#but part of those poems are in dark twisted and cruel so what’s that about

[orallech]

#alan wake 2 #alan wake 2 spoilers #aw2edit #gamingedit #made this last night before getting a gorgeous three hours sleep #might as well post it #also as I said in previous post these are Zane’s poems from that argue from 2012 #but part of those poems are in dark twisted and cruel so what’s that about #ARG*

[crow-summoner]

Darklina Week Day 6: Monster

Made a Monster

The Darkling promised to raise Alina above all others. Instead, he made her something less than human.

Alina was supposed to be the Darkling’s constant, but when she left him in a hell of his own creation, he reached out for the one thing he could still trust.

1: Antlers

The dress was the final straw. It was made of fine Shu silk, dyed black as everything the General touched seemed to be. The cut emphasized the small of Alina’s waist, its neckline a deep-plunging heart that bore her throat, but that was the problem.

Her throat.

The top progs of the stag’s antlers protruded from her collar bone, still sore and loose under her flesh. David had assured her skin would heal around the bone over time, but she doubted her body would ever fully accept the infestation. The stag had been beautiful. The Darkling’s horns were not. They should have been banished under collar and scarf, not forced to be on display. Even the gold embroidery around the neckline called attention to her shame. Thick, thorny lines twirled around each other like a mass of writhing worms. Like deer antlers eternally locked in a fight.

The Darkling had a sick sense of humor, she had come to learn.

Genya did her best to tailor away Alina’s sleepless night, evening out her tear-botched skin and highlighting the area under her eyes. She darkened Alina’s lashes with beetles and flushed her lips with the scales of a red koi. Alina never considered how many animals died so that she could fit what the masses expected of a hero. She thought the Darkling had made her a chimera when he fused her and the stag, but she had been merging with other creatures since she first set foot in the Little Palace.

What did that say about her, a saint that consumed all life around her?

Genya twisted up Alina’s hair, decorating it with what she called diamond flowers. Alina knew better. They were stars. The Darkling would not settle for merely branding her with his amplifier and his colors. He needed to mark her with his symbols, too.

All of Genya’s efforts were pointless, of course. No one would be looking at Alina’s face and figure. Not when the antlers were in clear view.

Alina stared at them in the mirror. She was used to feeling ugly, not because she saw anything wrong in her reflection, but because someone was always there to remind her of her rough, peasant hands. Her Shu features. Her sickly pallor. She could only hear the comments so many times before she saw it, too. Aleksander had changed that. The Darkling, she meant. Using her powers gave her skin a glow and her hair a sheen, but the way he looked at her as if she were the last sip of water in a desert made her feel like she was more than just the sum of her mediocre parts.

She felt beautiful in his eyes.

Powerful.

Alluring.

It was a lie, of course. His eyes shined for her powers, and nothing more. She mourned what could have been, but not as much as she did for her ability to look in the mirror and like what she saw. She had thought herself ugly before. She had no idea what true ugliness was.

“Are we going into the Fold today?” Alina asked, not because she cared, but because speaking was the only way she could break her staring match with herself.

Genya shook her head. “The General wishes to speak with you in private.”

Alina should have known he would insist on dolling her up for his eyes alone. Powerful men did not share their belongings, and they did not settle for anything less than perfection.

Her patron devil invited himself inside her tent about an hour later. His tongue was heavy with pretty little lies, but she hadn’t the patience to entertain them. She could forgive his secrecy and manipulations. Over time, she could even make peace with all the people he had murdered, though her parents’ loss in the Fold jabbed like a thorn in her heart. But she couldn’t stand the theft. He’d stolen the choice from her. Her heart. Her control over her body. The power she’d been separated from since birth. He took it all and had the audacity to speak as if it were inevitable that she’d forgive him.

He ruined her dreams, so she carved out his. He’ll never have her affections again.

“Fine,” he said, his nose twitching from the strain of holding back his tears. She hoped they were genuine because feelings were the last things she had left to hurt him with. “Make me your villain.”

She hadn’t needed to. He made himself a monster as easily as he made her one.

It wasn’t until the next day, when the Darkling shackled her to the deck of his skiff, that she really understood the depth of his promise. At first, she thought he’d given her a small kindness. She could wear a cloak to cover her shame even if that cloak was a twin to his own, but that didn’t last. It wasn’t enough to mark her with his taste in fashion. He wanted the world to see what he’d done.

He soaked in the crowd’s gasps when they saw the antlers, so proud of his little abomination. Alina was reminded of a poem one of the girls she’d served with had told her. “When is a monster not a monster?” Her answer had been when a person loves them, but Alina knew better. The monster was still a monster even when it was loved. Even when it loved in return. Love just made the resulting pain all the more horrifying.

The skiff pushed forward, dragging Alina into the dark with the rest of the Darkling’s creations.

 2: Darkness

Alina was meant to end Aleksander’s suffering. Only she would live long enough to keep him company throughout the ages. They were supposed to be together forever, but they’d only lasted a handful of months. Fate was cruel that way.

Aleksander would have forgiven her trespasses.

Eventually.

Alina was only 22. Of course, she knew nothing of the world. She’d never left the hovel she grew up in until she’d been drafted, and even then, she’d barely left the comfort of a cartography tent. Time would fix that lack of experience, and then Alina would see Aleksander’s genius. Peaceful resolutions meant nothing to those who’d gladly burn their kind. Their peace treaty could only be writ in blood. She’d see. She’d chide herself for believing the Old Woman’s slander. For running away from her destiny and leaving her kind to rot. For denying the hold he still had over her heart. Alexander still wanted that heart even after she let another man put his filthy fingerprints all over it. Her Tracker would turn to dust, and her preoccupation with him would follow suit. She’d seek Aleksander then, and he would absolve her sins.

All she had to do was beg.

It seemed Alina was not so forgiving.

He’d taken her hand – that hand she’d have used to ruin his plans if he hadn’t collared her. The same hand that caressed that pathetic child with a gentle reverence. He would have spared her the fate of her so-called friends. The only friend she needed was him, and all he wanted was her.

She mutilated him for this kindness.

Such ingratitude.

She – the saint, the hero, the innocent ingenue – abandoned him to the gray sand. She knew he was defenseless. After all, she’d personally rendered him impotent, carving a hole in his dominant hand. He needed both to properly focus his power. That, more than anything else, he would not forgive. What good was a Darkling without his shadows?

The volcra descended upon him. He’d shivered the first time he’d seen the creatures his merzost had created. Something neither bat nor human, but some middle ground between. And the teeth. Oh, the teeth. They haunted his dreams for centuries. What he felt then paled in the face of seeing those fangs up close, saliva dripping off yellow bone.

He ducked the monster’s claw, but it’s brother came up from behind, slicing Aleksander’s cheek. He dropped to his knees, flesh burning worse than Alina’s light. The volcra surged forward, it’s mouth wide for the feast.

Not this way. He would not die as prey.

Aleksander drove his fist into the creature’s mouth, punching the back of its throat. Its teeth scraped Aleksander’s arm, shredding his coat sleeve and drawing blood. It didn’t faze him. He’s bled for lesser causes than his own survival.

The volcra gagged, staggering back. It spat Aleksander’s blood out on the sand. Poor thing. All that effort, and it couldn’t even savor the taste. Aleksander could sympathize.

Almost.  

Somewhere in the distance, Aleksander’s heartrender cried for help. For a moment, Aleksander resolved to ignore him. No one could escape this hell. The best they could do is take as many of these creatures out with them as they could. But the sun summoner’s betrayal left him feeling strangely sentimental. Ivan had been a useful extra hand, and Aleksander promised to deliver the Grisha to safety. He wouldn’t be made a liar, no matter how strongly Alina insisted otherwise.

Besides, why should he die alone when there was a warm body nearby?

Deep grooves marked where the skiff made its hasty retreat. Aleksander found Ivan there. Scratches marred his face, and the volcra on top of him flapped its wings as it nibbled at his side. Thankfully, it had spared his arms, so Aleksander didn’t have to put Ivan out of his misery. No Grisha should have to suffer without their powers.

A piece of the skiff’s mast had broken off in battle. Aleksander lifted it, forcing it through the volcra’s head. It trashed blindly, giving Aleksander access to Ivan. He slipped an arm under his heartrender’s shoulders, dragging him to his feet. The fool tried to lay a hand on his own chest, but there was no time to slow his own heartbeat. They had to run while they could.

Every direction looked the same, all colorless dunes and darkness, but looks were deceiving. Each oily black patch throbbed with a life of its own if only someone would listen to it. Aleksander closed his eyes and let it speak. They weren’t far from Novokribirsk, but they were not close either. If they ran for it, the volcra would surely catch up. He stood a small chance on his own, but Ivan was like lead. Aleksander should leave him, having paid his debt by freeing him, but something else begged for his attention. Something familiar to him that he couldn’t quite place. He followed that feeling to its origin.

Aleksander dragged Ivan across the sands until they reached it. He couldn’t see it, but he was sure it was there. It called to him from deep in blackness. Aleksander let his heartrender slide to the ground. He groaned in protest, grabbing for Aleksander’s leg as he charged forward, but Aleksander needed to handle this on his own.

Aleksander reached out until his fingers hit stone. It was the briefest of touches, but it was all he needed to recognize the archway. This was once a cathedral before time had worn its walls down and more vines than parishioners called it home. If the King’s men hadn’t hunted him down, these ruins would be nothing but dust, but the Fold had preserved it, a shrine to Aleksander’s last stand. It had been centuries since Aleksander had set foot here, but he could still map every step as easily as he could the Little Palace.

The sound of wings drew him from his memories. He didn’t need to turn around to know he’s been found. The past always came back around, sooner or later. Centuries ago, he transformed the King’s army into something more, and now their descendants had come to make him something less.

Sharp talons raked across Aleksander’s back one after another, spraying his blood against Saint Ilya’s alter. The stone passively accepted the offering. Of course, it did. All religions in Ravka hungered for Grisha blood. How much would it take until Ravka was satisfied? Could it be satisfied? Aleksander supposed he wouldn’t live long enough to find out. He’d worn himself out just trying to stay upright.

The enemy surrounded him on all sides, swooping in and out. They were toying with him, he was sure. They’d already gorged themselves on his men and had all the time in the world to savor the final course. He laughed, clutching his chest. The world swam around him. Sometimes he saw the volcra in the dark. Sometimes it was the King’s men stretching and contorting as day turned to night.

Aleksander collapsed.

A hum grew in his gut the moment he touched the floor. Something deep within the cathedral answered it’s call. He recognized it, this power.

The making at the heart of the world.

It couldn’t be.

Aleksander had used up what little power was left in this holy ground when he created his living darkness. He was sure of it, and yet, the slightest speck remained, waiting for him. Aleksander reached for it. It would take a price from him, but so did everything else. Whatever it wanted was worth salvation.

The whole world was at stake.

“Give me what I asked of you,” he whispered, arm outstretched behind him. He had demanded an army and place only he could control. Instead, he received chaos. He would have his army now. “You owe me!” He shouted, and it was like a dam broke.

Pain crawled up his veins. His kefta felt too tight at his throat, but he hadn’t the strength to tug at it. He was emptying from the inside out, all that he was billowing out his mouth and from beneath his nails. He wanted to pull back before he faded into nothing, but birth was supposed to be exhausting. He had nothing to fear from the dark. In was the one thing that never failed him.

Wisps of shadows sputtered then clung to each other, forging bone from nothing. Arms stretched, claws bursting from incorporeal hands. More and more of these skeletons formed, their skin blurred like ink floating in water. They had no faces, no eyes, no ears. Nothing to distract them from their master’s command.

Save me, he ordered without words. His children heard him anyway. Wings busted from their backs as they took flight. The volcra swung at them, tearing Aleksander’s creatures. Their middles burst apart like loose graphite, but they came back together, safe and whole.

One of the creatures reared its head back, its face splitting to form a gapping hole. Rows upon rows of tiny fangs lined its throat, shredding the volcra as it forced its brother in merzost down its gullet.

Aleksander was not one for tears, but he wept openly. So beautiful. So devoted. Finally, he had the army he deserved. His children born of nothingness. His nichevo'ya.

The nichevo'ya make short work of the volcra. The ones they hadn’t devoured fled. His creatures made to follow, but Aleksander stopped them with a whistle. A child’s place was by their father’s side.

The nichevo'ya flocked to him, nuzzling into his side or licking at his wounds. The blood, he noted, was no longer red, but a gelatinous black. It would fade back to red in a few days, just like last time. For now, the goo had stopped his wounds, and that’s all that mattered.

Aleksander tried to sit up, but he was too weak. With a single thought, the creatures faded into the darkness, leaving only one. Aleksander’s limbs still felt unnaturally heavy, but at least he had the strength to throw an arm around his nichevo’s neck. “Carry me,” he commanded, and it obliged him without argument. If only all armies were so wise.

Ivan moaned in the distance. It wouldn’t do to leave him, not when Aleksander had a whole new arsenal at his disposal. He wished another nichevo into existence. The exertion made his head spin. No more until the left the Fold, he promised himself. Not until he got some rest. Some food. Full restitution.

“Him, too.” He told his creature. It roared, flying to the heartrender’s side. Ivan’s eyes widened as it landed. He struck weakly at its chest, but the nichevo scooped him up with ease.

“Enough,” Aleksander said, his tone leaving no room for arguments. To Ivan’s credit, he immediately went still. Not as obedient as Aleksander’s brood, but loyal all the same. “Stay that way if you want to live.”

Ivan shook the entire flight to Novokribirsk, never looking away from the creature that held him, but did as he was bid.

At the mouth of the fold, Aleksander had his nichevo set him down. His legs felt numb, and he stumbled as he breached the daylight. He longed to be carried again, but he didn’t know if his creations could survive outside their birthplace. The volcra couldn’t.

His knees caved before he got more than a few steps. The sand tasted dull in his mouth. It was tempting to lay there forever, but he forced himself to rise. He had things to do before he could visit his sun summoner. He’d decided to forgive her the way the flames forgave those dumb enough to touch it. The way Ravka forgave its saints. The way she forgave him.

He had all the time in the world to figure her penance.

His two creatures stood in the borderlands, awaiting his orders. With a glance over his shoulder, Alexander bade them to follow. They each stepped into the light of day. No smoke. No screeching in agony. They were good children. His soul made carnate.

