If it were up to Malothar, then you would have joined the other women in becoming one with the daemonculaba.” He could see the curiosity in her eyes and looked away.

“Charákoma Thirio.” he soon spoke as the seconds of silence lapsed to moments. Glad that it side-tracked her from any questions of the monstrous machine.

“Wh..what?”

“My name. It’s Charákoma Thirio.” glancing up, he watched as she nodded slowly, setting her head on her knees.

The next day passed with growing dread for the both of them. He already knew Malothar would make the woman march past their future fate. Not to mention, he’d have to keep watch on his unnamed catch with Trekh and Slul near and no telling what any of the others would do. It was almost a lot of work.

In the hour leading up to their departure, he crouched in front of the nameless woman and told her what she was to do for her own survival. Listen to him, don’t talk to anyone unless ordered to, stay as close as possible and most importantly: try not to look at anything for too long.

Charákoma couldn’t figure out if she’d heed his advice even as he gripped her in his arm not-too dissimilar to how he held her upon first capture. She was weak in his hold, and part of him knew it was lack of proper feeding. Two and a half days without food added on with the stress she was under wasn’t good. Not all of the food they ate were good for human consumption, however, so it was hard to smuggle anything.

“Put it down.” Malothar’s voice creaked. Charákoma looked up and begrudgingly obeyed. If the woman was smart, she’d heed his advice. If she wasn’t, it’d be of no loss to him.

Her steps were quick but heavy as she stuck to Charákoma’s side, her head bent low to stare at the ground even if her fists were balled and their walk began after landing.

He kept his eyes on the woman as they began their march into their home base and fortress. Watching for what? He did not know. But nonetheless he watched and listened. Entering in of itself was a simple affair, but as they delved deeper and deeper into its depths, he could see the growing unease. The small group of young boys shuffled closer to the women. The mother and son (as a part of some sick joke from one of them for sure) were holding onto each other. Charákoma and his fellow Iron Warriors were the first to hear the sounds of the unholy contraption.

A series of noises that made him always feel ill at ease. Surprise hit him as the nameless woman shuffled ever closer to him until she threatened to touch his arm and he heard a snort from who he assumed was Megálo. Part of him was glad they were in the back of the crowd as they grew ever closer and he could smell the stark scents through his helmet. Leaning down, he spoke to the woman.

“You will be made to look.” he had warned her earlier, but felt it best to do so again at the sight of her shaking.

His arms were still ready to catch her as they began to enter. The mortals at the head of the group were the first to begin to choke on the horrid smells. Raising her own hands, the nameless covered her face as she gagged, eyes watering. Charákoma was sure that nothing in the galaxy could make the daemonculaba smell pleasant. Ingrained with the smell of feces, piss, and vomit. Yet the smell of unholy.. re-birth and blood itched its way into the walls and floor, becoming the most pungent of scents.

He could almost still feel the pain of it all. Reaching out and screaming before a metal hand slapped his fleshless face to silence him. Pain, pain, so much pain. It was too much. His ears were assaulted with amplified sounds, his nose! Oh! He never knew so much could burn!

Charákoma flexed his hands to hide his shudder before moving one hand to grip the woman’s shoulder as she froze in place. Twelve.. well they couldn’t very well be called humans any longer. Twelve tools lined one of the walls. All in a state of such obesity that where limb and torso began and ended were difficult to decipher between the mounds of grotesquely paled, stretch flesh and machinery. They still moaned and writhed nonetheless. One of them was shaking, upon two of them you could almost see the wriggling of the growing Astartes inside.

Some of the women were vomiting, only adding to the horrific stench. Some of them tried to run for it, along with the boys. Already, the others worked at separating the two groups as Trekh, himself, and others acted as “security” which truly meant not letting runners through. The mother of the son showed her fire by somehow managing to filch a crude rusty rod and flailing it.

Her attempt was a sad failure, not that he watched as he felt something grip his side. Looking down, he watched as the nameless woman hide her face behind her head. Glancing back up around the room, he saw Trekh watching.

“Look, you have to look.” he whispered as lowly as he could “You will join them if you don’t look.” still trembling, she astonished him by looking up at him. Her face torn in a mixture of revulsion and horror. Tears streamed down her face as she covered her mouth and nose, trying to mute her sobs. Charákoma looked up as well, watching the controlled chaos as the Caretakers entered.

Gripping her shoulder tighter than he should had, Charákoma lead her away out of the massive room. Navigating his way to his own quarters. Whatever horrors that were there were ignored by the woman as she covered her face as if awaiting her own hell to arrive soon. Trekh blatantly followed him to the barracks, seemingly as though he were on his way there also. Charákoma knew better.

Trekh was certainly sent to watch him.

The door opened and closed. Charákoma let go of the still nameless woman in favor of forgoing his armor. Parts needed maintenance and the optic of his helmet needed to get cleaned. Usually, he’d throw this task to the serfs, but after seeing his captive’s reaction to the daemonculaba.. he knew it wasn’t to smart to leave her alone.

Once again, she found the nearest corner and curled into it, rocking back and forth as she kept her crying quiet. She ignored him even as took off his armor and black carapce and soon shrugged on a robe. None of them cared about nudity, but a good few that were.. created in the same methods he was found it more comfortable to have something covering his skin. Skin that almost wanted to itch and burn sometimes.

Skin that was never his.

Rolling his shoulders, Charákoma hesitated before performing his chores. It’d be easy enough to command her to stop crying, but he had a feeling there was more to this. Frowning, he looked back to her.

“What was that substance you threw onto my helmet?” he had to ask it again before she startled and looked up to him. Silence passed as she stared at him. Right.. she had never seen his face. With a chunk of its flesh gone from his mouth, creating a grisly snarl and his bent, disfigured nose. One of his ears was gone entirely while his head was bald with patched burns and scars. All in all; a wretched sight to see.

“A.. mix of oil and squealer dung.” Charákoma looked back at his helmet, so he had oily shit caked onto his helmet?

“They’re.. they’re sort of rat things. They make a squealy noise so.. squealers. You can get it off real easy by spitting on it.”

“Hrm. Well thank you for telling me that. It was.. clever.” there was no point to his idle chatter he was mustering. There was no reason for it and the woman was reluctant to speak as-is. So why did he keep on?

“Will you tell me my name? I’m not sure anything I could call you will suit.” it was that and just simply calling her woman was annoying.

“Fine, it’s Lorna. Now will you tell me what in the Emperor’s name you want from me?” her voice raised to a cruel snap, the glare returning but marred with the repressed horror and traumas of her days.

“Lorna..” Charákoma murmured, turning away to pick off the mixture that marred his helmet. It was a sort of hand-me-down from whoever wore it before him, considering how comparatively old it was to others. Lorna. The name was something he’d consider.. pretty. Scrapping off another scrap of the solidified gunk, he lapsed into silence. Perhaps he should have warned her against swearing by the Corpse God...

“What about your life story? Or is it too long because you’re immortal?” Lorna soon spoke, the question taking him off-guard.

“Immortal..?” he wasn’t sure why he was stunned by the phrase. Nothing about him was immortal. Harder to kill was how he’d put it, and even then he had witnessed enemy and ally alike get torn apart easier than paper.

“Yes? Aren’t Astartes immortal like the stories say? I mean.. from the looks of some of those scars..” she gestured vaguely towards him and he watched her shiver.

“..No.. Never have and never will be. We’re only more durable than you.” he raised his helmet, examining it before setting it aside to pick up another part of his armor “We live longer but.. I’m not sure how long. I’m sure Slul and Trekh are both ancients. I heard one of them mention life from.. before this.”

Immortal. How many years had he been alive? Charákoma was sure he could figure it out but never bothered to keep track. It was always the next fight. The next skirmish.