His beautiful monsters.

#shadow and bone #darklinadaily #darklinaweek2021 #alina starkov #the darkling #general kirigan #darklina

[immortalonus]

Where You Belong: Chapter One.

So in case you guys were wondering where I vanished off to, the answer is mostly work. This chapter also took way, way more brain power than I really intended, so I didn't really have the energy to post much else.

I could probably edit this more, but I swear if I spend one more hour editing this I will go insane, so here it is, chapter one of my first multi-chapter fic in, *checks calendar,* four years!?

Jeez, time really does fly, doesn't it?

Read on AO3

If I were Where I Would be, Then I Would be Where I Am not. But where I am, There I must be. And where I would be, I cannot.

-American Folk Poem.

________________________________________________________

As soon as Valerie had flown out of sight of Plasmius’ portal, she made a point to dump everything he had given her for the trip.

First, the communication devices. She had no desire to talk to anyone, much less the creepy, lying, traitorous ghost-thing masquerading as Vlad Masters. She gave the DALVco edition headset her best fast ball, taking no small satisfaction in watching it break piece by piece as it clattered against the frames of one floating door after another before finally vanishing into the mists below.

If Plasmius wanted to talk to her, he could crawl out of his portal and find her himself. Which he wasn’t going to do, because he had a cover to maintain. After all, what kind of delicate, elderly gentleman would throw himself into a dimension of rarified death? Not Mister Masters, oh no.

Especially not when he had a willing pawn to do it for him.

The more surreptitious listening devices went next. Fat, disgusting, bloated insects they were, bugs in function as much as form.And they were everywhere.

She found them wedged between her armor joints, the soles of her boots, in the crevices of her guns, and, after putting her systems through an intensive self-diagnostic, her hair.

When had he touched her hair?

She made a point to crush them all. Either plucking off the parasites directly, or, in the case of those lodged beneath her suit, pulling them into her storage unit and spitting them back out again into the open atmosphere where they could be destroyed.

She removed everything else Plasmius had given her immediately after: Several days worth of food, a large pop up tent, a sleeping bag, a map, several spare weapons, a well thumbed biography on Vince Lombardi and more spewed out of her storage units like a sickness, purged in gouts down to the waiting abyss.

Any thing he'd handled, all his supplies, every “present” he'd ever bestowed, she made a point to dump them all.

But God, when had he touched her hair?

Once she was finished, it felt almost like a victory. With no material proof of her obligations, it was easy to imagine she was already free.

She would finish this mission on her own. No outside aid, no puppet-masters, no regrets.

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

/Sorrysorry-soverysorry!/

“Shut up!”Valerie had regrets.

/sorrysorrysorry/

So many regrets.

“I said shut up, you stupid bug!”

She emphasized her point by kicking the target of her ire right in the soft parts of its creepy, eye studded thorax.

This was stupid, she was stupid, but more than anything, she was pissed.

Valerie took a few steps closer to her target, gait slightly uneven for the lack of both her usual boots. While she wasn't going to die anytime soon, as the black leather that fit snug as skin across her body, the true barrier against the toxic atmosphere of the Zone, remained fully intact, it didn't stop her from being mad about it.

The bug, which had finally stopped gibbering in that vile, hissing tongue that had become more and more common the deeper she ventured into the pea-soup hellscape otherwise known as the ghost zone, took the opportunity to cower against the calciferous outgrowth that had halted its pitiful attempt at flight from Valerie's relentless pursuit.

She had hunted ghosts stronger and faster than this every day back in Amity, and could not help the faint sensation of disgust that came over her at the sight of a figure so unexpectedly pathetic. Did she appear so weak that this creature, along with the half a dozen or so of its less successful, but no less kleptomaniacally inclined ilk see fit to prey upon her? Did she seem so low indeed, that even the meanest, most beggarly of the Zone's inhabitants should see her as some object to pilfer and mock?

It was the work of a moment to summon her laser cubes, pulling them from the pocket dimension from which they resided to slide noiselessly over to the insect lying prone before her. With a thought, they flew forward, two each to press down on the thing's chitinous skull, heightening the artificial glow of her suit as she did for that extra sense of intimidation.

It was an ability she'd never had the need for back on earth, only to find herself putting it to use with unhappy frequency not a day after she'd set off on her journey.

Everything in the realm of the dead glowed, and the capacity to put off and manipulate one's own aura was a hallmark of the creatures that 'lived' within it. Those that didn't stood out strangely, casting shadows upon themselves and the world in a way that made them an obvious anomaly in the otherwise antumbral reaches of the Zone.

While Valerie didn't enjoy wasting her resources on glowing like she was her very own spook, she also hated wasting time, which advertising her humanity to every ghost that glanced her way very much did; a lesson that she'd learned after fending off an entire assault squad of ghost police, who had chased her for ages while screaming about her criminal possession of so many 'real world objects' within their territory.

That it also made sure any enemies never anticipated her ability to phase through objects came in handy from time to time as well, such as when a would-be thief, for example, tried to duck into a thicket in an effort to snarl its pursuer.

As expected, the bug shuddered in response to the cold touch of the barrel against its skin, curling into itself as it looked up into the dark panel of her faceplate.

Valerie leaned down, pinning it between herself, her guns, and the stony trunk of what, on this particular island, seemed to serve as some kind of tree.

/Alright, Manbug, one more time./ Her voice crackled and popped through her translators, adding even more intimidation to a tone already modulated down to something lower and crueler than her natural snarl. /Where. Did you. Put. My Stuff. /

The insect whimpered a little harder, oozing something suspiciously close to snot from the hole above its writhing mouthparts. It remained otherwise silent, however, as it shook.

Valerie pulled back her leg and kicked it again.

The imitation flesh buckled beneath her toes, causing the creature to squeal, a nonverbal expression of pain peaking just beyond her range of hearing as it flickered invisible, writhing in a hopeless gambit to escape the weapons still clamped against its head.

Funny how ghosts kept so many features they really shouldn't need anymore. Like joints, for example. Was it a subconscious matter, or some kind of deliberate choice, Just one more means to mock the living, their very forms a cruel parody of everything they once had been?

She silenced the voice which whispered how she should know by now, that it wasn't that easy. There were more important things to focus on.

/P-please./

The bug focused its myriad gaze on the huntress' visor, all six limbs twisted over themselves, wrapped tight over its oozing midsection.

/In error, Milor- Milord. Your place, held, not neutral. Shall honor, please. /

It was leaking from the eyes too, now, viscous fluid pouring from its dozens of eyes, wetting it bodily, puddling down onto the dark purple earth, adding to the halo of scattered goods and tchotchkes that had spilled out from the overstuffed bags that it had clung to for dear life even as they toppled, overbalanced from a too-fast turn, dragging the creature headfirst into ruin.

/Mer- mercy./

This wasn't fair. This miserable thing, begging in the dirt like it hadn't gotten anything more than what it deserved.

Valerie grimaced, rubbing the heel of her palm against her faceplate. Phantom's visage, not long past, looked up to her from the depths of her memory, face just as desperate, just as indisputably, distressingly genuine as when she'd first seen it.

“Valerie, You don't want to do this.”

“Like I have a choice, spook.” She muttered.

She took a deep breath, sucking in the same recycled exhalation she'd been breathing for nearly a week now, and took a moment to actually think her situation through.

She wasn't lost. She had no idea where she was, but she wasn't lost: That would imply a level of helplessness she could not bring herself to admit. What little food and water she had brought with her had been eaten a while back, reducing her to scavenge among the portal droppage scattered through those areas not patrolled by mad policemen, hoping she could find something sufficiently sealed against ectoplasmic encroachment to remain edible.

She reconsidered her captive, still trembling on the ground. A ghost zone native, utterly at her mercy, and, by the looks of things, a serial hoarder of goods.

/You want mercy? Fine. But you do what I say, exactly as I say it, M'kay?/

While the guns pinning its head in place were something of an obstacle, the bug did manage a spasmodic sort of jerking motion, forebody pushed back and forth with desperate, eager haste.

/(Enthusiasm,) (enthusiasm,) assent! Lord, generous, gratitude, respect./

“Good, now-”She held out one hand, palm expectant.

/Give 'em back./

It responded slowly, still slobbering at the maw, all eyes fixed on the huntress as it unwound its uppermost limbs, which reached up towards those tattered bundles still clustered fungiform over its heaving thorax, rifling between twine-like bindings for what seemed an age.

Patience had never been a skill of Valerie's, and she found herself torn between wanting the moment to last forever and wishing go faster instead, tightening her mental grip over her laser cubes, fingering the internal triggers in anticipation of some sudden, traitorous motion on the part of her captive.

Ghosts were deceptive, dangerous creatures, except, of course, when they weren't.

Without any ability to tell the difference, she could do nothing but pace at the bars of her patience, waiting for the moment to act.

Finally, a claw submerged itself into one of the parcels, pulling out one boot, and, just beside it, a single leather fold.

This was it. Valerie snatched the wallet from its pincers. The boot was replaceable, her construct engines could make another now, if she wanted to waste the resources for it, but her wallet-She flipped open the small leather parcel, noted immediately that the contents were not any state remotely akin to how she had left them.

/Milord?/

The bug was still subtly trying to wriggle its way out from under her guns. Her systems noted, then deleted, increased energy expenditure from her laser cubes as they were forced to adjust to its motions.

Useless data. A ghost of so low a caliber could never hope to escape so easily.

Debit card-broken, bent until the plastic whitened from an excess of pressure; Dollar bills balled together and crammed into a single pocket, still damp with a kind of ectoplasm that looked disquietingly similar to the slobber still dripping from the mouthparts of the bug before her; Plastic wrappers, spare coins, a concert flyer for a band she'd always wanted to see.

/Ah, Milord? Pardon, Excuse?/

All of it. This vile, twisted excuse for an insect had messed with all of it. It had played with her most important cards and documents like they were toys, then shoved them back in with utter disregard for any sense of their value once it was done.

/Goods, returned, trust?/

Dread crept into her heart as she reached into the backmost pocket of her billfold, the place where she kept the picture of her.

/more goods? Information? Information on goods? Release, please?/

It was shoved in the very bottom of the wallet, balled into the crease where the two halves of leather were joined into one. She pulled it out, fingers shaking only slightly as they smoothed it back into a more flattened form.

The Red Huntress had no face, and never had Valerie been more grateful for that absence than in that moment, when she beheld the true extent of the damage done to Polaroid before her.

Soft white creases were everywhere, shattering the image into isolated fragments of its former self. It had been torn, too, at the edges, a grip too hard, twisting too far, integrity compromised as a result.

The worst of the damage by far, however, were a series of punctures, scattered at random through the center of the photograph, small to medium perforations forming little absences where there had once been trees and grass, where there had been a woman's face. A hole sat primly above her dark neck, arched back into nothing, a yawning gap where once there had been laughter.

The Huntress turned her blank visage back to her captive, who froze in the act of trying to pry her weapons out of position. Cowardly, but expected. Trusting a ghost was a fools game she had no intent on playing.

/Ah, haha, (nervous) (nervous,) (respect.)/ The target pulled its claws back up against itself, fiddling with the tips as it looked up to her absent regard.

/...Milord?/

The Red Huntress had no face, could betray no emotion, could reveal none of the cold black welter that rushed up through the depths of her breast and pressed against her throat. An impassive machine, possessed of a will stripped free of feeling.

No sliver of her intent showed through, no shudder passed from her shaking fingers to her gauntleted hands, not even the psychic senses of a ghost could hope to detect the lava that boiled up from her guts, pressing against her skin in an sheet of living fire even as the pits of her stomach chilled to ice.

The bug was still looking up at her, eyes all expectant, when she commanded her one of her guns to fire.

A bright streak of energy shot through the top of its head, hard pink flash cutting through a wave of green.

It squealed, jerked all six limbs towards the missing portion of its skull in a hopeless effort to stop the thick chunks of ectoplasm from slopping down the side of its face. Valerie brought her foot down at the same moment, crushing its forelimbs down into the dust. Forelimbs tipped with little claws, just large enough to fit the holes in a certain photograph.

/Why!? Ancients, why, why!?/

Why?

“Why the hell not?” she snarled, “Ain't that how it works here?”

If a different ghost wanted to rob her blind every time she tried to sleep, they could. If Valerie wanted to chase down the one that finally succeeded, she could. There were no laws here, there were no rules, there weren't even morals. There was nothing to stop anyone from doing anything, so why should she be the one to hold herself back?

She lifted her foot off its claws, then swung it once again into its thorax, only just crusted over from where she had kicked it before.

It squealed, just like she imagined another ghost would, red eyes wide and frightened, vampiric teeth shattered against her fist, choking as she wrapped her fingers around his blue, blue, skin.

He deserved this, it deserved this, she was in the right. She had been tricked, mislead, mistaken maybe, but she wasn't wrong, she was in the right.

And if there was some dark curl of satisfaction there, a self righteous flame alighted just where she'd been coldest in that moment of hate, then that was proof, wasn't it? Of just how right she was.

She bent down to her target, which had started drooling all over again, ground speckled green and wet as it heaved against itself. It was disgusting enough that she would have shot it in the mouth instead of the head, but she still needed information, which meant it still needed to talk.

It's upper set of antenna had survived the cranial blast, making for an easy handhold as she yanked its drooping head up to face her once again. At the same time, she sent her guns down to its chest, where its energy levels peaked their highest.

Ghosts, much like the cockroaches they resembled, could survive well enough without a head, but none, not one could ever hope to make it without their precious ghostly core.

“Listen up spook.” She hissed. /Here's how this is gonna work. You lie, I shoot. You run, I shoot. Got it?/Its head twitched up and down, the smallest possible motion of assent.

/Good./

This was what it took, when it came to ghosts. Cooperation proceeded pain, loyalty from the threat of it, and mercy not at all.

/We'll start with the questions./

She allowed her guns to charge power, deadly, scintillating hum filling the air with the sound of her malintent.

/I like what I hear, maybe I let you keep talking./

Author's note: If Sam is more pride than wrath, then Val is more wrath than pride, IMO. I've done my best to write her accordingly

#Fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #Chapter 1 #Where You Belong #Danny Phantom #Valerie Grey

[child-of-the-nighttime-stars]

The Things I’ve Carried

Before I could even properly grasp my mother’s finger, thrust upon my shoulders was the ideology of being a miracle. It was something that lifted me up yet weighed me down all at once. It was something that I didn’t even realize I carried until much later in my life. But since I was too young and couldn’t know about this, I carried the weight of dreams filled with great ambition and the perfect life. A goal to go to college like my father before me and like my mother had dreamed to. 

As I arrived at my first day of elementary school, the weight of these dreams only grew. Along with my sparkling backpack that carried my crayons, pencils, books, and toys for show and tell, I also carried a small bag that looked like a briefcase. It was heavy to me, despite only weighing five pounds, yet I carried it with pride. For within it rested a small and very primitive laptop. To be honest, it was a little more than a lighter, digitized typewriter, but to me it was everything. This is because within that small screen and my ever-growing knowledge of how things were spelled laid the key to my self-expression. This laid down the pavement for me to travel down a digital road. A long and winding one that wore my heavy and stumbled steps down the older I got, yet to me it was natural, what I thought every child does since I still did not understand that my body wasn’t natural like all of my peers and their families. 

But as I grew, the differences began getting clearer and the weight of them began getting heavier and heavier. I shook too much and far too often. My steps were stumbled. My speech was slurred and sloshy. A lot of the kids were quick to point it out. But none of it was in my control, What bothered me the most was how these kids would ask all these questions about the bulky braces casting my legs. They were lovingly called my robot legs when I was younger and when I was asked brief questions about them. They helped me walk so I had begun to think of them as my cybernetic enhancements that were just another part of me. Even though they were carved from plaster and screws rather than breaking edge technology that went to my brain. But as my classmates began to twist their questions from marvelous curiosity to cruel mocking, the light weight of two and a half pounds on each leg began to weigh on my entire body. That uplifting load of being considered a miracle began crashing down as I began carrying the burden of knowing that I was a burden all because of my missteps on the things I could never control.

I tried to hide it. I tried to fit in. I was desperate for the relief that normalcy seemed to bring. But even when I threw away the robot legs for the constricting nature of skinny jeans, the title of outcast and burden was still thrust upon my shoulders and slashed at my heart like a dagger to the back. Only now, these titles were not only thrown mindlessly by children who don’t know the weight words can have. Many adults outside of my family cemented those titles into my brain. I could see now that their praise about me being a miracle, an inspiration, wasn’t because they saw my intelligence or my creativity to work around my problems. It was all because they thought that I was incapable of doing anything in the face of them and would never amount to anything besides simply existing. But I was furious! I wanted them to see that I was capable, that I am competent. But the weight of my lungs burning, gasping for breath that would only be wasted on the willfully ignorant, became too much.

 So I gave up. I began hiding behind a screen. The digital world was where I could hide my flaws. It was where I could hide behind a mask of normalcy, just like everyone else. But putting on this mask was not the relief I hoped it’d be. Every time I put it on, it didn’t blend with my skin, with who I was. It made me feel like a liar and those lies crushed me as the craving for acceptance and true validation became an addiction that left me unable to stand before it.

So within this digital world, I became a storyteller. I wrote short stories and poems about my feelings, about the adventures and romances I’d have with characters I felt connected to. I mean, if I could love them when no one else around them did, then maybe I was worthy of that love from someone as well? Yet still crumpled by a load of cynicism that my condition and other unsavory circumstances life had thrown on to me, my stories, although well-written for my age, were dark, bitter, and dare I say, a bit edgy. They granted temporary relief. A cathartic release of my emotions that someone could read and know how I felt. Although, in the end, I was left feeling hollow. That hollowness led to a sensation of stagnation. That stagnation is a sensation that ground my soul into ashes and didn’t have any decency to spread those ashes anywhere but the trash. At least there, I was where I belonged both in the eyes of those around me and in my own eyes as well.

But one positive thing I see now about this dark time in my life is that physically I couldn’t stay stagnant. My family was homeless and that meant I couldn’t stay in one place for too long nor could I carry much with me every time I moved. The only thing I had made sure to always have was my laptop. An upgraded one from my little digital typewriter, at a weight of seven to ten pounds, compared to the now measly five that used to be so heavy to me.

Within these transfers of homes and schools, it was the last school I was transferred to where I finally made some friends. The first one was a quiet girl named Sydney, her acceptance of my circumstances and patience with them planted the seed in reality that I was worthy of love despite them. We bonded over arts, both her visual and my written works. But what I still remember what really connected us was a hatred for P.E. class. I got hit on the head with enough volleyballs that weigh half a pound to leave a pounding weight in my head. Not only that but we also liked the same song, one that I carry within my heart to this day. The next friend I made was a year later and who I thought hated me like the rest at first, despite myself really admiring his bold style. His name is Chris. We bonded over Halloween since Sydney was the one who brought us together. That night they both helped me carry my candy bag and the beautiful gown I wore as a costume, making sure I was never left behind. I don’t think they even know that they also lifted one of the crushing weights on my back of slowing everyone down and troubling them with my stumbling steps and slowly helped me grow into a genuinely more positive person.

The third and final friend of this group that Sydney and I made through Chris was another girl named Elisa. Our first meeting was rocky since I had invited them to see me perform because I had finally grown confident enough to get back to singing and acting publicly. I was even the opening act for this show! But due to traffic, they had missed it. I was heartbroken, The anxiety of being forgotten and replaced gnawed at my bones and the weight of a heavy broken heart crumbled me to the floor when I saw them finally arrive. I was worried that I was in the wrong for being upset and that Chris and Sydney would leave me soon after this night. As for Elisa, we hadn’t met before in person, and seeing someone sob hysterically wasn’t a great first impression. Even at that moment, the fear that she wouldn’t want to be my friend mangled the confidence I had carried minutes prior. 

But they didn’t leave. Not then, not soon after, and not even all the times they could’ve. Elisa and I grew to be really close as well. She allowed me to do things that everyone before her and my other two friends forbid me from doing since they viewed me as too incompetent. I enjoyed every bit of our excursions! Even if one of them ended up with me jumping out of a treehouse and having to carry my right arm in a cast and all the soreness of doing so for several weeks after…

During this time I still continued writing on my trusty laptop, which fluctuated in upgrades, sizes, and weight. But now my writing began to reflect my true feelings and perspectives. My stories had dark moments but were not drenched in it. My poetry had begun to blossom with hopeful beauty rather than wither with the venom within my words. The weight I carried of being unworthy, unlovable, incompetent, and being a burden began to slowly fall away as I settled into a happy home and friends that truly cared about me. With the final weight being ground into ash and thrown in the trash when I realized that regardless of what ails me I am not inhuman and I’m no longer alone. Now I am strong enough to not hide away but to carry who I am and the companions I’ve made with love and pride once more...

#writing #writing prompt #writing inspiration #narrative #short story #i write things #beauty inside #hope #Your past doesn't define you

[tanoraqui]

[previous]

so there’s fog, you know, soft and empty fog, except that sometimes there are people in it. There are songs, soft and sweet, except the song about the woman named Janet isn’t allowed at all - the song- the song his...the song for which He beats him, when he sings, beats him and beats him until he can’t taste anything but blood, and he swallows it and sings louder for spite - and feels terrible immediately, for disrespecting Him so terribly. 

Acacia comes for him, dresses him and scares off his attendants, and he remember...Wei Wuxian remembers a little...

“Your daughter’s dead,” he says abruptly, as they pretend to have every right to walk the corridors. “Your lost Rhodia - but she had a son.”

“What?” says Acacia, hungry.

“He’s a bit of a brat,” Wei Wuxian says, in the contemplative way of someone still partly asleep. “But only because he’s loved and well-cared for, and knows it. Also because he’s a brat. He sent me here.”

Acacia pulls him along a little faster

But they don’t make it. Blind Michael’s more clever, more cruel lieutenants interrupt them, and Blind Michael himself, and Wei Wuxian is dressed for a Ride and a wedding, and Blind Michael becomes a god in his eyes, through his eyes - and they Ride

oh, how they Ride.

With a thousand eyes and none his own, Wei Wuxian sees it: through the cold-capped mountains they Ride, horse-hides steaming in the clouds. Through the sea-wide lakes they Ride, over and under. Through the stony hills they Ride, and all the beasts scatter in their wake. Through the golden streets they Ride, and human and faerie alike cower.

until the Hunt reaches a lightly flooded crossroads, and with a thousand eyes and none, Wei Wuxian watches a woman form from the water. She’s dressed like a pirate and stands like a queen; her skin is darkly scaled and her teeth are as sharp as a shark’s. 

“With the holy water in her hand,” she shouts with a captain’s voice, “she cast the compass round. At twelve o'clock the fairy court, came riding o'er the mound.” And, “Michael, this is ending.”

[NB: our lyrics for this evening are “Tam Lin” by Steeleye Span, my favorite version of the song/poem]

Hands pull Wei Wuxian down from his horse in the confusion, drag him forward and pin him in a vicious headlock just above water just deep enough to drown. He struggles to return to his lord and he goes limp and hopes the familiar arms will flip him over, into the water facefirst

He can’t quite see who’s holding him; the Huntfold gaze he’s part of is still focused on Blind Michael and his half-sister

“Get out of my way, daughter of Titania,” he sneers, and probably several other things. “You have no right to be here, tonight.”

“Oh, am I the one being a selfish, manipulative egomaniac?” Amphitrite calls back. “But fine.” She stamps her foot as a child in temper, a woman drawing a line in the sand, and the air reeks of ocean and fresh kills, deep currents ripple in the flooded intersection. She points toward the held figure near her feet. “That’s my descendent you’ve got there, by birth if not by blood, and I want him back. He was under my protection when you took him, and he owes me a debt.”

several other Riders have been pulled down, too, now struggling and limp in the hands of unseen strangers

“You have no right!” Blind Michael snarls again (only a child in temper)

“Friends and family and companions of blood always have a right.” Amphitrite warns one last time, “You can still walk away, Michael. I don’t really want you to - I’m not Annie. But I’ll let you.”

“Who would come for him?” Blind Michael demands.

“Lan Wangji, heir to the Duchy of Cloud Recesses,” a voice says from above him, as cool as though it was rude of Blind Michael to ask. “My claim precedes yours.”

“Wen Qing.” “Wen Ning.” They speak almost at the same time, Wen Qing somehow sounding exasperated through her steely determination, and Wen Ning only, rarely, confident in his. “He’s our idiot.” “He’s our friend.”

“Luo Qingyang, formerly of the Court of Golden Sun,” says the one holding down his legs, and for the first time, Wei Wuxian scrambles completely organically to remember. Wait, that’s not- Mianmian? “Wei Wuxian saved my life, and those of many I love, and I don’t see why that debt should go unpaid.”

“Jiang Yanli,” declares the one with a firm arm around his neck, “Princess-consort of the Kingdom of Golden Sun and heir to the Duchy of Lotus Lakes. I’m bringing my didi home.” 

She speaks with such furious intent that he almost expects to see Madam Yu when he looks up, a thousand eyes fading to just his own. But it’s his shijie who smiles down at him, and tightens her headlock (Madam Yu would approve)

Blind Michael raises his hand and change hurts (change always hurts) but Wei Wuxian was made for it. He is sleek and long and made of nothing but muscle - and fang and poison, and desperation to escape the grip that suddenly slips on his neck. He is nothing but neck. He slides and twists and swipes his tail, and the grip tightens around his middle with a startled gasp. He twists and rears and lunges and bites, sinks venom into blood and the grip goes slack - 

- and the best Daoine Sidhe blood-healer in a generation, in several generations, slaps Jiang Yanli’s back and grimaces, and Jiang Yanli grits her teeth and tightens her hold and above and before them, Amphitrite chants, “They've shaped him in her arms, into an roaring snake. She's held him fast and feared him not, to be her lovely mate.”

Another change. Wei Wuxian is a beast of dark fur and gnashing teeth, slashing claws and sharp as a sword and twice as savage. He is the wildness of the Hunt itself. He swipes at his captor - he cannot be contained, he will not be contained - and strikes her across the cheek; he writhes and snarls and - 

- a pale hand shoves a sachet into his face; a glimpse of ice-blue eyes and a strong hand shoves his head down into it, his nose, and orders, “Calm.” He inhales to snarl and strike again and breathes in pure, alchemically enhanced catnip and...it’s kind of like being hit with a truck, if the truck was dreamy serenity but also raw LSD. He wants to escape the arms now locking more firmly around his neck, but he also wants to nuzzle up into Lan Zhan’s hand now scratching his head, and also never take his head out of this really amazing-smelling bag...

“They've shaped him in her arms, to a wood black beast so wild. She's held him fast and feared him not, the father of her child!“

A third. Wei Wuxian is heat, is pain, is light, screaming, ecstasy, agony, destruction, life, fire. (“They've shaped him in her arms again, fire burning bold!”) He isn’t sure he even wants to go back to Blind Michael, but he can’t stop burning. (“She's held him fast and feared him not, till he was iron cold!”) Jiang Yanli cries out and Wen Ning grabs her arms to keep them steady, gasping in pain himself, and Luo Qingyang drags all three of them down into the water, which does very little but -  

“ - They've shaped him in her arms at last, into a naked man,” Amphitrite calls at the last. “She's wrapped him in the green mantle, and knew that she had him won.” And at last it is true: Wei Wuxian sags, exhausted and bruised and not a little blood, his own and his sister’s and his friends’.

He licks his lips absentmindedly, and realizes he’s naked when Lan Wangji looks away with a stiff expression. Luo Qingyang rolls her eyes and pulls a spare robe out of somewhere and throws it over him, and it catches Jiang Yanli as well, because she does wait to hold him closer and cry-laugh against his shoulder. “A-Xian! Are you okay? We were so worried! You’re not to do that again, do you hear me?”

“Ah, shijie,” Wei Wuxian gives a laughs right back, only a little fake. “I’m always okay! And you - ” He’s about to say something about how magnificent she was, but a dash of his memory catches up and he actually does pull away from her a little just enough to look in her face with horror. “Wait, Princess-consort - no! Shijie, you didn’t marry the peacock?!”