Everything hurt. It hurt so much. He never wanted to do this. He never wanted to be this. It hurt. He could not cry or make a sound, but oh he wanted to. His body begged for some sort of release, some sort of outlet. It hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it-

“Koma?” he was startled out of what he could only assume was a memory, and looked down to Lorna.

“Koma? It’s pronounced Charákoma, not just ‘Koma’.” how could she mess up his name that badly?

“That’s too much to say. So.. Koma..?” she shrugged, clearly attempting to appear nonchalant.

“..Alright. What is it you wanted to ask?” He reluctantly gave in.

“What was your past? Since I told you mine.”

#iron warriors #warhammer 40k #OC #2lim3rz writes #daemonculaba #body horror #gore #implied infanticied #y'all were expecting memes werent you? but no. you have a story that was actually meant to be serious

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harpywritesfic · 1 year

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Look at me, a wants-to-write-but-blocks-themselves-because-the-first-letter-I-type-down-has-to-be-perfect-fanfic writer.

I've been hoarding various prompt lists like whumptober and fluffbruary. I even snatched myself one of those ironstrange bingo cards in hopes I could fill one of prompts in a year. But now half of the year is over and my card still empty.

I feel like a failure 😞

ah, you've come to the right place. abandon your perfectionism, all ye who enter here. this is a land of unedited drafts, fics written in a haze of hyperfixation, caffeine highs and/or mental breakdowns. i've mastered the art of "good enough".

remember- writing is messy! the process is messy, and the product can be messy too. in a sense nothing people write is ever truly 'finished'- there's always room for improvement. that's how art works, in my humble opinion. try to find enjoyment in the process, not the product. as the artist, your own work will always seem imperfect. but that doesn't make it any less valuable.

it might help to know how i write most of my fics. maybe my method isn't your style, but i'll walk you through it anyway since it might help.

sit down to write. or write standing up. where isn't important. what matters most is you've got an idea or a prompt or an anything that makes you want to write.

word barf. this is the very rough draft phase. throw out everything you know you want to have happen into the doc. try not to read over what you're putting down (the messiness of it all can be daunting). mine often are made up of unfinished sentences, half-baked scene ideas, 'they do x and then y", mixed with some finished portions. if you get stuck, you can always come back, and you'll already have a little something on the page :)

splice and dice. this is where i put my scenes in their order (if they weren't already, it rly depends on what you're writing. sometimes it's linear, sometimes it's not). biggest thing i use this phase for is working out where i need transitions between scenes, where i need to expand my "x then y" bits into writing, and and where i can just put a empty line with a "-" in the center to indicate a new scene.

flesh it out. i get stuck here a lot. this is the step where you weave your scenes together, write your dialogue, fill in your placeholders. it's okay to just skip parts and come back to them. some parts, if they're really giving you trouble, can just be removed entirely. you're the writer- it's up to you. choose your battles.

(optional) editing. sometimes i just don't even bother, especially if i know i'll hate reading what i've written (if this happens to you, it's best to skip the editing! a few mistakes are no big deal. i find it easier to just throw it to the wolves (readers), who are usually very nice and rarely point out mistakes. they're not picky). sometimes editing is just a quick pass for typos. but you can also get into it a little more, really go elbow-deep, and edit to improve things like flow, pacing, tone, and other boring stuff. totally unnecessary, though. if you hate this step? skip it.

it took me maybe a year to feel comfortable enough to post something i'd written. and it's okay, too, if you don't feel comfortable posting anything. you can never post it. or you can do it anyway. sometimes i say to myself, "i want to read more of this specific ship/trope/situation/dynamic/whatever" and i make it myself. they say to write what you want to read, and that's even more true for fanfic. there are people out there who want to read the same things as you. sometimes you gotta look your fear in the eyes, quote Freddie Mercury and say, "I'll fucking do it, darling."

having said that, this might be most important- it's okay if you never post anything you write. fanfic is something we do for fun- there is no failure. the most important thing is to enjoy yourself. there doesn't have to be any finished product- just enjoy the process.

i hope this wasn't too ramble-y or anything. my brain works in strange ways, so this might be totally unhelpful. who knows! but i'll post it anyway, in case it is.

#answered

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autisticlalna · 2 years

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bell noises. ~@betweenlands

BELL NOISES! viking <3

first impression:

his skin is REALLY COOL and then i started watching his pov and literally right after his opening narration i was like "oh my god i love him". "socially awkward ghost who wants to make friends............." <- actual quote from me at the time. also i was revising the lalna chart at the time so i took one look at "blonde with goggles" and went "ah. You." impression now: MICROWAVING HIM. oh my god i have not been this obnoxious about a mcyt in a WHILE he's!! he's so!!!! oh my godddd . there is something wrong with him and i support it wholeheartedly. i genuinely started calling him my meow meow in dms with solar and that's when i realized i can never go back. i am so normal. also my enthusiastic liveblogging is apparently what sold solar on dominion so >:) favorite moment: REALLY HARD TO PICK AAA uhhhh the watermelon argument is really good for a comedy moment. and then him revealing to legundo that he has his iou is SUCH a scene, like that really locked him in as a fav for me. the absolute menace idea for a story: i have been sitting on a half-unfinished fic about viking's pov of the start of dominion. like, while he's in permanent phantom mode and no one can see or hear him. i don't think i'll finish it at this point because it just isn't Sticking and i'm having more fun with visual art rn but i rotate that entire period of time a lot. i REALLY want to do something with that unpopular opinion: are there even any???? like i think all of my viking opinions are shared by most people lmao. i guess i wish there was some art of other dominion members (on tumblr at least) bc a lot of it is Just Viking but also i am very responsible for that myself lmao favorite relationship: i have no idea what's going on with him and grady but like, grady offered him a job at the tavern when viking first became perceivable but also there's the whole thing with viking's criminal record where grady's usually the one grabbing him and going hey. what the hell yk. see: the watermelon convo. and also viking "confessing" about the diamonds. i mean i guess my favourite dynamic is viking and legundo but that's a given and i think grady's neat favorite headcanon: PLURAL VIKING but you've covered that uhhh hold on i have just pulled a headcanon out of my hat. viking used to try and have conversations with the other dominion guys before he was tangible and even after he figured out they couldn't hear him he still kept doing it. like jamie and nuke would be having a conversation and viking would be hanging out near them and joining in even though neither of them could hear him. he still does this even after becoming perceivable so people'll be talking about whatever and then suddenly viking will chime in and scare everybody. also just generally "viking is not used to people being able to see and hear him" so he walks into people's houses or talks to himself a lot or messes with stuff and IMMEDIATELY gets caught

your honour. vikingpilot. thanks

#leo.txt #leos reply #betweenlands #dominion #bell noises!

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petitelepus · 2 years

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Hi! Sorry to bother you, I'd like to ask for a twisted wonderland match-up if that's ok.

I'm a girl, 5'2", with short redish brown hair and blue eyes, and glasses.

My personality type is INTP-T, I'm a Taurus, I LOVE dogs and cats, and my favorite foods are sushi and bubblegum.

I'm really awkward in social situations unless I know the person really well or we have something in common.

I'm kinda athletic and I do martial arts (specifically taekwondo) for fun, but I'm not big on sports or things like that.

I usually dress in flowey loose comfy clothes, but I try to make my outfits look as nice as possible without making them uncomfortable.

I took acting classes for a few years so I'm usually super overdramatic when someone offends me, but I do it in a sarcastic way.

I'm a night owl to the point where I'm awake for half the day and half the night.

When I get into something, I really get into it. Like, I won't be able to think about anything else for weeks if I find a new show that I like and I have to learn literally everything about it, I'm not that interested in many things though.

I hate schedules and prefer to make random spontaneous decisions which is really annoying for some of the people I know. My creativity also comes in bursts which isn't great when I want to finish big projects.

I think my love language would be quality time. Even though I like my space, spending time with people I enjoy being around is lots of fun and it usually goes hand in hand with things like good communication and respecting each other.