(while around them other families reunite, and a few weep - not all held tight enough. while Blind Michael shouts and whines his protest and Amphitrite invites him to fight or fuck off)

Jiang Yanli smiles tearfully. “I wanted to wait for you, we all did, but...” Her shrug encompasses everything from true love to royal politics. But her smile both widens and softens as her hand runs over her stomach. “I’m even pregnant already.”

Wei Wuxian almost smiles, before he sits up with a horrified start. “No - Janet’s first baby didn’t - Wen Qing! Wen Qing, is the baby okay?!”

His panic is infectious; Jiang Yanli’s eyes widen and Wen Qing drops to her knees and presses her hands to Jiang Yanli’s side, swipes a drop of blood from her cheek and tastes it, and all stop until she says, “The baby’s fine. You should rest, though. Both of you. All of us.”

Blind Michael and his Hunt turn away in shame, ride away in defeat...all but one. Acacia lingers, golden.

Two figures wade carefully through Amphitrite’s flooded crossroads to greet her, one head black and the other dark, dark red. 

“Grandmother,” says Nie Huaisang, part curiosity and part awe. 

Acadia reaches out without a thought. Her hand stops in the air above Amphitrite’s lapping waves (which wouldn’t last for much longer, not on land, but for now still fought back the touch of Blind Michael’s realm). 

She smiles sadly as her hand drops. “You do look like her. I don’t suppose you’d like to come home with me?”

Nie Huaisang bites his lip with the longing of a faerie meeting (one of) his Firstborn for the first time. But he says decisively, “No thank you. It seems kind of terrible.” He hesitates. “Would you...like to come home with me?”

Acacia doesn’t laugh, though her smile twists like she might have, once. “Would you pull me through into my sisters waters yourself, child? Would you hold me tight and fear me not, and set me free?”

“If Huaisang cannot, I’d be happy to, Lady,” says Nie Mingjue, every maiden’s picture of a strapping young knight and duke. “My brother’s family is mine, by definition, and Lady Rhodia is much-loved by all of Butcher’s Hill, whether or not she still dances with us.”

“I’m glad,” she tells him, after a pause the length of a flower petal’s breadth, and turns her gaze back to Nie Huaisang. “But, no. Live well, grandson. If you ever take your bloody hero’s Choice - ” her gaze flicks over his shoulder to Wei Wuxian, and back - “I hope you choose your mother. You have her wits as well as her face.” 

And she turns and rides away without another word.

And for a brief while, it’s over.

TBC

#mdzs #the untamed #october daye #my fic #flash forward 15 years to jin ling who's a perfectly normal daoine sidhe-merrow halfblood thank you very much #except that okay he CAN slide from one end of the spectrum to the other at will #like it hurts like hell but he can do it #can't change anyone else but can do himself #all hallow's eve ride change magic man. it messes up the in utero

[outofangband]

So the older version of this is on my AO3 (same name but I’m very inactive on it) 

but I wanted to share my revised/added to/edited version

contains some of my headcanons about the Poison TM that Melkor uses on Maedhros but those don’t have to be read to understand this piece and I can’t find them why is the search function so bad but do feel free to ask questions if wanted! warning under the cut. 

look um. I’m a nervous wreck tonight for more reason than one so I apologize if this isn’t great. requests are open and welcome. distract me 

you can find the warnings here! I’m doing a new system where I post warnings separately so people who need detailed warnings can see with less of a chance of viewing content that might be upsetting 

“This will not do,” the Dark Vala snarled softly, tracing a long, pointed finger down Maedhros’s arm and frowning when he was met with no reaction, “Whoever left you like this?” He looks critically at the bound elf, arms twisted above his head in an awkward position. Maedhros’s left one especially was in bad shape, an open cut had turned the skin around it greyish and nearly translucent. Vaguely, Maedhros wondered whether or not this had been a rhetorical question. It had been Him, of course, who had left him like this, the poisoned wound on his arm untreated and exposed. It had been, well, Maedhros had no way of knowing for sure but as far as he could tell it had been a long time since he had been allowed any of the antidote. This was not the cruelest of fates. His captor seemed to enjoy making the administration of the antidote as humiliating as possible, reveling in his captive’s helplessness and dependency. Besides, lying here when he was not in the Vala’s presence, he was usually dazed enough that he could sleep without the interference of the dark whispers and shadows that flickered between most gaps of consciousness within the confines of Angband.

But now, the chains were being undone and, unable to support himself on his shaky legs, Maedhros collapses to the floor. The Vala looks at him for a moment before bending down to gather up the elf in his arms. Maedhros made a sound of indignant anger in his throat. The Moringotto ignored this. He carried his prisoner down several corridors, ensuring his injured arm was held between them at an awkward angle so Maedhros could not struggle. The elf’s face was covered by darkened robes so he could not see, even if he managed the strength to lift his head.

At the end of the fourth corridor, Moringotto pushed open a door and deposited Maedhros onto a bare cot, covered only by a thin sheet with badly washed bloodstains. For a moment, Maedhros lay still, his legs pulled to his chest in the closest to a protective position he could make. He gasped in pain and discomfort as his arms are restrained above his head again, bound with chains of the Dark Lord’s own creation.

This was the second time Maedhros had been taken here. His captors seemed to enjoy moving him from room to room; to see his fear and apprehension (no matter how he tried to hide it) as he could only guess what the contents of each new place was, what purpose they had, and what new torments awaited him. While there were certainly worse places he had been taken so far, it was always unsettling to be alone with the Dark Vala in a place like this. It was an odd dread that rose in him in the spare chambers and empty halls than in his cell, the various dungeons or even the throne room. He felt more ashamed, nervous, As though even Moringotto sought to hide what he was doing with his captive from his servants. Though Maedhros ever got any sense of this from his tormentor, he could not shake the wrongness he felt when cornered in such a space with such a tremendous and cruel figure. 

The Vala pulled something from his robes, a small bottle. Maedhros glared up at him, the only expression of defiance he could really offer. Without a word,   the bottle was tilted over so a few drops fell onto Maedhros’s injured arm. He gasped softly in pain again, his body jerking. This was met with quiet laughter and the touch of a long finger to his prone shoulder. 

“Has sensation returned here?” He whispered. The poison took away much of the feelings in the affected areas and spread as time went on. Following  the humiliation of having to rely on the Vala for the antidote, Maedhros would have to lie there, unable to move as his hands would roam all over his body to ensure the numbness was leaving him.

Very gently, too gently, Moringotto produced a cloth to press to the long cut, clearing away some of the dried blood. Maedhros shifted uncomfortably on the surface beneath him. He tried to calculate between hiding his reactions enough to keep some vestiges of pride but still showing something to keep Morgoth occupied. Whenever he failed to get a reaction from the elf, he would merely escalate whatever game was on his mind that day, subjecting Maedhros to more painful, more humiliating, more shocking things. He seemed to feed largely on s his captive’s horror and shame. And his food supply would grow stronger as exhaustion and despair made reactions harder to hide. Some parts of Maedhros demanded he be grateful for this; he seemed to be entertaining enough that Morgoth did not feel the need to seek out any other prisoners. But this could only be so much comfort. His body and mind continued to scream out against the torment everytime a new day began.

Moringotto had stood back to wait for the antidote to take effect, giving Maedhros precious few moments of something resembling peace, as awkward and uncomfortable as it was to know he was being so intensely observed. He could not risk humming to himself. This would either amuse or enrage the Vala further and both reactions were worth avoiding. But, he could bring up poetry in his mind, take advantage of how his admittedly frazzled senses allowed images to come up with more ease as though he was watching the poems unfold in real time. As long as he didn’t look like he was getting too peaceful or calm. To be safe, he chose a poem of the greys of Autumntime he had learned from an Avari scout during one of their first (friendly) encounters. The language barrier gave him the extra challenge of translating it to himself. Fog rose around his senses and he allowed himself to relax just a little bit, to feel something not quite rain more persistent than mist to cover his skin, providing more relief than the antidote could. The imagined sensation was an armor of sorts so that when Morgoth, deciding at last that he had waited long enough, moved closer again and bent down, his claw like hand on the elf’s chest, Maedhros could almost imagine it passing through his body completely.

#In the Iron Hell #Maedhros #Melkor #Morgoth #The Silmarillion #short writings

[corrupt-fvcker]

Good Grief (Din Djarin x OFC)

Good Grief ( Din Djarin x OFC )

Warning: angst, fluffy ending so that I can sleep at night

Word Count: 3.4K

Author’s Note: inspired by bastille's song good grief  as well as this one sad poem my sister read to me a while ago that i just can't remember the name of. just an angsty little one-shot with din and my oc max (from my fanfic blade runner so this is slightly an au but overall the same). 

Nothing would ever be the same. His absence like a lost limb; a supposed constant, something she relied on — but now it's missing. He's missing. And it still catches her off guard, making her heart stutter tightly in her chest with the shock of it, sharp like twisting a rusty knife. She was no longer sure of which pain was worse — the piercing shock of what happened or the longing ache of what never will.

She can still hear his voice echoing in the caves of her mind, urging her to take the Child and run. Asking her to leave him behind, granting him his wish of a warrior's death even if that meant leaving her in return.

Perhaps it was selfish, but she had refused to leave him for death. Because Din Djarin was not the Grim Reaper's to take. He was Mando, her Mando. The father of their adopted green child that ate frogs and almost killed Cara with some sort of fucking magic because he thought she was hurting his dad. The Mandalorian that removed his armor so that Max could feel something new, something other than cold cuffs around her wrists and the incessant emptiness that had hollowed out her chest all those years ago. The man that trusted her with his entire life despite her reputation of being dishonest and greedy. Din Djarin, who Max loved even though she was reluctant and too stubborn to ever mutter the three words that always caught in her throat whenever she looked at him.

And Max selfishly didn't want to lose him.

She didn't want to feel herself missing him whenever she heard his favorite song on the radio -- an old popular tune by some one-hit-wonder that Din always tapped his foot along to when it played in dingy cantinas despite claiming that he didn't like music because it was just orchestrated excess noise. And maybe that was true with all the other songs in the galaxy, but this one particular song managed to seep through the thick layers of beskar and sneak into Din's ears. But if he left her, she could only grow to hate the song, dreading to hear it because she wouldn't be able to stop herself from instinctively turning her head to flash a teasing grin where he would've been standing.

But more than she could ever hate a song, she'd hate herself. For allowing someone to hold such a firm grasp around her heart when she knows that they could be ripped away from her at any moment, surely taking her heart along with them. But most of all, she'd hate herself for not being enough — fast enough to save him, brave enough to give him the final goodbye he wholly deserves.

He had collapsed, lying helplessly on top of a table that only Cara was strong enough to lay him on. Max couldn't see the blood but she could smell it, flooding and then suffocating her senses until her head spun and she felt herself stifling back a sob until a coarse lump lodged in her throat.

"This is the Way," he told her, choking through the phrase as his visor steadily focused on her after she insisted on removing his helmet so that his head wound could be treated. And Max could feel a shred of dignity wither and welt as the words left her quivering, chapped lips. She knew just as well as Din what it meant to break such an oath, she hadn't gathered the nerve to visit her grandmother since she turned her back on her tribe. Din was a Mandalorian, he was before he met her on Arvala-7 on the vapor farm. When he had met her he intended to die a Mandalorian and some things just never change.

Her muscles had turned to stone as she stared down at him, her lips parted but no air filling her restricting lungs. She didn't need to remove his helmet to know that he was gazing up at her through the black visor, memorizing every curve, freckle, blush, and blemish of her face because he had the feeling that this was going to be the very last time he would ever have the pleasure of admiring her beauty for a long while.

Tell him, the voice in her mind prodded, tearing through her dazed state.

She blinked, her wide brown eyes lining with tears that threatened to spill over. A shaky breath hissing through her clenched teeth as she unwillingly cried, salty droplets streaking down her soot and blood dusted cheeks before dropping off the edge of her jaw.

Din's heart tightened. In all the time he's known her, he's never once seen her cry. She shed no tears even when a blaster bolt had hit her directly in her torso, stumbling to the ground and seething with pain. Her eyes were dry from the point the plasma struck her up until Din was spraying a thick layer of bacta over the wound. He had thought it was strange that she had never cried, wondering if she just bottled up her emotions until she was in the privacy of the 'fresher or if she had a weird medical condition that she didn’t like to talk about. All Din knew was that he never wanted to see her cry — but now she was bawling and it was because of him.

Words strangled through thick and heavy sobs, her hands lifting to press against her eyes, rubbing at the tears, and blocking her vision. "What's gonna be left of the world if you're not in it?"

His chest deflates. "Maxwell..."

Maxwell — a fucking boy's name that her mother had the audacity to label her because she wanted the strong name of Max's father to shape her child into an equally strong and defined individual. Not day goes by that Max doesn't loathe the name, wishing that Din had another one — a better one — to say on his deathbed.

The cracked leather of his hand startles her as it brushes against the soft skin of her tanned wrist before seizing her trembling hands. His grip is strong and firm, his thumb stroking the dark lines of her palm as if he was trying to determine her future so he could promise her that she'd be okay. Even though she knew she wouldn't be.

And as she clasps her other hand other his, holding him in place, the painful lump solidifies in her throat and blocks of any words that her mind is desperately trying to push through her paling lips.

"You need to go," Din told her, giving her hand a squeeze that was supposed to be reassuring but only made her chest rack with another pathetic sob.

Now or never.

"Din," she mutters in a broken voice, savoring his name on her tongue like it was her last meal. His helmet tilts slightly, his grasp on her hand tightening as he awaited her to say her goodbye. Because even though Max was dreading the three words that she could only ever speak to him, Din was praying for them because he wanted so desperately to know. He would've told her if he surely wasn't going to die, it would only be cruel to tell her now.

She swallows thickly, the lump strangling her. She pauses, forcing herself to kriffing breathe before squeezing her eyes shut tightly, focusing on the feeling of his hand.

She choked. "Thank you."

It's like the entire world— the entire universe stops. Halting as Din gives her hand one last final squeeze and nodding because he too would forever be grateful to have stumbled across someone as peculiar as Maxwell de la Cruz on Arvala-7. He'd forever be thankful for her for being so easy to love.

And then Max left, stumbling through the kicked open grate without daring to turn to look over her shoulder, forgetting the two swords that had hung on her back for the past three and a half decades in the dust. All she could do was sprint after Cara and Karga.

"Cruz?"