Welp, there's my random block of facts, sorry if this was all over the place. You don't have to answer if you don't want to, no pressure or anything. Have a wonderful day and don't forget to take breaks and eat lots of potato chips♡

I match you with Trey Clover!

Much like Trey, you are a natural problem solver and when he saw how kind-hearted and pretty you were, it was only natural for him to ask you out.

You can be awkward, yes, but Trey is patient and once you make real friends you stay true and loyal to them. Even better if your friend and you share any common interests.

Trey admires your athletic talents and love for the martial arts. He isn't afraid to admit that you, his super cute little girlfriend, could easily beat him and serve his ass back to him.

He never stops loving the flustered look on your face when he compliments you, your acting talents, or just the pretty dress you decided to wear that day.

Trey doesn't mind your night owl habits as long as it doesn't affect your everyday life or get you in trouble.

You're a person who gets stuff done when you set your mind to it and it clearly shows in your ongoing passion. Granted, you can be a little stubborn sometimes, but you're also patient and staunch. Trey who is calm and rational loves these qualities in you.

He might appear strict, but he is anything but that. He is laid-back and would rather choose the easy way out, but when he needs to be serious he will be. He won't force unnecessary schedules onto you, it wouldn't be fair.

Your spontaneous and not to mention random decisions can catch Trey off-guard, but he does his best to keep up with you because in the end you always manage to make him smile with your projects. He does offer to help you with them so they won't be left unfinished.

Trey loves spending time with you, be it just the two of you in private or with your friends. You love and cherish your friends and time spent with them is always time well spent and that is just one of your winning qualities that Trey loves in you. In the end, it’s him you love and that is sweeter than any of his desserts.

#dreamysylveon #matchup #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland matchup #trey clover #Thank you darling!#Sorry that you had to wait your match so long #I hope you like it!#ENJOY!

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beastie-anon · 2 years

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Nsfw with hfg and benson with ceasar or rigby and ceasar. They would catch him off guard while he's looking for food and have fun

Sigh. Okay. Okay.

Please stop asking for this stuff ok I'm uncomfortable writing for someone I don't know. This is the last one

Now, In a realistic situation a broken bone wouldn't do shit to stop Ceasar. It'd heal in like 5 minutes and he'd kill hfg, Rigs and Ben in seconds with the makeshift weapon on his tail. But since the anon is never happy with REALISTIC things, THEN I GUESS HERE WE GO.

Yall know the drill. Tw for nsfw, Noncon ect ect

Edit: this has been in my drafts for like. A while. Just gonna post it now. It's unfinished I'm not gonna finish it. Now stop asking. If I wanna write nsfw I will. From now on I'm not gonna write nsfw that I don't want to.

This isn't Canon even though it'd traumatize Ceasar, Because HFG and Benson wouldn't do this. Rigby, Maybe. But not them.

I feel like I need to clarify this now. In the Naga species they have 2 cocks (snakes have 2 dicks), And a clit (pussy). Due to nagas not being able to wear pants, And I'm sure nobody (except this anon ig) wants to see Ceasar with his dicks out 24/7 so it's canon that Naga's can conceal their privates and basically like. They have a small bit of magic that makes them able to basically. Peeny disappeary ect. If aroused/want to/pressed on they'll appear again.

------

Ceasar was walking around the city, His bag half filled with food. He needed to get enough for him and his now two children... Little did he know that soon two would become three. He tripped over a twig, And fell down into a ditch.

"FUCK- GOD DAMN IT!-"

He couldn't stop himself from cursing out loudly in pain, His arm felt like it was broken.. Unfortunately that would make what was about to happen so much easier. HFG and Benson heard the yell and made their way over. Ben made a call to inform Rigby on what they've found..

Ceasar struggled to stand, Crying out slightly from the pain he felt from his arm. His efforts to stand were wasted as Hfg pushed him onto the ground again, Onto his broken arm. Ceasar again cried out in pain as Hfg got on top of him, Kissing his neck and bringing his hand to massage his area, Pressing down in efforts to get him willing.

"G-Get off you fucking pervert!"

He tried to shove him off, But a quick movement and Hfg was holding onto his broken arm, Squeezing it. Ceasar cried out in pain again, Seething in pain as he tried quieting himself.

"Give me access, or I'll break your other arm too.."

Ceasar quieted before looking to the side and allowing his two cocks to spring out, Already slightly hard.. H(fg but I'm referring to him as H now) brought both his hands to carress and massage his cocks.

"Mm.. Your dicks are huge..~ Thats gonna feel amazing..~"

He started to undress himself as Ben came back over.

"Rigs said we can have our fun with him, As long as we leave his cunt alone.. He called dibs."

"That's perfectly fine, There's enough dick for the both of us after all.. Hah"

H positioned himself over Ceasars now twitching member, Grinding against him before slowly sliding onto his length.. H moaned out from the pleasure, gripping onto Ceasar with his legs to steady himself. Ceasar bit down on his tongue to stop himself from making lewd noises.. Those were reserved for Mark and Mark alone after all. Though, He wasn't going to be able to hold back for long..

H started to slowly move himself on him, Making sure to be slow and hard with his movements. Ben just kind of.. Left. He didn't have time for that shit he was on the clock. Rather be on the clock than on a cock hA

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lebenspurpur · 3 years

Text

AN: Helloo, wrote this because I spent today suffering through my post-drunk-vandalism hangover. Guess it's deserved but still, it sucks. After eating chicken broth my dad made, unsalted if I may add, for an hour straight I am now ready to be creative. I really don't know what this is.

Have the link to my Larry playlist while we're at it:

Pairing: Larry Johnson x reader

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of alcohol

Wordcount: 1744 words

🤍🧷💀⛓🔪🏁🕷🤍🧷💀⛓🔪🏁🕷🤍🧷💀⛓🔪🏁🕷🤍🧷💀⛓

Larry looks really, really stupid right now. Stupid and sick.

His tall form slumped over in defeat, big blanket wrapped around him but not too tight, otherwise he'd feel too hot, too feverish, he still needs some air. There are tissues scattered across the couch as well. Fucking hell.

Usually, this would disgust you but it's Larry, you think you've seen worse.

Small sniffles come from where he's laying, whenever he clears his throat hoarse croaking leaves his mouth and he cringes every time he hears it. He can feel your judging gaze on his body, hear your arched eyebrow without even lifting his head.

His radio is blaring some kind of metal music, you don't recognize the band. Technically, the music is useless since the TV in front of Larry's bed is playing an old horror movie, bloody screams only adding to the grimy ambiance in the room.

"I-", you start but Larry lifts his hand before you can even consider continuing.

On any other occasion, you would've noticed the rings adorning his slender fingers, the metal accessories leaving a trail of dark smudge on his hands. Damn, did he have some nice hands.

Thankfully today wasn't a normal occasion. The metalhead in front of you had worse problems than you drooling over his fingers right now, one of them being the sickness he caught.

"Don't you dare say 'I told you so.'", he croaks out while he finally lifts his head, bloodshot eyes meeting yours. He looks immensely tired. You can sense his annoyance at this sickness, this hellish treatment he's in and can't seem to escape.

You take a deep breath in and drop your bag next to his opened front door.

"Alright. I won't."

You close the door quietly and deposit your jacket as well as boots next to it.

His mom always screams at Larry to finally get something for visitor's shoes and bags but he never does. Too busy, too lazy, he figures his visitors get it. Who even visits him, anyway?

The floor is, as usual, covered in stuff he hasn't cleaned yet. Unfinished drawings, sketchbooks, take-out cartons, empty booze bottles, you keep wondering how he manages to create that kind of mess in a timespan of not even two days.

You tiptoe over them, careful as to not to step into something. Earlier experiences have taught you to never mistake one of these seemingly empty cartons as really empty. Just last week you stepped into a fucking pizza the man in front of you didn't finish.

You sigh as you sit down next to him and Larry tiredly raises an eyebrow.

"Dude, I know you don't want to move but Jesus, we really need to get you to bed.", you then state, voice comforting yet firm. You use the moment to stare into his eyes, adore the brown, thick, deepness of them.

Larry groans loudly, voice breaking from how raw his throat is. His head falls back and he closes his eyes, a pained expression on his features.

"Don't wanna.", he grumbles quietly and you involuntarily crack a smile. Larry always managed to do that, even in the most unbelievable moments.

"I'll join you if you do."

One of his eyes slowly creaks open, observing your face to look for any kind of sarcasm or irony. As soon as he doesn't find any, the other eye opens as well and he leans forward again, blanket clutched tightly in his fists.

"Alright."

You grin at his quiet answer, hand reaching over to pull him with you. He obliges, warm, slightly clammy hand tightly grabbing yours. He follows you through the messy room, his blanket leaving a trail of destruction behind the two of you.

You kick open the door leading to his bedroom. Immediately, the familiar images of various album covers greet you. The air in his room is colder and less damp and you hear him take a deep breath.

Turning around, you mention for him to wait while you walk over, grabbing the blanket on his bed. You shake it a bit, readjust the sheets as well the pillow, all while Larry's eyes never leave your back.

"There you go, sweets.", you add as you finish, quickly turning around to see Larry standing the same way you've left him. Tired, slumped, and emotional. The need to hug him starts boiling inside of you but you try and hold yourself back. First, you have to make sure he gets into bed.

Larry slowly stumbles past you. During the last few baby steps, he drops the blanket around his shoulder, faceplanting right into the freshly made sheets. He's not even wearing a shirt and you huff at his stubbornness.

Larry's back looks strong like this, muscles contracting beneath his skin as he tries to get more comfortable. Your eyes glide over his spine, his wide shoulders, the small bumps where his ribs encase his organs. His olive skin is sweaty and long, brown hairs cling to it.

You cringe at that, knowing the feeling all too well.

Softly placing a hand on his back, you move closer, forehead scrunched together.

"Larry, darling."

He grunts into his pillow, a muffled questioning sound.

"I got a hair tie here. Mind lifting your head real quick?"

Larry obliges and lifts his head quickly, taking a deep breath while he does so.

Your fingers find his scalp and start collecting all the strands, securing them afterward with the tie around your wrist.

The man beneath you hums in appreciation as the cold air hits his neck, sweaty skin finally being able to breathe. You kiss the small space beneath his neck real quick, a short sign of comfort before you stand up again, hands leaving his skin.

Larry whines the second you do so, all while quickly turning around, sending you a pleading look.

"You said you'd stay.", the whiny tone only makes his voice sound more hoarse and you can't help the small grin from appearing on your features.

"In a second, sweetie. You need some water and medicine first, alright?"

He whines again but the thought of something fresh and cold going down his throat is enough to soften the pleading look in his eye. You blow him a kiss and then quickly walk into the kitchen, which is right across from the brunette's room.

It's surprisingly clean but what did you expect? Larry never uses his kitchen unless he has to. Which isn't all too often.

Grabbing a water bottle and placing it on the counter, you keep searching for the small broth packets you'd bought exactly for this kind of scenario. You find them in the fridge, the only thing in this room that Larry actually uses.

Chuckling you get some water cooking, all while pouring the powder into one of the giant cups Sal has gifted Larry a while ago. According to the masked man, everything tastes better if it's being eaten out of a cup and so, everyone has their own sets of cups, a premium gift from Sal Fisher.

Soon, everything's done and you maneuver your way back into Larry's room. Said man is awaiting you, eyes still opened as he watches you creep towards his bed, hands full with water, soup, and medicine.

First, you feed him the medicine. Normally he'd do this himself but you know that he'll just ignore the bitter juice unless you force it down his throat. Stubborn motherfucker.

Larry's sitting up now, back propped up against one of the many big pillows he has. You hand him the broth and he inhales it in less than two minutes, apparently, this is the first thing he's eaten today. Shaking your head at the thought, you tug a few strands of hair out of his face, smiling at your lover's appetite.

Finally, after gulping down half of the water bottle, the brunette leans back and smiles, for the first time this evening.

"Thank you.", he croaks out and you touch his arm as an appreciative gesture, "Does that mean you're allowed to join me now?"

You're about to nod as you notice the faint traces of eyeliner on his skin.

"Did you take off your makeup when you got home?", you ask, throwing a teasing smile his way.

Larry clears his throat, embarrassed that you caught him. A faint blush raises on his cheeks and you feel your heart swell at the sight.

"I might have forgotten about it.", he answers, gaze slowly meeting yours again, "But please, let's just do this later, dude. I am so fucking tired."

Huffing, you roll your eyes at his answer but you nod anyway. He'd be fine with the makeup for a few more hours. You just have to remember taking it off tomorrow.

"You're lucky I love you."

Larry grins at that, the usual wide, blinding grin, that makes your stomach tingle with fuzzy feelings inside of it. His fingers find your arm and he tenderly pulls you down to join him. Soon, your head is placed on his chest, and his arms cradle your shoulders, pulling you into his body.

You can hear his relaxed breathing as he finally settles down, nuzzling his face into your hair.

His skin is warm against your cheek and you smile into it. It doesn't matter how often you've done it, laying on his nude chest always makes you flustered.

Larry's fingers start to draw stuff on your back, the feeling more than a delight for you. Humming, you snuggle closer and the metalhead next to you smiles.

His eyes already start to close slowly, lack of sleep finally catching up to him. The quiet sound of the ongoing movie in his living room, as well as the metal music, make for a great background sound and you both listen intently.

You notice the way his heart beats, slow and steady, beneath the tanned skin. Unknowingly, you start to synchronize your breaths with his. In and out. In. And out.

Soon, your eyes close as well. Damn it, you don't want to fall asleep. Though, you suppose it doesn't matter as the man next to you pulls you closer, his breath warm against your ear. He wouldn't let you leave anyway.

The thought makes you feel giddy, excited, in love. Smiling widely, you try to press yourself closer into him, and soon, you too, fall asleep, enveloped by the arms of the boy you love most. Your favorite boy.

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hearts4-robin · 3 years

Text

# flying colors - Katsuki Bakugo

# genre - fluffy angst

# pairing - Katsuki Bakugo x y/n (no specific gender)

# warnings - yelling, swearing, inappropriate words, intense arguments, crying, anxiety, trauma, panic/anxiety attack

# ages - Katsuki Bakugo: 16 - y/n: 16

# authors note - I hope you like this short story (: let me know if you like it and send in some requests! <# this story haven't been read through and English isn't my first language so sorry for any grammar mistakes etc.

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

# - Thursday - 01.46 a.m. - U.A. Class 1-A dorm building - #

You had forgotten what you were arguing about. But it was heated. It was horrible, the yelling from your boyfriend was driving you crazy. He had just came back from another late extra practice and he had been lacking on giving you any attention. You got that you were both hardworking students but you missed the tingling feeling from when he'd hold you close at 2am while discussing why Mineta is a total asshole.

"You never talk to me anymore!" You voice almost cracked as the words left your mouth. Katsuki's frown sunk deeper, his vein in his neck starting to pulse faster. "Maybe I don't want to pay attention to you, y/n! Ever thought about WHY I always practice so late?" he snapped back. You could clearly see how he was holding back his anger. "Well- no, I haven't-" the thought struck you like one of Kamanari's shocks. "Are you cheating on me?" Katsuki's eyes widened as he watched tears prickle up in your eyes. "What-, no what kind of boyfriend do you actually think I am?" He was yelling. On the brink of screaming at you. "Clearly one who avoids me! Avoids my company! If you're so sick of hanging out with me, why don't you just go right ahead and break up with me?" Now you were yelling too. Holding back wasn't a thing anymore. You watched as Katsuki's hands started releasing small explosions as I his eyes turned darker. You couldn't tell if it was in disappointment, anger or sadness.