Karga and Cara lower their raised weapons when Max rounds the corner of the tunnel, her usual mischievous and calculating brown eyes bloodshot and burning.

Her heart is pounding in her ears, deafening loud as her footsteps falter and she nears falls flat on her face if it wasn't for Cara's strong arms that caught her. She's still sobbing, uncontrollably and she can't fucking hear or see now because the tears are so damn thick and her heartbeat is so loud.

In the distance, hidden in the thick and constant thrumming of her heart, Max can hear Cara calling her name. Her voice was fainter than a whisper, despite Cara nearly yelling in Max's numb face as she shakes her trembling form. But every word Cara spoke slipped through Max's ears, her thoughts on Din who was now only a memory that would involuntarily fade in time.

He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

Din and probably the Child. Her weird little family that Max had accidentally found was gone. Like it was never there to begin with. Leaving her with nothing but the sweet memories that would surely turn painful.

She didn't know how long she was in Cara's arms, losing all control of her senses and her words. She doesn't remember when but she's suddenly begging Cara to help her, grabbing at the arms that are pulling her into former-shock trooper. Pleading through her tears, asking over and over again like a chanting of a prayer to help her. Save her from this misery and put her in her place. Show her what she needs to do because there's nothing else that she wants to do.

She's about to ask Cara to just put a bolt between her eyes — because nothing is worth it if she had to suffer through such emptiness for the rest of her life — when she is yanked from Cara's embrace, too numb to yelp or fight back as two strong arms heave her into a solid chest.

Tears are still streaming down her face unable to care to stop them, not that she could have if she even wanted to. Her mind too hazy to fully understand the blur of it all. Din's arms wrapped around her waist and the Child cradled by IG-11.

Her world had been torn away from her so quickly that when it all snapped back into place she was still stumbling, the sudden shift of everything knocking her over again.

"Cyar'ika?"

They're suddenly back on the Razor Crest, Max still in Din's arms but everything else is different. They're no longer on Nevarro, on another planet that Max didn't remember the name of. The Child wasn't in the arms of droid but rather tucked away in his pod sound asleep. Din isn't wearing any armor, not even his helmet, the two basked in the safety of darkness as they laid in their shared cramped cot. Max isn't crying and she no longer feels the blinding numbness of grief, but rather an aching pull of guilt.

Din calls out to her again, propping himself up on an elbow with a small grunt so that he can tilt her chin to face him. She can't see him in this degree of darkness, and luckily he can't see the look of pain etched in her features.

"What's wrong?" His voice is familiar and solid, grounding.

She doesn't answer, not even willing to give him the simplicity of a dismissive "it's nothing."

Din puffs out a small breath through his nose, fanning faintly over Max's face. She closes her eyes, focusing on the comforting warmth that radiates off his bare body like a furnace. She doesn't want him to pry because she knows that no good could come from it. She feels too guilty to face him, but yet she is still too cowardly to admit her feelings. She's not sure that it's rejection that she fears but rather the spoken acknowledgment of her attachment to him. Because once she speaks of her love and the words are out in the open, the universe is free to rip her love away from her.

He leans forward, his nose brushing against hers delicately as he rests his forehead atop of hers. The action was as stabilizing, pushing her broken pieces together and sealing them back in place. But she felt intoxicatingly lost in his touch, his skin invitingly warm yet she knew that if she allowed herself to touch him she'd completely lose it.

"Kal Viinir'ika," Din coos, running the calloused pad of his thumb along her cheek as his fingers weave through her curly hair. Blade Runner — a title given to her by mercenaries and bounty hunters because she was fast on her feet and even faster with her swords, but she had never been too fond of it, finding it rather uncreative. But then she met Din and he had somehow managed to turn it into a teasing nickname that Max grew to adore when it came from his mouth in his native tongue.

His nose grazes her nose before he presses it into her cheek, kissing her purposefully on the corner of her lips. "Please talk to me."

And his words shatter her, breaking her into a million pieces so that she was too far gone to repair. The lump in her throat is firm and strong, scaring her of what her voice might sound like in his ears.

"I'm sorry." It comes out as pathetic as she expected, barely a whisper and wavering, she wasn't even sure that Din heard her.

Din's eyebrows draw together, lifting his head up and gazing down at her blindly. "For what?"

He doesn't know why she's practically shaking in their small bed, she had seemed more than fine a few moments ago. She had fallen asleep in the cockpit and Din had somehow managed to carry her down to bed without waking her.

"For being a coward," she replied weakly, her eyes screwed shut to keep herself from crying. She refused to cry in front of him for a second time.

Din would've laughed if he didn't hear the unadulterated pain and sincerity in her voice.

"What?" Din scoffed, cupping her face in his warm hand. He was confused and a little hurt that she'd even try to speak that way about herself."Cyar'ika, what's the meaning of this?"

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

"I couldn't say goodbye," Max murmured, her throat aching as her muscles restrained a sob from racking through her form. Her whole body was shivering, Din's warmth unable to break through her unforgiving emotions bottled in her chest. "You were dying, and I couldn't say it."

And then it clicked, the mixed puzzle of Din's brain coming together in an instant as the words stumbling from her lips. All of it made perfect sense. How she wouldn't look at him in the eyes for days after they left Nevarro. The way she would practically hide from him, not wanting to touch him or speak to him, closing herself off from him to keep herself safe — maybe to keep both of them safe. He had initially thought she was just pissed at him for some reason that he must've missed, but this, this made sense.

"You're not a coward," Din assures, brushing his fingers through the tight curls that framed her face. He can feel her gaze on him, burning through his silhouette like a beam of plasma. He kissed her softly on her cheek, his facial hair prickling her soft skin. "You're the bravest person I know."

Max shakes her head, ripping his words to shreds. "I couldn't say it."

A heavy breath swells in Din's chest, pressing himself a little closer to her trembling form. "Then tell me now, cyar'ika. I'm here, I'm alive, so tell me now."

Max's body stiffens, her muscles tightening at the thought. Why does it have to be so hard?

"I can't."

Din huffs out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Yes, you can, Kal Viinir'ika."

It should've been simple, it was three simple words that carried great weight. She had never spoken them before, the only times they were spoken to her ended with her running off. She didn't do love. Love was dangerous, it would kill her.

"Tell me," Din urges, pressing his lips delicately against hers like he was wary that she might shatter if he applied too much pressure.

Fuck.

It hurt that he was so sweet to her, it hurt to know that she was denying the one thing that he deserved to know.

Din Djarin deserved to know that he was loved unconditionally and completely by Maxwell de la Cruz.

She swallowed thickly, praying that the words don't get caught in her throat because she suddenly feels like she might die if she loses him and never got the chance to tell him.

Din hummed, waiting patiently for her to speak.

She quickly wondered if anyone had ever told him before.

I love you. She thinks it, questioning if those words were even ones she deserved to speak. Probably not.

Din nudges her softly. "Cyar'ika—"

"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum."

Her blood runs cold and she feels like the entire universe freezes over, trapping her in this insufferable moment of vulnerability. And she waits for the urge to flee to take her, or for it to instead seize Din, but neither of them moves.

"Gar kar'taylir darasuum ni?"

The question hurts. You love me? Did he doubt her?

Max nods, not knowing whether her voice would work if she tried speaking. Her silence followed by an eternity of nothing except for an uncomfortable tension that makes Max beg that Din does something, anything. Tell her to leave, storm out of the room, kriffing shoot her— absolutely anything.

And thank the Maker, he moves. His thumb brushing against her plush bottom lip, applying the smallest amount of pressure before dipping his head forward. His kiss strange, almost out of character, but it sets her on fire none the less. It wasn't the first kiss they've shared and she prayed that it wouldn't be the last.

His lips are desperate, pouring every flicker of affection and adoration out of his body and into hers, filling her with his love. It's intensely carnal, yet almost too sweet for Max to comprehend that it's Din Djarin kissing her.

Then he's pulling away, ripping his lips away from her painfully and sudden, gazing down at her half in a daze as she whimpers at the loss of his warmth. She craves his affection.

"Cyar'ika." Not even the darkness can hide Din's grin, his forehead resting atop hers as an airy chuckle shakes through his chest. It's heavenly. Max relishes the sound of his rare blissful laughter, wishing to bask in the warmth that fills her chest as it echoes in her ears. And for the first time in her life, she feels nothing but peace.

His deep baritone voice is lifted from a mixture of relief and bliss.

"I love you too."

━ ━ ━ ━

ohmygod, i actually edited my writing. who knew i could do such a thing??

translations:  Cyar'ika = darling, beloved, sweetheart Kal Viinir'ika = Blade Runner Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum = I love you Gar kar'taylir darasuum ni = you love me?

#the mandalorian #my writing #corrupt-fvcker #fanfic #fanfiction #pedro pascal #mando x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin #star wars #self insert #reader insert #mando x oc #din djarin x oc #angst #fluff

[flatfootmonster]

Puzzle Pieces

Cold bites but not enough to dislodge me from my spot or my bookmarked thoughts. Orange tongues lick at the darkness eagerly, but as much as my palm hovers over them, enjoying heat spewed into the dark by the fire, the sensation sends no comfort to my feet. The dwindling success found in wiggling my toes every now and again is a good measure of how much more I can take. Winter nights hold less mercy than him—and perhaps a pinch more warmth. 

When I told myself I would run no more it was because there’s nowhere for me to go. Thoughts of escape didn’t cross my mind tonight where usually they would tempt; reality warping under illusions a safe haven could be blindly stumbled across if I only dared to look. I’d always retrace my own arguments, follow my own tracks, right back to my bed—an endless, exhaustive circle. But tonight there’s a task, it’s delayed as my pocketed hand remains hidden in cloth, cloaking the artefact I grip—equal parts spoiled reverence and fresh disgust. 

There’s no need for it anymore. I’m not sure when the spell was unmade; it was a slow unravelling process leading me to the understanding that no desire or intrigue hid within the mysterious forms—ink against paper. The only thing left after that discovery was a bitter disappointment. I think I’ve been disappointed for a long while now, at first, that was entirely self aimed. Not anymore. 

He was the one that scolded for ill words spoken against my betters. Yet if I don’t speak them, they are still true. Ill thoughts come from facts and if they only reside within my skull it doesn’t make them less truthful. Respect remains, as is proper, but I’m wary of memories. I’m ashamed of my feelings—once shunned and sacred, now infantile. I was infatuated, and he broke that with a cold smile and a harder shoulder. How had I ever imagined softness there?

This—this poem—was never for my benefit anyway, and was never given with good feeling. My fingers are cruelly tight around the parchment, they possess an unforgivingness that I cannot wield in my heart. Even if I don’t follow through it will be spoiled. And to think I once risked my life for a list of heartless platitudes. 

A cloud of mist materialises beneath my nose as a short snort of laughter burst from my lungs. I’m changing, and I don’t know what I look like or feel like anymore—if I even knew those things in the first place. All I know is I’ve outgrown the box I was placed in and I’ve granted myself the freedom to look deeper at those around me. Even if what I see stays secret, I can understand more detail than a sketch now, I begin to see hues and shade and highlight—nuance. That goes both ways—for the bad and good. 

I pull the poem free from its hiding place. It’s necessary to keep moving because that thought process—of looking beyond the two-dimensional outline of a being—always leads me to ground I’m not quite ready to tread. Emotions are dissolving in one part of me as they bloom elsewhere—wild and raw. As much as I’m growing out of selective naivety, these new developments seem just as treacherous. They are unknown and they feel dangerous. 

Frigid air expands within my chest before the hand strangling parchment joins the first. One end dangling down, teasing the fire, and the tongues grow longer, eager to devour. Spirits dance within the heat source knowing what needs to be done and what needs to be erased. Another huffed cloud appears when my fingers spring open, orange shivers and devours. There’s not a sound in the world past the crackle of excitement as spirits rejoice in appeasement of their meal. The thing was gone the moment it met the flames.

Ease settles in my chest. If they weren’t so numb, my lips might be persuaded to smile. The dancing flames hold me captive despite knowing that numb lips perhaps indicate that I should move now that it’s done. It’s just hard to summon the will to move because I know I’ll see more change once I do so. Deep within, my structure will have changed, restructured itself somehow and I’ll need to learn how to balance myself. But I’m not sure if my toes are actually moving now when I command them to. I should go back—to my own room, or… 

Weight cuts off that wondering notion; an extra layer envelops me as palms smooth over my shoulders. I don’t have time to flinch before he’s moved to the other side of the fire. Suddenly I’m being studied by dark eyes that flay and question on their own before I’ve taken one single breath. I can’t look away, my hands work on their own, drawing the heavy robe around me. His gaze drops to the fire for a heartbeat, gathering information from the spirits, before rejoining mine once more. 

“Do you plan on standing here until you turn to ice?”

The fact that he tackles my intentions to remain rather than question my motives means he’s watched; he’s aware of what I’ve done. But even if he hadn’t seen the action he has a way of reading me and knowing. It’s unnerving. 

“I was just about to come inside.” Under which part of the roof was never determined.

Head tilting to one side, his study takes in every inch of me as though he’s drawing up an itinerary. I get flustered when he does that, both in agitation and whatever the new thing is that’s evolving—it’s vines twist themself around my gut and chest, constricting and paralysing where they grow. 

I’m beginning to realise that this is not a passing fancy. I don’t think I’m a plaything to him either. Honestly, I’ve no idea what I am to him but I know he isn’t sure either—and that’s what makes this different. Constructing fantasies won’t help, so I try to stay grounded. but it’s confusing. Every now and again there’s a sensation like my heart wants to leap out of my mouth when he’s near. Should I feel shame over this, too? Emotions and desires before were held behind a safe shield—untouchable and unreal. All the knots I tie myself into now, because of him, he pulls and yanks and teases without trying.

“I fell asleep waiting for you.” The words are flat—emotionless even. It could just be a stated fact but there’s something more. The adjustment of his chin, as it firms momentarily, and then as his eyebrows draw together, add nuance. I don’t know him well enough to read these expressions, as minute as they are, but if I had to bet on it I’d name it disgruntlement. 