"Now why would you say that! Huh? Why?" He was screaming, a hidden growl and sadness under his voice. "Because it's how I feel, Katsuki!" you frowned deeper as your nails dug into the palms of your hands, creating small moon-shaped marks. "I don't care about how you feel, y/n!" You immediately felt a sting of pain in your chest as you watched your boyfriend clench his fist and walk past you and into his dorm room. Well aware that he just woke up half the for building, he slammed the door shut. You covered your mouth with your hand as warm salty tears started streaming down your cheeks. How could he say that to you?

"y/n-chan?-" You looked up, snapping out of the daze you had fallen into. The worried face of your fellow classmate, Eijiro Kirishima, appeared from his bedroom door. "Are you okay? I couldn't help but overhear you and Bakubros argument." He stated as he walked out the door and closing it, revealing himself in a fated red sweatshirt with a big 'Crimson Riot' over the chest and a pair of black pajama pants. You shook your head no at his question as he walked towards you in his big slippers. He frowned worridly as he allowed himself to wrap his arms around you and pull you into a hug. You let out a low sob before you buried your face in Eijiros chest. "H-He doesn't ca-care-, he doesn't care a-about me anymore!" You clung onto Eijiro as he rubbed your back in soothing circles in hope of calming down your mixed feelings. Your chest hurt, your throat was sore and your head was pounding in a quick pace.

"You know Bakubro-, he's not always easy to handle. He won't tell you but he really does love you. He cares for you a lot, y/n." Eijiro looked at you as he lowered his arms around you. You looked at your red haired classmate before he looked towards Katsuki's bedroom. "Give him three days alright? If he doesn't do anything, dump him. I know it sounds harsh but that's the rule I've lived after and it's one of the best decisions I've ever made. Think about it." You nodded at his words before wiping your tears off your cheeks, even though you knew they'd be back as soon as you'd close your bedroom door. "Good. Sleep well dude! I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow. Don't stay up too late!" Eijiro grinned cheekily as he waved at you. He closed his door as he disappeared behind it. Your lip quivered as you slowly walked to the elevator. You weakly pressed the button to summon the elevator. Stepping inside after the doors opened with a low 'ding!' you leaned against the wall. You pressed the button to your dorm floor before the elevator moved slowly. You rewinded the whole argument in front of you, everything passing like flying colors with all the wrong shades.

The elevator once again let out a 'ding!' before the doors slit open. Sniffling, you walked out of the elevator with your head down. "Young y/n."

You looked up with slightly wide eyes as you heard Mr. Aizawa speak. "M-Mister Aizawa-" You got cut off by his stare. It told you everything. You bowed before walking to your room. "I'll go to sleep. I'm sorry for waking you up." You sniffled back a few tears before you closed your bedroom door after you. Letting out a small sob, you feel onto your bed. You felt absolutely miserable. You felt horrible. The pain and guilt in your chest had spread to your stomach and you felt sick to the guts as you broke down in tears again. After almost 6 months with Katsuki as your #1 wingman and your boyfriend, hearing his words hurt you. 'I don't care about how you feel, y/n!'

Those 8 words burned in the very front of your brain while you tried to sleep, escape from the aching pain.

# - Thursday - 05.30 a.m. - U.A. Class 1-A dorm building - #

You had been wide awake for the past 30 minutes, distracting yourself by getting ready. Brushing your hair, getting dressed in your uniform and doing whatever was left to do. Your appetite was small, but your stomach still craved some food. You opened the door and stepped out, rubbing your tired eyes. You followed the other few classmates on your hall to the elevator.

“Good-morning y/n…” You looked to your right to see Ashido yawning, dark circles under her eyes. “Good-morning Ashido-. Didn’t you sleep?” She leaned back and stretched her arms, her shirt rising a little as the elevator continued moving down slowly. “Not much-, Bakugo was throwing around with stuff all night! Mr. Aizawa had to tell him to keep it down and go to bed. Nobody knows what’s going on with him right now.” She yawned again after finishing off. A little sting poked you in your chest as she spoke before the elevator let out another ‘ding!’. The door opened, revealing Katsuki, Izuku, Tenya and Eijiro at the table. You and Ashido walked towards the table, and both sat down. You sat down beside Tenya, as far away from Katsuki as possible, which was odd. Very odd. Katsuki was frowning more as usual before he angrily got up from the table and violently grabbing his tray of breakfast. You avoided eye contact at all costs. You looked at the tray of food Tenya had pushed towards you. You looked up to see everybody at the table looking at you with various different expressions. Worry, confusion and awaiting. “y/n… What happened?” You looked at Tenya as he spoke. You poked to your food, the appetite you had earlier suddenly disappearing. “Nothin’.” You mumbled before standing up, holding your tray with weak hands. You left the table to the kitchen.

You froze in your tracks as you saw Katsuki in his usual black shirt with the white print on. He was holding his empty tray in his hands as the unfinished food was thrown in the nearest bin. He glared at you before tossing the tray on the counter and leaving the room. You looked after him, tears prickling and threating to escape from your tear-bags. You placed your full tray on the counter before walking back to the common area. Those moments that felt like hours in the kitchen was just a few minutes. Within those minutes, Katsuki had left the dorm and just about everyone else was up and eating. Walking towards the shoe racks, you picked up your shoes and slipped them on. You stepped out the door, already feeling the early morning cold from December. You stepped onto the road leading towards the school and started walking.

"y/n! Wait up!-" You looked behind you, seeing, once again, Eijiro running towards you while clumsily putting on his shoes. "Eijiro?..." You voice was sore from barely talking this morning. Usually, you get along with Tsu and Ashido pretty well, Yaoyorozu too.

Eijiro caught up to you as you both started walking. "Did you hear Bakubro yesterday?" He looked at you, adjusting hid headband. You shook your head. "No. Ashido told me about how Mr. Aizawa had to stop it." You were mumbling, you never mumbled around people like Eijiro. "Hm.. He'll get better. How are you feeling today? Did you get sleep yesterday?" You both reached the front of the school. He opened the door for you as you, once again, shook your head. "Hard time falling asleep?" You nodded at his question as he walked in behind you. "Do you need to talk about anything? I suck at advice but I'm always here to listen!" You nodded, smiling a little bit. You truly were grateful for people who checked up on you like Eijiro did. You both entered the empty classroom.

"Where's Bakubro?" Eijiro looked around, frowning in confusion. "I think her went for a walk or something like that. I don't know, he didn't tell me..." You dozed off as you sat down in your seat. "Tenya should be here soon." You stated as Eijiro sat down, leaning back in his seat. "Tenya is so manly! Taking responsibility to keep the class in line!" You nodded as Eijiro continued to ramble about manliness. Soon, the class was filled up, even Katsuki had shown up.

You were laid over your desk, looking up towards Mr. Aizawa as he spoke. Another practice day. The costumes slid out the wall, everybody standing up to grab their case with their costume.

# - Thursday - 08.27 a.m. - U.A. Gym Gamma - #

"Wow, y/n! Did you choose a new color scheme? It matches Bakugo's!" You looked down at yourself as Ashido, Kamanari and Tokoyami admired your new costume. You nodded at their questions. "I did. I don't know if he likes it." You were mumbling again. Kamanari opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by Cementoss.

"Alright, everybody. Pair up in two and try improve your quirks." Everybody nodded and paired up in two. Mezo walked up to you, kindly asking if you wanted to pair up. You nodded as you both walked to one of the platforms. Using you quirk, you made your way up to the platform along with Mezo.

# - Thursday - 10.58 a.m. - U.A. Gym Gamma - #

"T-Ten-... Tentacole-..." You crouched forward, your lungs hurting as you gasped for air. "I-I need a break." Mezo immediately stopped his movements as he noticed your shaking limps. "y/n? Are you okay?-" He runs to you, helping you sit down. "Shit..." Your head started spinning as your breathing became uneven. You could feel Mezo's multiple arms wrap around you to support you.

"LOOK AT ME WHEN WE'RE FIGHTING, SHITTY HAIR!" Eijiro looked away from you and towards Bakugou who was flying towards him. He quickly shielded himself and hardened his arms. "WHAT'S SO IMPORTANT THAT YOU CAN'T LOOK AT ME?" he screamed as he dodged one of Eijiro's hits. He looked away again, Bakugou taking his chance to land a hit on Eijiro. "y/n-" Eijiro fell back as he kept his eyes locked on your small form being supported in Mezo's arms. "y/n? WHAT ABOUT HER?!" Bakugou was furious, letting out all the anger from the night before. He looked around, finding it weird for shitty hair to talk so much about you. His eyes widened as he saw you, knowing what was happening to you just now. He quickly took off in a run. "Y/N!"

You looked up weakly, seeing Katsuki flying towards you. "Katsuki..." You let out a small cry as you tried calming down your breath. Your vision started blurring. "y/n! Squidward get away from her!" Mezo knew better than to talk back. He looked at you before slowly letting go of you as Katsuki ran to you, gently picking you up and into his embrace. "Are you mad?! What the fuck happened-" He didn't look worried but you knew he was. The glint in his eyes showed it. "y/n- breathe. Did you drink and eat? Of course you didn't- you left as soon as you saw me, you little dipshit." He grumbled under his breath as the others started to notice Bakugo screams fading. He picked you up and jumped down, running towards a place to put you down. Cementoss approached you both but you vision was failing you right now.

"What happened?" He looked at the two of you. "She's having a panic attack. Water." Katsuki sat down with you, holding you close. "I'm sorry, firecracker-. I shouldn't have said that-" He held you closer as Cementoss walked out to get you some water. "It's okay-" "No shut up. It's not. Don't fucking say anything." He growls at you as he sits down, leaning against the gym wall and laying you between his legs. He ripped off his big hand gear and threw them beside you both before propping you up against his chest. "Breathe. Breathe you dumb-ass-" he took a deep breath as you tried to follow his breathing pattern. "It's okay. I got you. I won't let anyone, not me either, hurt you." He was whispering now, gently caressing your arm. Cementoss returned with a bottle of water. Katsuki quickly grabbed the bottle and ripped the cap off before gently helping you chug down the water. "We'll wait till lunch. Cementoss, the time." He looked at Cementoss. "It's 11.47. Lunch is in about 15 minutes." Katsuki nodded before he looked back at you. You were blinking slowly, your breathing back to normal now as he lowly talked to you.

"It's okay. I got you. And I'm not letting go of you again, never."

#mha #my hero academia #bakugo katuski x reader #Bakugo katsuki #Katsuki bakugo #Katsuki Bakugo x y/n #mha x y/n #mha x reader #mha eijiro kirishima #eijiro kirishima #mha hero reader #bakugo #katsuki

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toflyandfall · 4 years

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I just saw a photo of "What persona. Dick Grayson isn't a mask. Not like Bruce Wayne is" from Detective Comics #725 and I find it interesting that Dick and the rest of the bats, with the exception of Bruce, don't wear "masks" per se. They are who they are with or without the domino mask/helmet. The only time I can really think of Dick faking things is when he pretended to be an incompetent BPD cop. How was he able to avoid creating and living, half the time, through a "persona" like "Brucie"?

Oooh, this is a lovely, meaty question. There’s a lot more analysis of Bruce than I planned because let’s be real, it’s kinda weirder for a guy to run around with half a dozen personas than for someone else to run around as himself. I hope you still find it interesting, but if you want to skip straight to the more Dick-centric stuff, head under the readmore.

A simple but significant factor is that Dick thrives on the company of people in a way that Bruce does not. I suspect if you talk honestly to many introverts, you will find they too have an extroverted ‘mask’ they put on to the larger world, though probably not quite so extreme.

Another factor is that the civilian social circles Dick and Bruce travel in are vastly different. Though they each have a reason for being in those circles, that difference itself enables Dick to escape much of the scrutiny that Bruce’s public identity undergoes, because he doesn’t frequently associate with the much more media-hounded elite.

An interesting thing here is that the large difference in social circles between their civilian lives is actually caused by their own personal similarities: they are 100% committed work-a-holics. It’s just that they have differing civilian approaches to their goals.

I want to start with Bruce because as you point out, his use of persona is distinct among the bats and his reasons for using them in part explain why Dick and the other bats do not.

Bruce is a child of privilege, he has always lived a lifestyle of privilege, regardless of the tragedies that have occurred during it, and his default view of the world, through no fault of his own, is natively that of the extreme upper class. This drastically influences his perspective and approach to change, and changing the world is his perpetual goal, the reason he put on the suit in the first place.

Bruce works a top-down society approach toward systemic change, and he works it all the time. This is actually my favorite but woefully under-emphasized part of him: he is not just someone who punches people on the street ‘for justice’, he uses his company, his money, and his social position toward substantial systemic change. This post does a wonderful job covering the ways he does this through his corporations and personal wealth, as does this one. I cannot recommend either enough because I constantly want to push even the most casual Batman fans to understand: Bruce Wayne is not just a violent punchy puncher man. He is a traumatized person genuinely trying to use all his resources including himself to make the world safer.

Detective Comics #725

Bruce has many personas he maintains, and he uses all of them according to what suits his need--Batman for places the law can’t go, Bruce Wayne the CEO pushing for systemic changes, Matches Malone for street information, and Brucie the society high roller for society information and social influencing. He is rarely ever not in a persona and simply ‘Bruce’.

His top-down perspective of enacting change are what dictated the usage and necessity of these personas. He has the means and capacity to basically disappear from society if he so chose--he in fact does so to train during his younger years so successfully they don’t even know how long he was actually gone.

The Batman Files

So he doesn’t need the personas. Not Bruce Wayne, CEO, or Brucie, or any of them really, to protect his identity. That tells us that Brucie is a deliberate choice he made at some point. He could have been a recluse billionaire Batman indefinitely. Even though he fully has the status and means to not maintain a job or a persona or, let’s be frank, a life outside the mask at all, it’s his own work-a-holicness that led to the creation of his public personas. He’s an obsessive strategist, so if Brucie is a choice, that leads us to why?

Bruce does many philanthropic things with his money, but he isn’t the only rich person around, especially not in a city as old and corrupt as Gotham. But he’s one of the very few ones doing good with it.

The comic you mentioned has a very beautiful moment where Bruce touches on that, and in full context you can feel how consumed he is by this goal of creating the Gotham his parents would have wanted. Batman mentions he never sees himself in that place, and the morbid interpretation is that the city kills him before he reaches it, but the hopeful interpretation is that in that shining city, Bruce Wayne and Batman and Brucie and all his masks will no longer be needed.

Detective Comics #725

Back in the old days they’d call it noblesse oblige: the inferred responsibility of privileged people to act with generosity and nobility toward those less privileged. Thomas and Martha Wayne ingrained this feeling of responsibility into Bruce by example, and as all things related to them, he obsesses over it. It urges him to fulfill expectations within segments of society he finds onorous for the betterment of society as a whole in order to carry out their unfinished works.

Enter Brucie.

Brucie serves a two-fold purpose. Since Bruce has chosen to maintain personas among society, it becomes a false face to justify any oddities Batman might bring into the life of Bruce Wayne by setting himself up as a eccentric, popular social scion. But that persona itself also allows him to manipulate the upper crust of society.