I was painting in his room. The thoughts that led me to this spot—and this purpose—had crept in the dark before ambushing my mind. My focus remained firmly on the parchment as they coiled around me, blinding me to everything but highlight, hues, and shade. I didn’t notice when he moved, from his reading spot to the pallet. No clues were picked up on that he was sleeping until I shifted around to work feeling back into my legs. The gentle sound of slumbering breaths caught my attention. It’s an odd sensation, and it always is, when I’m awake and he’s asleep. It’s about the only time when I can describe him as gentle, the unwavering features soften. He looks peaceful and that’s strange to see when his demeanour is usually focussed and sharp; he’s a library of rigid expectation and command in every waking breath. 

So, I watched for a while, feeling powerful in one hand and yet protective in the other. Who sees this side of him? There was never anything beyond the forced smile Inhun wore; no weaknesses shown and no upper hand offered. Yet Seungho lays down before me, allows me respite from his perception and gives me free rein. I can’t work out if it’s trust or complacency.

“I was going to come,” I repeat, clamping my teeth shut as they begin to chatter. 

Arms folded, his lips quirk into a smile which is neither warm nor cruel. This is another thing we’re both learning—something other than extremes. He doesn’t even have the decency to shiver, as he stands there in the snow wearing only his bedclothes, because when Seungho isn’t unconscious it is absolutely out of the question for him to show any weakness—no matter how human that weakness may be. I’m not sure if that side of him rankles me anymore, it’s more amusing now, although I don’t think I’ll ever have the confidence—or death wish—to laugh at him over it. 

“You said that already. Yet here you stand, turning blue. Must I carry you? Were you waiting for me to come and drag you inside?” he pauses, entertained by his own notions before adding, “or carry you like a bride?”

I don’t think my eyes could widen any further as I tussle with indignation. Drawing the robe tight around myself, I smooth out the irritation plucked at by his words before straightening to my full height. “I was doing no such thing, My Lord.” With all the courage I can muster, I make a jerky bow and turn away, willing my feet to do their job while they feel as useless as bricks. 

There’s a sound coming from where he still stands, near those dancing spirits, a snort that—if I didn’t know any better—could be laughter. Then he’s at my side. One arm extended, a hand hovers just behind my lower back. I can’t see the gesture but I feel it. I know the heat of it there, as vivid as the warmth from the fire, waiting in case I stumble. He has every right to scold me, in the very least, but he doesn’t—and I’m sure if I could look at him that strange smile would lay on his lips. For the life of me, I cannot figure him out. Every moment I’m blindfolded while assembling a one thousand piece puzzle, and each piece might kiss or bite depending on how I handle it. 

“The cold seems to inspire your impudence,” he murmurs. Still, there is no hard edge to be found to this particular piece. “Turning you back on me,” he tsks to himself as we enter the house. 

I slip off my shoes and he does the same. “I was following your advice, My Lord.” Perhaps I’ve lost my mind because the sniff added in punctuation is not humble in the slightest. My chin firms as my skin prickles because the mirth that radiates from him agitates me for a reason I cannot fathom. And why am I so perceptive when it comes to his moods? Why do his high spirits always make me mulish lately? The tangled threads of questions dampen my mood and cloud my vision before I catch myself. Hand to his door, I freeze realising, as I am sure he has, that I was about to enter his room without thought or planning. But It was where I’d just come from, well before I sought out the poem that is no longer. That’s why I was returning—it makes sense. But to him, it must look like…

“You’re quite the opposite of a bed warmer right now,” he says as he walks past me. 

And just like that my jaw finds its strength once more and I am staring him down, arms crossed over my chest. My purpose nor my intention was to be a bed warmer. I must have gone insane but I cannot help the way he easily plucks at my nerves tonight. Perhaps it was the surprise that came with his apparition outside whilst I was burning embarrassing souvenirs from a life left behind. The act says too much about me and where I stand that I’m not willing to admit out loud—least not to him. 

Does he know already?

Once more, he tilts his head to one side as he faces me—considering, amused. His mouth is soft, just like his eyes somehow became, before he offers a smile, it isn’t generous but it's genuine. It feels like an apology. He scans me, probably trying to understand why my feet have frozen on the threshold—no, he knows the why, he’s trying to figure out the undoing. “It’s warmer in here.” It’s given in place of an ask. That is something I’m learning about him: he does not know how to ask. And why would he need to ask a lowborn of anything? But what do I say?

Just as he has no ability to ask simple things, I have no practise in accepting. “I wasn’t finished,” I nod to where I was seated before, paper and brushes spread out around my work. His eyebrows rise by a fraction but he says nothing and gestures me into the room with one large palm.

I take the offer, silently shuffling to stand at my spot, looking down at my work. It was a lie, of course. I’d done everything I wanted on this particular piece, I knew when the last stroke was enough. Usually, I have no idea when a piece is finished, it can lead to ruin at times. Tonight it was intuitive, and as soon as the brush was laid down, I stood and made a quick path to where I’d hidden the poem. I realise, scouring the paper with fresh eyes, that there is something final about the forms beneath my nose, something that puts it apart from what has come before. 

“It’s different.” His voice at my shoulder is a shock. He’s crept up on me twice in the space of ten minutes. I try to shoot a scowl at him but he’s standing too near. If I tilt my head to meet his eyes, distraction from my ire will be inevitable. When did he learn to soften his gaze?

The scowl instead finds itself aimed at my feet as I fidget. Does he not like it? It seemed to come so naturally, without thinking, like a song from a morning bird. “Do you dislike it?” I ask, unaware that trepidation apparently lodged itself in my throat. It makes my words vibrate in tension. Do I need him to like it? That wasn’t a part of the agreement and if he doesn’t like it, that’s too bad. I shouldn’t care one single ounce for his appeasement. I shouldn't...

“I never said that,” he murmurs, moving closer. The fact that he’s unreasonably close and the inevitable urge to move into him sets off an itch beneath my skin. “It’s just different,” he pauses and I can hear my own heartbeat. Being cold seems a long-departed problem and it has nothing to do with the warmth filtering through the floorboards and thawing out my toes. My palms are damn, too. “Your face,” he continues, “the expression. Your eyes are closed, and your fingers hold to me, denting my flesh. There are marks down my back. My mouth is at your throat, brow creased. Your mouth is open, perhaps on a moan, and your toes are curled…”

With each clue he states, I begin to see it, too. My breaths deepen like his observations alone are foreplay. When did I become so fickle? “I hadn’t noticed,” the words are whispered; it is a lie, too. 

He hums, unconvinced but choosing his battles. “It's not a picture of an act, it’s a portrait of sensation. They aren’t on display for us, they are captivated with each other.” 

Wiping my palms off on the borrowed robe, my tongue is absent and my mouth dry. It isn’t fair for him to be so perceptive, to see so clearly into a piece I hadn’t quite understood yet. And that’s what he does, seems to figure me out before I do. All those times, watching me whilst inside of someone else, reading so clearly what I hid from myself with a thin veil of shame. Blindfold or not, I’m a puzzle he has no problem constructing. It makes me vulnerable and that scares me. 

“Perhaps.” It’s as much as I’m willing to concede, and it’s quietly done at that because another lie would be too much—even for me. Could he ever be captivated with me?

The trepidation in my throat hardens, it feels like I swallowed a rock. I should go back to my room. That notion lands in time with his arms as they coil around me. “Perhaps?” he asks knowing no answer will come because his breath is on my throat. In truth, he doesn’t need an answer. It’s a struggle to keep my eyes open, to stop my neck from weakening so my head can loll on his shoulder. What has he done to me? “Do you like it when I kiss your neck, Nakyum?” 

“It’s late.” The only thing left is diversion tactics. I can cope with his demands without consideration; I’ve relied on that to avoid my own agency and desires. But now he’s asking me. 

He’s saying my name. 

As if he can feel my body summoning the energy required to pull away, to leave this embrace, he holds tighter. He rests his head on my shoulder, then he sighs. “I would like it if you’d stay—someone needs to make sure you’re warm enough after standing outside for so long.”

I’m frozen again. Another ask, even if it is followed by reasoning or an excuse that I can’t quite bring myself to believe. He’s asking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen vulnerability in him, and that’s what this feels like. Out of the confusing tangle of newness within, something very clear sounds: I don’t want to hurt him. It’s an absurd notion, what could I do to him? But it’s there all the same, logic damned. The softness I saw in his eyes, on his lips, is reflected in my answer, in my unwinding muscles. “I’ll stay.” The response is almost illegible to my own ears, I can’t hear much for the blood pounding through me. 

When he dictates it’s so easy to lose myself, and then there’s no nervousness because I have no choice to be so. But now it feels like I have power to act on my own urges and that is terrifying. Can I ask of him? How can I do that when I can’t even admit that everything firm, that’s within and without, melts away when his lips are at my neck. 

Something eases in him, he’s relieved—pleased with my response. There are butterflies trapped in my stomach, my mind is tripping over expectations of what comes next. I answered in a way that gives permission, he should need that and nothing more. Instead, wings still their beating when his arms release me. He steps back and it takes every bit of stubbornness I can summon not to buckle without his fortifying strength. It’s worrying—much, much more than worrying—to find myself leaning on something. I don’t trust what I seek for support because I’ve been wrong before. 

Chills glide over my skin and I rub at my arms. It’s futile because this cold didn’t come from outside. “See,” he impresses, the statement balanced between victory and concern. “Come. Lay down.” 

And I do; it’s an instruction, my body follows the lead as trained. Confusing thoughts torment and preoccupy my mind enough that I don’t retaliate against that sheep-like quality I’m starting to abhor. There’s no firming of my chin or crossing of my arms, I’m simply waiting on what happens next. 

Disappointment wasn’t what I had in mind. Seungho simply lays down beside me, bundling covers over us and muttering something about my cold feet. Then I’m left to argue with urges and shame in silence and dark—the only presumptuous thing is the thick band his arm makes as it wraps tightly around my middle and his slow breaths on the back of my neck. 

Now what? 

His question still burns, my inability to answer is an irritant. Do I want to speak on it? It’s a question of what’s at stake, I suppose. What do I lose by gaining my tongue? No one is present to hear the confessions I could proffer to Seungho, I’ll simply be naked in a way he’s never witnessed before. Yet the way he sees things, the way he looks at me, I’m sure he can already imagine that secret part of me—perhaps not the fine detail but he anticipates the sketched outlines. He’s not wrong. 

There were constraints holding me before, doctrine I’d prescribed myself on the advice of someone who I trusted. But that’s gone now—smoke and ashes. There’s nothing to stop unlearning those strictures, I just have to find the strength to be bare once more. It was other people’s ears I worried about overhearing my secrets—not Seungho’s. Do I trust him? 

My shallow breaths echo around the silent landscape. Is he still awake? I can’t move, I can’t apply the brakes in my thought process. The words have reached my throat and there’s no way they can be forced back down. 

“I like it.” 

It sounds much too loud but the reality is my words were as minute as a raindrop landing on the ocean. Minute and yet still they cause ripples. 

He’s as still as I was, the broad chest pressed to my back unmoving now. The words were caught, they are percolating through the space between us. He edges closer, his lips ghost along my shoulder. “What is it that you like?” he asks, pleasure clear in his voice. My will is gathering itself; he knows exactly what I mean, the question is simply posed to draw out the details. Before ire is finessed enough to engage with my tongue, his breath rushes over my skin and he adds one more sound to the ones that came before—a one-word question seeking reassurance. “Nakyum?” 

Does he know what it does when my name is in his mouth? He must know. My brain wants to reinforce mulish behaviour but the rest of me becomes fluid, I’m all too aware of every single inch of his body pressing to mine. I’ve come this far… “I like it when you kiss my neck.” There’s a confidence there, as my lips move, that I wasn’t aware I could wield. 

A deceitful stillness descends once more. I want to see his face and learn the expression that comes when he’s hesitant like this—to know the emotions beneath the surface of this vast ocean. 

I want to know him. 

“Can I?” This rift in stillness causes its own ripples. No, it would be more accurate to call it a tidal wave because the influx of need to demand clarification is suffocating. It forces me to turn, to face him. He asked? 

The ask coaxes something playful. I find myself mimicking his game. “Can you do what?”

The same snort I heard outside repeats. I thought I knew better but that was untrue. It is a laugh—or as close as it gets to laughter with Seungho. I made him laugh? The kaleidoscope of butterflies has returned, cascading flights swirling within. “Can I kiss you, Nakyum?” 

There’s no thought; no consideration; no hesitation; no shame. There’s only urgency.

“Yes.”

(You can read the first POV I wrote for Seungho here)

#painter of the night #fanfic #seungho x nakyum

[thekisforkeats]

A Song of Praise Upon Your Lips (Let all the Broken Pieces Shine, Chapter Two)

Info: The Magnus Archives, D&D AU. JonMartin in this chapter, more ships to be added. Rated T. Post-Canon. Jon is amab nb and uses they/them, Martin is a trans guy.

CWs: Darkness, falling, spiders, manipulation, webs, implied body horror, character death (mentioned), alternate realities, character injury, fire.

Summary: In which Martin thwarts the Web's plan for good and all (or so one hopes) through the power of poetry. (The poem is the first and last stanzas of Kahlil Gibran's "On Love," from The Prophet, published 1923.)

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Previous Chapter

They are falling through endless darkness. Martin holds Jon close to him and wonders how much longer this will take. Will he be in this darkness forever? Would it be so bad if he was?

“Time to let go,” a voice whispers. Feminine, soft, almost motherly, but threaded through with something like malice. “He is lost to you. Time to come back to me, my little spiderling.”

“No,” Martin whispers into the darkness. “No, I won’t let go. One way or another, together. That’s what we said.”

He can hear irritation in the voice. “Where he goes, you cannot follow. Where you belong, he cannot exist. You made your choices long ago. You cannot undo them now.”

“I’m not letting you take him from me!” Martin shouts it this time, and tightens his hold on Jon’s body. “I don’t care if I die, I’m not letting go!”

“Silly, stubborn spiderling. You are mine. You have served my purpose, all these years, and served it well. Do you truly think it was any coincidence you came to be by the Archivist’s side? The Whispered One, that you called Beholding… the power that should have gone to the Lone Wolf, that you called Forsaken… they may have tried to claim you, but you have always been mine, little spiderling, however much you twist and turn and try to deny the truth of what you are.”

Martin can see the speaker in his mind, even if his eyes are shut: from the waist up, a woman with ebony skin and white hair, but from the waist down… a spider. It’s impossible, he knows it’s impossible, because she’s from a game. And yet, still, he knows her name, and he speaks it into the void:

“Lolth?!”