I have some insider perspective on the kind of society events Brucie attends. They’re all about the who’s who of making connections, name-dropping and networking, and unspoken class-based elitism. Charity events among the upper class have these things at the forefront and the cause is the background. You don’t get your hands dirty, you don’t go out and make change yourself, you pay money to be socially seen and sometimes it happens to go towards a philanthropic cause. If you want to raise money from the rich and keep people with deep pockets coming in the door, you have to have social currency yourself. This is where, and why, Brucie comes in. I believe Brucie ws crafted to maintain Batman’s cover but still attempt to carry on his parents’ legacy to grease the wheels of the rich in the directions he chooses: one of generosity towards those less privileged.

Superman/Batman #51

The inevitable flaw of Bruce’s approach to his personas and their philanthropy is that in a city rife with corruption, money distributed from the top has many opportunities to disappear well before it reaches the bottom. As in many of ways they are complements to each other, Dick’s approach balances that out, because his approach to helping his fellow man starts out at the street level...literally.

Nightwing #153 (Nightwing: The Great Leap)

Dick, we know, does not come from privilege. His mother was from a middle class family before she joined the circus, and despite being world famous athletes, most circus workers are lower to middle class. The people he grew up with, was comfortable with, were all working folk who expected everyone to pull their weight right alongside each other. He enacts this everyone-together approach in almost all aspects and phases of his life.

Batman #615

Even once he had settled into being Robin and adapted to living at the manor, he didn’t feel belonging to a culture of privilege, materialism, or high society. He preferred shotgun in the limo to chat with the driver to riding fancy in the back. Once he was able to start making his own decisions about where and how he lived, despite having both Bruce’s money and then later inheriting a substantial amount of his own, he chose mostly lower-class communal places.

Batman Black and White #6

Dick also doesn’t see the value of throwing money at a problem when there is an option to fix it with his own hands. We see this frequently, from building his own car instead of buying a finished one or outsourcing the work, to deciding the best way to clean out the BPD was to start at the bottom and work his way up (literally), to quitting college because his classes never got prioritized over crimesolving. Most of his day jobs ended for similar reasons.

Nightwing #153 (Nightwing: The Great Leap)

Despite the showmanship training, he gravitates away from spotlight on the rich and wealthy, who are notoriously the kind of people who do not get their hands dirty or go out and take care of things themselves, and prefers to find or build communities around the kind of people who do.

Finally, Dick is an extrovert. He doesn’t need to act extroverted as Brucie does because he is extroverted. He likes people and likes being around people. Whether by conscious choice or not, he tends to put himself in situations where he is surrounded by people in nearly all aspects of his life. He chooses apartment buildings whose occupants frequently pass each other on the stairs; jobs that involve interacting with many co-workers, patrons, or students; and collects superhero teammates like Boy Scout badges. And all of these behaviors come very naturally to him.

He doesn’t need a mask or a role or a persona for those kind of interactions; his mask is pre-supplied as “neighbor” or “co-worker” or “teacher” by the situations he puts himself in. It helps make him an exemplary leader, because just by acting authentically to himself, he automatically builds up little communities around him any time he arrives somewhere.

Bruce, on the other hand, is an introvert. For him, interacting with people isn’t easy, automatic, or comfortable unless it has a purpose, but as a strategist, he knows the necessity of human interaction as a catalyst to achieving dynamic change. So he adapts personas to suit people’s expectations. Extroverts have more social currency; the life of the party can generate more resources than a brooding wallflower.

So, it boils down to just a few elements: Dick believes in living and interacting at the street level to accomplish the things that he wants to, and he is extroverted enough that the level of social interaction that entails is not a burden to him. He surrounds himself with the types of people he is more familiar or perhaps more comfortable with, which happens to keep him further out from the media’s eye than associating with the upper crust does. The lower profile is more incidental than intentional, but it lessens his need to have a cover story for every single bruise and lets him get away with even less of a ‘persona’.

Bruce, on the other hand, is introverted and follows a more classist view that systemic change needs to be effected from the top down. His personas are more of a self-assumed duty than a necessity, as a way of trying to carry out his parents’ legacy. Any of his children could have chosen to follow his path in business or the high society limelight, but the sense of obligation toward it is something personal to him that most of them don’t share.

#bruce wayne #batman #dick grayson #nightwing #character analysis #dc #comics #meta #o.c.#bruce wayne analysis #bruce + dick #asks #anonymous #cover stories

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etlunainmorte · 4 years

Text

Very brief mention of abuse and bullying. Read with caution. Thank you!

***

📷 Memories 📷

***

"I'll be home soon, Kyrie. I promise. Okay." Nero placed his cellphone back to his pocket just in time to see Nico's mysterious black - haired friend glancing at something outside the window of the trailer.

"See something you like?" The young Devil Hunter asked, his eyebrows knitted in confusion at the way the man stared.

"She has been at it for almost an hour and a half,..." The man answered with a low voice.

"I told ya, don't mind what she does." Nico, who was fixing the broken camera at the back of the trailer where her messy workplace was situated, answered almost harshly. She gave a quick look at her friend, saw him still staring outside the window, and rolled her eyes in defeat. Then, with a slightly irritated look at Nero, she added, "See? He just won't listen!"

"What are you looking at, anyway?" Curious, Nero finally gave a glance outside the window to see what the man was staring at. And lo and behold, he saw Mary sitting at one of the old benches outside not far from where the trailer was parked, doing something really,... unusual. "Oh, this is something new. What's she doing?"

"I saw her taking out a sketchbook from that bag of hers. And she started,... scribbling." The man answered.

"Huh. Really?" Nero scoffed and collapsed at the chair opposite V. "Well, that's something new. At least she's doing something really productive for a change."

"Meaning?" It was V's turn to ask a question.

Ever since he arrived at the location, V couldn't help but feel that there really was something very odd about what was happening. At first, he thought that Nico was only exaggerating things to make him come out of hiding, hysterically saying stuff like Demons appeared here and there, did this and that, and that she needs his knowledge to get to the bottom of this. Now, years of extensive studies on Demonology has taught V that the evil creatures would not appear and wreak havoc on the surface unless they are ordered to do so by a higher, sort of high - ranking, Demon. Or if they are seeking something of utmost value. Regardless, when V arrived, he proved Nico's words to be the truth. Demons did appear here and there and did this and that.

However, he can't say that his knowledge about Demonology is enough to solve this mind - boggling issue about these creatures appearing out of nowhere.

And Mary's odd behavior, and most probably his guilt of wrecking the damn camera, didn't help with the situation, at all.

"You see," Nero began. " ... Mary was - "

"Hey,... " Nico interrupted all of a sudden. The two men both looked at her and saw her pointing at something right outside the window next to her. " ... that's Morrison!"

Morrison? Thought V as the Artisan went out to greet the new visitor,...

***

It's unmistakable. Marsha heard the girl crying. And she has never even heard or seen the child do so.

The tall and perfectly poised woman abandoned her knitting and sped towards the living room to see her niece trying to patch up what looked like wounds on her palms with bandages.

And not just any wound,...

"Mary?!" Marsha called. The little girl almost jumped in fear as she heard her name being called and tried to hide her hands behind her back.

And this only made Marsha even more suspicious.

The woman sighed, strode closer towards the girl, bent down and grabbed her niece's arms. "You don't hide things from me, young lady!"

"But, Marsha, it's nothing!" The girl hopelessly argued, for she knew she was losing. Marsha finds out about everything, and that was a fact.

But, the older lady was having none of Mary's arguments. Marsha pulled her niece's arms from behind her back, held out her little hands, and saw, in utter fright and disgust, the lashes and blood painting the girl's little palms.

And the sight infuriated Marsha to the bone.

The next morning, Mary found Marsha knitting again on her little space in the huge library.

"I'm going to school." Mary announced with a loud voice over the Doris Day song that was being played on a vintage record atop one of the antique tables next to the shelves to her left. It was Marsha's favorite song.