A soft chuckle. “Yes, spiderling. I am the one that set you in that world, set you on the path to meet the Archivist. I am the one who ensured you would connect with the power of the Spider there, a power that is mine even if she did not know that fact until she has finally come falling down through the void between realms. She will add to my power, and she will become me and I will become her, and together we will usurp the other gods that would keep us trapped. We will spread our Web across every realm and every sphere.”

The woman seems to hold out a hand to Martin. “Come, spiderling. It is time to come home to me. I am your true mother, and I will love you better than your mortal mother ever did.”

“No,” Martin whispers again, horrified. This can’t be real. This is a horrific dream. Lolth is a fictional being that he has always been alternately repulsed by and fascinated with. She is a deity from a roleplaying game that he had stopped playing years ago, though largely for lack of anyone who would play with him.

And yet, it makes a horrendously cruel sort of sense. The Mother of Puppets has always reminded him of Lolth, a little bit. He thinks of Annabelle Cane and her desire to fill Martin with spiders. He thinks of his own tendencies to manipulate, his own love of spiders, of webs, even of fiber arts, of tying things in knots to keep them where he wants them to be. Of the way he spoke to the tape recorders the same way he spoke to the spiders he ran into--as pets, almost. As sweet, cute things to be loved.

He has known, for a long time, that if the Lonely had not claimed him the Web might have. He’s had dreams of turning into a spider, dreams he woke from screaming. Even if he likes spiders, he doesn’t want to become one. Sometimes he thinks he went to Peter as much to escape the fate he saw in his dreams as anything else he’s told himself.

A part of him wants to take the offered hand. To let go of Jon, and move forward to his own destiny.

But they made a promise. One way or another, together. It makes the decision easy.

Martin swallows. “No,” he says more firmly, opening his eyes. Lolth is there, only a dim outline in the darkness, but he can see her, vaguely. “I will not go with you. I’ve made my choice, I saw my Domain, and it wasn’t full of spiders.”

Anger flashes in Lolth’s dark eyes. “Foolish boy. Do you think I can’t make you come with me?”

“I think…” Martin pulls Jon closer to him. “I think you can, sure, but I also think…” He gathers himself, takes a deep breath, then presses on, “I think if it were that easy, you’d have done it already instead of trying to make me come willingly.” He’s thinking faster than he ever has in his life. There were no powers of good in their world, no Hope or Courage or Love to balance the Fears. But if this truly is Lolth, and not just his brain giving form to the Web, then maybe there’s a chance. Maybe there are good powers to draw on, out here in the dark between realities.

Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can get one of them to listen.

“I never would have served the Eye, or the Lonely, or the Web, if I’d had another choice,” Martin spits into the void. “I would serve Beauty. I would serve Truth. I would serve Love.” He swallows, glares at the darkness, at the form he can just barely make out as his eyes adjust. “And you know that, don’t you? Wherever we’re going… those things have power, and you want me to come to you before I get beyond your reach.”

Lolth scoffs. “You would leave me, and go back to the Protector? He will not take you back, not in that form.”

Martin grinds his teeth. “I don’t care who, or… what it is I serve, I just know that it isn’t you,” he growls.

Martin feels a warmth building in him, a heat, a flame. It’s lighting up the darkness, letting him see Jon’s lifeless body and the tapes both. It lets him see Lolth, hovering out there in the void, lets him see that the tapes are connected to her. If he lets go, she’ll get Jon. That’s what this is about, he realizes. Whether or not she wants him, she definitely wants Jon, and Martin is keeping her from her prize.

“You don’t care about me,” he whispers. “You just want Jon’s body, to fuel whatever ritual you’re trying to do.”

Lolth almost smirks. “I would prefer to have you both, but I will settle for the Archivist alone. We made him, my sister and I, which means that I made him, because she is becoming me even as we speak. You have resisted me in the past, but the Archivist…? He is already mine. Has always been mine. Will always be mine.”

Martin glares at the spider-woman. “I’m not going anywhere Jon doesn’t go, and since I’m not letting you have him… I guess you don’t get either of us.”

“And how, exactly, do you intend to stop me, spiderling?”

There’s a tug on the tapes, and Martin screams as Jon is half-wrenched out of his arms. He clings, desperately, grabbing at the tapes, screaming louder as they cut into his hands. “No! No! Please, not now, I can’t lose him now!”

“Too late, spiderling.” Lolth’s smile is cruel. “It was always too late.”

He has to do something. He has to stop this. The heat and warmth and light within him needs somewhere to go, but it can’t just come out through his hands. He needs words, that’s who he is, who he’s always been. But what words? What words would help here?

It’s not Keats that comes to him, because it’s never Keats that comes to him in the moments of pain and terror--Keats is for joy, and longing, and elegiac melancholy in the rain. It’s Kahlil Gibran, whose words sustained him through Jon’s coma and his mother’s death and working for Peter Lukas. A poem about love, about divine love. He speaks the words into the void like a prayer, because whatever he’s doing is as much a prayer and a wish as anything else.

When love beckons to you, follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

As he speaks, the fire grows. Not the cold fire of the Desolation but something warm and kind and loving. It fills him with joy, so that despite the nature of the words (For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning) his fear is banished and his terror soothed. His grip on the tapes surrounding Jon strengthens, and he begins to haul his lover back to him, away from the spider-woman.

Something like fear flickers in the goddess’ eyes. She says something, a negation, a denial, but Martin cannot hear her, because he is shouting now, stanza after stanza, the words and the prayer fueling the light and warmth within. He clutches Jon to his chest and grips the tape tightly.

He is intending to rip the tape binding Jon, to break the Web and free them both, but as he thinks of doing this, the flame within bursts out through his hand and burns through the tape surrounding Jon. The fire leaves both him and his lover untouched, but it consumes the tape. Martin can see the flame shooting off in every direction, unraveling the Web that Lolth had so carefully woven.

“No!” The goddess’ scream is so loud that Martin almost covers his ears, but that would mean letting go of Jon and that’s not happening. “No! I will not let you undo my work!” She lunges forward at them, to grab them both, or maybe just to try one last time to wrench Jon from Martin’s grasp.

Martin is surrounded by flame now, and he has a vague sense that his hair, long-since touched white by the Lonely, has abruptly shifted back to red and might actually just literally be fire right now. He holds out his hand, focusing not on Lolth but on the space around them. He has to keep them safe from her. He has reached the last stanza of the poem.

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy; To return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

The darkness around them alights, a sphere of flame that surrounds and protects Martin and Jon both. Lolth hits the fire as she lunges, and screams again. Then she fades back into the blackness.

“She cannot protect you for long, spiderling,” Lolth hisses. “I will come for you. I will always come for you.”

And then she’s gone, and they’re falling, falling, falling. Endlessly and forever, falling into the void.

The fire around them fades, and they’re in the dark again. Martin thinks that maybe he used the last of his energy, but even if all he did was to stop the Web’s plan… maybe that’s enough, in the end.

He’s fading, his consciousness dimming. He’s barely aware of Jon’s body in his arms. He takes a moment to hold Jon close and kiss the dark skin of his lover’s brow, cold despite the flame that had surrounded them not long before.

“I love you, Jon,” Martin whispers, “and I’m never, ever letting you go. Never again.”

And then everything fades into blackness. If this is death, he thinks, it’s not so bad.

Next Chapter

#the magnus archive fanart #tma #jon sims #jonathan sims #jon the archivist #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jmart #fanfic #my fanfic #tma spoilers #otp: one way or another together #let all the broken pieces shine #tma d&d au #this one had a much better spot for the cut #i need more poetry in the later chapters of this

[laemony]

What I’ve read in 2020!

Welcome back to this thing I started in 2017 and still don’t know WHY it should matter!

2017  2018  2019

This year has been a shit show but I must admit I’ve read quite a lot (who knew that staying at home with nothing else to do, except watching the world burn, could lead to this?!) Anyway! This is it, enjoy!

WAR AND PEACE, L. TOLSTOY – biggest book I’ve ever read in my life, I don’t know how but it’s never boring, I loved the characters and I adored the historical knowledge; the two subjects mix, when people are at war they miss peace, and when they are at peace they miss and look for war; it’s full of time skips in a very Russian fashion… only thing it bothered me, in my edition at least, all the paragraphs written in French didn’t have a translation, I hope I didn’t lose too many infos lol 8,5/10

PERSUASION, J. AUSTEN – this book! A surprise, a revelation, a discovery! Brilliant! Funny! Lovely! Anne’s expressions of her family are hilarious; one of my favourites so far, even if “lost love who is not as forgotten as you thought they would be” sounds way too much like the story of my life 10/10

THE YEARS, V. WOOLF – it felt lonely, yet lively; a bit hopeless, but not too sad; the chatter, the teasing, is all very familiar, as if she wrote about my own family; simple in its day-to-day life; felt like autumn (if it makes sense????) 8/10

THE DEAD SOULS, N. GOGOL – ridiculous characters, ridiculous conversations, I loved the ironic way it depicts Russian society and its people; the last chapter is a mess, I couldn’t imagine how it could end and to be honest I still have no idea 7,5/10

THE PROCESS, F. KAFKA – no time-line; not a single emotion, not from the characters neither from the author; a cold, indifferent depiction of a series of facts, which are everything but clear; not an inch of silence, just words; it tired me out, I just needed a bit more silence 5/10

THE WHITE GUARD, M. BULGAKOV – I simply love how he writes (wrote??) and his characters are always so unique and interesting; I adore the references to Tolstoy and Dostoevskij; this book has more of a painting than a book; it’s an impressive recount of a fundamental historical moment; the end is not clear but beautiful 9,5/10

THE HANDMAID’S TALE, M. ATWOOD – I thought I wouldn’t have been able to stomach it, and then I found out that there’s a right way to tell a story about violence and she mastered it; cruel people are just that, no craziness, no dark past, just thirst for power and the confidence of knowing what’s best for everyone; it gave me chills, it made me angry; I love how she writes, it’s the first time a first person pov doesn’t make me want to tear my eyes off my face… people who watched the series: do you know what’s the real name of Offred? I need it 10/10

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, J. AUSTEN – as usual, her books must be read in one breath; Jane and Charles’ story is my favourite; I love Mr Bennet as much as I can’t suffer everyone’s sisters (except Miss Darcy of course); it has an amazing mix of characters, I absolutely love the drama that follows Mr Darcy; I honestly expected a more dramatic confession at the end but it was great 9/10

NOTES FROM A DEATH HOUSE, F. DOSTOEVSKY – a bit too auto-biographic for my tastes, but I adored his depiction of a humanity which is often forgotten; it’s very disturbing in its actuality if you stop to think about it; he never tires himself saying that those “criminals” are also and foremost human beings 7,5/10

ASYLUM, P. MCGRATH – the first part is fast-paced, it leaves you breathless and with an anxious need to keep on reading; then it started to be a little more psychological and it kinda bored me; I liked the narrator very much, it was really disturbing 7,5/10

DOCTOR ZIVAGO, B. PASTERNAK – every Russian book I’ve read gave me a glimpse of Russian history and culture, yet they’re all different and I think that’s often underappreciated. Now, this book. This book is, simply put, breath-taking. The landscapes are immense and colourful, the talent of this man is unparalleled; it has a devastating end, it’s a book I’ll probably read over and over again just ‘cause reading it is “such a sweet sorrow” 10/10 (this rec is shorter than what it should have been in my mind, but I’d probably end up talking about this book and only this book so that’s it, it’s called self-control)

EMMA, J. AUSTEN – at first I was annoyed by Emma’s character, but then she proved herself so oblivious it started to become pretty funny; I can’t get over how much people talk in this book, the irony is SO on point, I love it; I probably like it more than Persuasion, because there are so many twists that the ending left me really surprised for once. And let me tell you, Jane Austen is THE BEST at depicting insufferable people 10/10

UNO, NESSUNO, E CENTOMILA, L. PIRANDELLO – look at me, reading Italian literature, world must be ending… to be honest? I don’t remember much of it? And I didn’t take notes as I usually do? I must’ve been bored out of my mind… I’ll give it a 6/10 on trust alone because I know Pirandello is great lol

HIS DARK MATERIALS, P. PULLMAN – finally got to this and it left me pretty confused; the first book is great, I loved the characters and the scenery, but in the other two I felt like too many things were left unexplained and Lyra’s character too lost some of its greatness; the end brought very little clarity, if at all, and of course I hated it with a passion; I don’t think he expressed the maximum potential of the world he built, but I liked it alright 7,5/10

1984, G. ORWELL – saying I was disappointed might be an understatement; I like how it’s written but the story in itself is frustrating, frankly boring, and disappointing, especially the end; you don’t build so much tension just to end it like that! Tho, maybe that’s exactly what he wanted to convey; everything is pretty much hopeless, made me angry 7/10

CARRIE, S. KING – first of his book I’ve ever read, AND I LOVED IT; it’s not a style I like very much, letting us know how it will end since the beginning, but it was great, magnificent, empowering; I don’t know if I’ll ever have the patience to read the others (they’re all so big) but this certainly got me curious 9/10

JACOB’S ROOM, V. WOOLF – confusing, very confusing, more confusing than anything of hers; of course it’s very beautifully written, but I have no idea what happened there 6,5 maybe 7/10?