And to what Mary just said, the older lady looked up from her handiwork and only raised an eyebrow. Raising her wire - rimmed glasses above her pointed nose, she said, "Oh, you're not going to school today, young lady."

Mary furrowed her eyebrows in disbelief. "Why?"

"Because, I said so!" The woman answered, her facial expression as stoic as ever. "Now, do come here and keep me company."

The little girl, although doubtful of Marsha's decision to not drive her to school that one particular morning, obeyed, putting her bag on the floor next to the iron table and sat across her aunt.

Looking at the many colorful yarns and several unfinished projects on the table, Mary asked, "How about tomorrow?"

"No." Marsha answered, her eyes never leaving her craft. Her answer remained the same for a week that Mary finally took up the courage to pick up one of the green yarns and a pair of darning needles from Marsha's knitting kit.

And this did not go unnoticed by Marsha, herself. Looking at Mary's freshly bandaged hands, and the needles she's holding, she nodded, and said, "Very well. I could teach you if you want. ONLY if you want."

Mary gave a sheepish smile and placed the yarn and the needles back to the basket before her. She, then, took out her sketchbook and some coloring materials from her bag and went on to finish that Venus art she's been working on for a week since Marsha forbade her to come to school.

It was not until another week when Mary finally found out that Marsha tried to press charges to the school and that awful teacher who gave her those wounds. Getting little to no justice after what happened, Marsha gave up and, instead, had Mary enrolled to a different school that was very far from that accursed place full of bullies, not to mention that devil Burns ( who only received penalties so light it's ridiculous, considering what he's done ) still on the loose and freely roaming about that campus.

It was also during that time when Mary almost memorized all of Doris Day's songs about love and heartbreak, and how not to question Marsha's decisions ever again.

***

" ... please, call me, Mary. I'm so worried about you - "

With furrowed eyebrows, Mary ended the voicemail from her aunt and made her way back to the trailer where she found, yet, another visitor sitting on a chair across that tall, black - haired man who stepped on Nico's camera.

Stuffing her cellphone back to her pocket, she saw the new visitor standing up and offering his hand to her.

"I'm Morrison." The man graciously introduced himself as he shook Mary's hands. "And you must be Mary Suermann! New accomplice of Nico?"

"Ah, yes, you might say that." Mary answered quietly as she took her hand from his, trying to ignore the fact that she could feel someone staring at her from behind her back. She carefully turned around without having to face V and stood next to the door, seeing that her companions were discussing something.

"So, let me get this straight," Morrison began as he settled back to his chair. " ... strange Demons began appearing randomly in some specific locations in this city? And not just any Demon, you say?"

"Yeah." Nero, who was sitting on the sofa next to V, answered. "Ahh, V, what did you say that Demon's name was, again?"

"Niddhogg." V answered, his low voice sending shivers down Mary's spine. She would never, ever, forget that voice, no. "But it wasn't particularly a Demon. It was a parasite that lives in an evil tree called the Qliphoth, which thrives on Human blood."

"And this Qliphoth tree," Morrison spoke. " ... are there any of those growing around here?"

"If there is,... then this city could very well be done for." V answered, successfully drawing all eyes on him in curiosity. "You see, this,... demonic tree,... grows quite,... let's just say,... rapidly. But, never mind that. The point is: there should be no Niddhogg if there is no,... Qliphoth,... to begin with."

"Niddhogg,... " Morrison mused as he rubbed his stubble. "I'm not gonna lie with you but, that is the first time I've heard of that thing. I don't even know what that looks like - "

"Exactly why Mary had to take pictures of it!" Nico added, emphasizing on the name like she was some kind of a criminal who committed such atrocious deeds. "Isn't that right, huh Mary?"

With a deep sigh, she took out her sketchbook from her bag, opened it, and handed it to Morrison, who gazed at it with such unmasked awe.

Not that the Demon illustrated in it was such a looker, no.

"Magnificent!" Morrison exclaimed. "Are you the one who drew this, Mary?"

With a little sheepish smile, she nodded, and answered, "Yeah."

Morrison looked up from the sketchbook, held it up for the others to see, and asked, "Is this the one?"

And to this, V's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. It truly was an exact and very detailed drawing of the demonic parasite Niddhogg.

Who knew this girl had some kind of a hidden talent?

"Indeed." V answered, a bit of admiration getting past his monotonous voice, which Mary didn't miss.

Nico, who was leaning against her jukebox, took the sketchbook from Morrison's hands and stared at it with widened eyes full of wonder and disbelief. This made Mary smile a bit, and V, who was observing this entire scene, didn't miss the little gesture.

"Whoa. Ya really are an artist!" Nico exclaimed.

"Why?" Nero butted in. "Don't believe her?"

Even before Nico could fire up her own response, Morrison cleared his throat and said, "I want to take a picture of that illustration, if I may. I would show it to my associate in the Devil Hunting business and see if he could crack any sort of thing, anything, regarding this demonic parasite."

Seeing that Morrison's statement was directed at her, Mary nodded, giving her full consent. And as the man began taking photos of her Niddhogg art with his cellphone, Nero asked, "Where were you going, anyway?"

"To the office of the said associate in the Devil Hunting business."

"You mean, Dante?"

"Right you are." Morrison handed the sketchbook back to Mary and placed his cellphone back to his breast pocket. "I have some things to discuss with him. About a man who was found dead in his own house just this morning."

"What happened?" It was V's turn to ask a question.

"Reports say he died of cardiac arrest. Not that big of a deal, to be perfectly honest. Except that this man was linked to the disappearance of a few children in the last decade. There are no sufficient evidence to prove his crimes but, investigations are underway after they found some curious things in his home right after his body was taken."

"And those are?" V pried even further, and it was honestly making Mary a bit nervous.

"Some trinkets and clothes that belong to children. Apparently, they were hidden in a small compartment just behind his fridge. The authorities found the man's body, and some emptied bottles of water, right next to it."

"Maybe they belonged to his kids, or something?" Nero tried to explain.

"Yes, except that this man had no children, or relatives living close by. And the only people he knew were his colleagues in a school he was teaching at. Now, don't you worry about this thing. You have your own problems to deal with. But, just to be sure that my hunches are wrong, I will speak to Dante regarding this - "

"This man," All eyes, including V's, all turned to see Mary looking wide - eyed and horrified as she stood near the door. " ... who was he?"

"His name," Morrison began as he stood up and gathered his things on the table. " ... was Roger Burns. He was a teacher at - "

"I know." Mary heard Nico's little gasp at what she just revealed. "He was my teacher."

"Oh!" Morrison exclaimed and put a hand on Mary's shoulder. "I'm so sorry for the loss of your teacher - "

"Actually, I'm not in the least bit sorry. In fact, he - "

"He?" Morrison and the others waited as Mary held out her hands to show them something. But, then, something made her stop as she somewhat stared in disbelief at her own hands.

V, who stood just in time to see what Mary was looking at, saw nothing but her smooth - looking palms.

"Girl, what are you trying to say?" Nico, who was getting a bit impatient, questioned.

Mary looked up, smiled, and brought her hands down. "Nothing! Just,... nothing."

"Alright, then! I'll take my leave. I'll see you around." Morrison, who pretended to not be weirded out by what just happened, tipped his hat and finally left the trailer with more questions than answers.

"Are you alright?" Nero, who placed a hand on Mary's shoulder, kindly asked.

With a smile, she answered, "Never better."

However, V knew that was a lie. Mary was hiding something from them. It was very clear to him. But, what was it?

And why should Mary open up to them in the first place? They wouldn't believe her if she told them that the scar caused by her now dead teacher was all but mysteriously gone!

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#vitale #devil may cry 5 #vitale sparda #memories #mary suermann #v and oc #v and mary #chapter ii

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