THE WITCH, S. JACKSON – my personal Halloween challenge begins with this; short, CREEPY, VERY CREEPY, to the point (what point?); absolutely loved it 8/10

THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE, S. JACKSON – listen, creepy houses are my jam, they’re the best; my first impression of the characters went like this: they’re all batshit crazy, I love them; it honestly gave me nightmares; I wish I would’ve read it in English tho 8/10

THE ABC MURDERS, A. CHRISTIE – the queen of plot-twists herself, she never disappoints; not my favourite, mind you, but it was great how she built the story of the murderer just to… well, you’ll have to read it 7,5/10

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER, E. A. POE – I love when short stories such as this leave so much space around them to build whatever plot your imagination can come up with; it’s great, even left like it is 8/10

THE PENELOPIAD, M. ATWOOD – whatever guys, this woman has the ability to write the worst things in such a delicate way simply out of this world; I ADORE HER 9/10

THE UNCOMMON READER, A. BENNETT – hilarious from start to finish, kinda frustrating in the way only royal etiquette can be; I love how the Queen relates to others and I adored her inner monologue; the end is brilliant and the whole book (more or less 100 pages) feels like a breath of fresh air 8/10

THEATRE

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS, W. SHAKESPEARE – funny, brilliant, it became one of my favourite comedies (and there aren’t many of them) 8/10

CYMBELINE, W. SHAKESPEARE – nice little thing, with all the ingredients of a tragedy but with a happy ending; for a moment I thought it would end in a King Lear’s way, glad it didn’t 7,5/10

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, W. SHAKESPEARE – the first of Shakespeare’s plays that I didn’t like at all, and I think the reasons are pretty clear to whoever has read it; it kinda felt “out of character” for him, but maybe I’m just an ignorant 4/10

POETRY and LETTERS

ARIEL, S. PLATH – raw, powerful, sad, everything I expected of it, I also have the best edition ever, she’s great 8/10

POEMS FROM THE MOOR, E. BRONTE – the talent, the power of this woman; I’ll cry the loss of the Gondal’s saga for the rest of my life 8/10

LETTERS TO A YOUNG POET, R. M. RILKE – amazing, the thins this man could write even in such a trivial thing as a letter, I love him 10/10

MARINA CVETAEVA – I must admit, I like her prose better than her poetry; her letters are heart breaking yet so full of enthusiasm you can’t help but feel for her; also, she loves Boris as much as I do, her letters to him are my favourite thing in the world 9/10

BORIS PASTERNAK – this man was the best present this year could give me, do yourself a favour and go read him 10/10

SPECIAL MENTION: THE SECRET HISTORY, D. TARTT – I may have a problem with her books, but I’ve started this in January and never got the patience to finish it; chapters WAY too long, characters that are so insufferable they can’t be real; pretentious, boring… I can’t give it a rating because I didn’t finish it and I’m not a monster, but the bar is very low

This is it I guess! I hope I gave you a little bit of entertainment, this is something I usually do for myself but I’m glad to share with you every year. I wish you a better end of 2020 than the whole, stay strong and stay safe!  A virtual hug to everyone 💚💚💚 

#books #books ive read in 2020 #book recs #bookish advices #bookworm #booklover #literature #classics #poetry #theatre #reading #reading life #the hard life of a bookaholic #long post #laemontalks #a lot #lev tolstoy #philip pullman #boris pasternak #franz kafka #agatha christie #shirley jackson #edgar allan poe #jane austen #emily bronte #sylvia plath #marina cvetaeva #rainer maria rilke #patrick mcgrath #william shakespeare

[autumnstwilight]

Rating: T Words: 1,500 Tags: Gen, character study, WoR, angst, blood/injury Summary:  Gentiana encounters a wounded Ignis outside Lestallum. Written for Lost in Wars zine.

It is not her own coldness that fills the night. Not the bright chill of the winter wind nor the crispness of fresh snow underfoot, but the hollow black rot of absence, and so it displeases her. Her footsteps through the roiling dust are like fingertips taking a temperature and finding the body corpse-stiff. The scourge is bitter on her tongue and her breath each moment she spends here.

Here at the still point of the turning world, time has carved away half of the wait appointed. The midnight moon is just past full, and must wane again before the darkest hour. Frost blossoms at her feet, flowers from the dead land.

It has been many years since she first began to live among the humans. At first, she served as a companion and guide for the young Oracle, now she passes her time in the city as another set of hands, stirring the soup pot and tending to the sick, tasks that pass unnoticed, unrecognized. In the hours when the humans sleep, she slips the gates and wanders, surveying what is left of the world. She does not hunt the daemons, but when the Light within her draws their attention, she dispatches them with a freezing gale.

He is not far from the city gates when she finds him, the heat of his blood bright in the frosted dust, and the wheezing of his breath rising like smoke from a candle flame. Life burns within him yet. She has no message to speak, and so she watches. Eventually, he lets out a wet cough, and rolls onto his back.

“All has its hour, but the hour of the Swordsworn is yet to come.” It is, to her, an observation, as one might comment on the weather. The thread of fate on which his life is suspended has not yet reached its end.

“It will take more than that to finish me,” he asserts, pushing himself into a sitting position. “You should know.”

He summons a cane into his hand and prises himself from the ground, leaning on it heavily as he makes his way toward the gates. Draped over one shoulder, he carries a bundle neatly wrapped in cloth, treated with more caution than any part of his own body. She does not assist, but trails behind.

It is always so. She is not permitted to alter the events that have been preordained. The life of the Star rests on the point of a needle, as does the truce between the remaining Gods. Between the wrath of Leviathan and the justice of Ramuh, between Bahamut’s pragmatism and her own compassion. Woe to him who tilts the balance.

And thus, her role is observer and Messenger. Her borrowed body has lingered here, watching the Oracle grow into a dauntless young woman, then facing the destiny asked of her. Gentiana shed tears for her, as promised. It was to cry for Lunafreya that she took this human form.

“You know,” he says eventually, “I once found your following us reassuring.”

“Is it no longer so?” she asks.

Too distant for human senses, the daemons hiss in the wasteland and under the earth that his blood drips over and soaks into. They dare not rise while she is here. She is not permitted to tilt the balance. But every now and then, she places a fingertip beneath the scales.

“Back then, I thought that he had your favor. That you would protect him.”

She tilts her head at this seeming accusation.

“Bearing the blessing of the divine, the King lives yet. The High Messenger watches as he walks the path appointed.”

The man turns away from her, a wordless noise escapes him. When he speaks, his voice is rough and thickened by something other than blood.

“You did not protect the Oracle in Altissia. And when her murderer turned his blade toward the King— there was not a God in sight. What I did may have been reckless, but I never abandoned him. Can you say the same?”

“It is not for the Messenger to interfere with the path set for the King. The Swordsworn understands this now. He too knows what lies ahead, and spoke of it not.”

His head jerks back toward her, outrage on his features, and for a moment, he appears to be searching for words.

“With all due respect, our circumstances are hardly comparable. I did not decide the way of things, merely failed to change them.”

“Every action brings about change,” she tells him. “Such acts of loyalty echo in the halls of eternity.”

“Forgive me, but I’m rather more concerned with the present.” He sniffs, then wipes a trail of blood from his nose. “And I’m not ready to face eternity yet. Nor send anyone else in my stead.”

“The fate of our Star now rests upon the King. Bearing the Light, he will return prepared. Does the Swordsworn intend to oppose him?” She asks this pleasantly, but there is a taste of frost on her tongue. Betrayal displeases her.

“No! I— I will follow him to the gates of hell, if I must. But only after all other roads have been exhausted.”

It should gladden her, but her heart fills with sorrow. She recalls the elder brother standing before her, bearing the crest of his enemies, the same urgency in his voice as he insisted there must be another way, and he would find it, even if he had to tear the world apart. She had smiled sadly then, too.

Humans claimed forever so easily in their vows and poems, like snowflakes that did not know of spring. Yet even if she could freeze them in the moment, she would not. Eternity was not for them.

Long ago, they had turned against her love, driving him from his throne and leading to his downfall. But who betrayed whom? Was it Ifrit who was the first to turn cruel, demand too much, punish too harshly? Her mate, or her beloved humans— she had turned a blind eye to the flaws of both.

And would Ifrit have punished the humans knowing that his actions would lead to the poisoning of the world, threatening the Crystal itself? It seemed impossible, he had been created to defend it. And yet as king, he was as uncompromising and unstoppable as the flow of magma down a mountainside. Perhaps this was what he had willed.

Her unease then, is with the will of the Gods. It pains her most, as she has walked among the humans, come to value even lives that vanish like frost in the morning sun. None of them take joy in this, but she alone comprehends the weight of each loss.

The children of the Crystal, cruel and kind, petty and generous, short-lived and spanning across ages. Her humans. She could not look at them and feel despondent. They gathered and huddled in their settlements like campfires reduced to embers, nestling for a rebirth.

Her companion walks with a furious stride and says nothing more until they arrive at the gates, and she bows to him in preparation to leave. It is then that he turns to her, with the hesitance of a child and asks, simply.

“How long?”

She smiles a little, although he cannot see it.

“Which answer is sought? That he is soon to return, and free the world from its peril? Or that time remains, so that the Swordsworn may prepare, mind and body?”

The expression on his lips is thin and bitter, twisting around the answer he already knows.

“Too long. And not long enough.”

He lets out a sigh that dissolves in the emptiness around them.

“Tell him then. If you can do nothing else for me, then deliver this message. We are waiting. Always.”

He passes through the gates and they close with a clang of metal, something harsh and man-made. The noise displeases her, but no more than the faint howls of what lies in the wastelands. At least the creaks and clattering of mankind speak of hope. Someday they will build towers and ring bells once again.

It is then that she turns away from the city. Her gaze turns to the waning moon, suspended above the Umbral Isle and trickling away like sand in the upper half of an hourglass, cliffs reaching up like spread wings to catch it. Below, the King sleeps, and the land with him. Devoured by darkness deep enough to swallow the Light of the Gods.

But all is not lost. The cycles of the ocean still pulse, sending the sea breeze, the heat of the earth still pushes upward, and the rain still falls to quench its thirst. She senses her kin in the stirring air, refusing to let Eos perish. Within her hand she cups snowflakes, and lets the breeze snatch them from the clifftops, illuminated by the glow of the meteorshards below. For a moment, the endless night has stars.

#ffxv #my fanfic #lost in wars zine #ignis scientia #gentiana ffxv

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

Helping Hands - Chapter 7

Series Masterlist here

Chapter Summary: More of Haley's past haunts her dreams, and she seeks out Loki for comfort. Then, she finds a way to join the gang on their next mission.

Chapter Warnings: Behavior indicative of past abuse

A/N: The poem is an excerpt from ‘He Giveth His Beloved Sleep' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

”Tell us what happened, sweetheart.”

It was hard to focus. Her ankle hurt worse than it ever had before. Worse than the time she fell in the parking lot and scraped her hands. It was black and blue and swollen and her parents told her not to move it. As if she could without screaming. Swallowing down the tears that stuck in her throat, she wiped her face and gripped her fists around the tissues the doctor had given her. “Cassidy fell. She was screaming. I touched her and she stopped crying. I just wanted her to feel better. Now my ankle hurts.”

She couldn’t make out the blurry faces of her mother and father standing next to the paper-lined exam table she sat on, but looking at them made her feel safe. Her mother reached out and smoothed her hand down the back of her head. It was warm and gentle and she leaned into it with her eyes closed.

“Nobody saw it. We don’t know what happened.”

“We’ll take her back and set it, wrap it, the whole nine. In the meantime, you should call this number if anything strange happens again.”

Haley’s eyes blinked open, slowly piecing together the shadowy shapes in her dark room as the remnants of her dream lingered at the edges of her mind. Had that been a memory, or was it just a nonsensical imagining? She sat up slowly in the plush bed, untangling her legs from the sheets to pull her knees to her chest as she let her eyes get used to what little cool blue light streamed in through the windows. Anxiety weighed heavy in her chest and she knew that rest wasn’t going to come so easily to her with the questions that nagged at her sleep-addled mind.

Had those really been her parents? The voices were vaguely familiar, an itch she couldn’t scratch, and that touch had soothed an ache deep in her soul that had lingered for as long as she’d lived. If only she could remember their faces… And where were they now? Why was she just now getting these dreams?

As quietly as she could manage, she got out of bed and pulled on her black hoodie over her tank top and sleep shorts. Loki had always gotten her a warm drink when she couldn’t sleep; maybe he’d still be awake to do it again. The chilly floor bit at her bare feet as she padded out of her room to head to the kitchen. It was dark and silent as a tomb, the only light coming from the dormant appliance clocks that read 1:48 AM. For once, Loki wasn’t up watching television or reading or making a late-night sugary snack.

She stood in the middle of the open kitchen, shifting back and forth, rubbing the inside of the sleeves of her hoodie in her palms. The thought of returning to her room empty-handed did cross Haley’s mind. It did. But she didn’t want to face the questions alone, and Loki’s calming presence would be so welcome. He had a way of quieting her racing mind that she so desperately wanted in that moment. Chewing lightly on her full bottom lip, she shuffled to his bedroom door, hesitating with her hand pressed against the cool metal. Waking him seemed selfish and cruel if he was truly asleep. She groaned under her breath in frustration and leaned her forehead against the doorframe. But he was always so patient and kind with her. Just the thought of his soothing voice easing her doubts had her heart slowing in her chest.

Just do it. She knocked quietly on the door, deciding that if he was awake he would hear it and answer, and if he wasn’t, then she would snag a bar of chocolate and return to her room. There was always some sort of mindless program on television to chase away the shadows. When she couldn’t hear any shifting or rustling on the other side, she assumed he was asleep, and she turned and began heading back to the kitchen.

“Little one?”

The warm glow of light from his open door sent her long shadow stretching across the hallway. She looked back to find him leaning against the doorframe, his pale torso a stark contrast to the dark wall and the tumble of his midnight-black hair over his shoulders. Her eyes drank in the sight of his lithe torso laid bare and all the moisture left her mouth. She dug her fingernails into her jacket for some semblance of control over the rush of heat pooling deep in her belly.

Concern tightened his dark green eyes. “Are you alright?”

Why did she suddenly feel so flustered? Her arms crossed over her stomach and she stared down at his bare feet. It was strangely endearing to see him so casually dressed, or undressed, really, in just a pair of black silk boxer shorts. “I had a weird dream… I didn’t know who else to talk to about it. I just don’t want to be alone.”

The beam of light widened as he stepped away from the doorway. She looked up to see him holding his hand out to her further inside his room. “I’m honored that you came to me. Would you like to come in?”

The soft yellow light from his bedside lamp illuminated the softest looking green duvet she had ever seen in her life on his bed, mussed from where he had obviously been lying in it before she interrupted. The walls were hidden by rows upon rows of bookshelves full to the brim with books of various thicknesses and languages. There were so many that they spilled onto his nightstand and the small coffee table in front of a long, black leather couch. It was very masculine, and very Loki, with touches of green and gold amongst the black to keep it from looking too monochromatic.

But the most important part was the man who laced their fingers together. The door closed automatically behind her with a soft whoosh that made the heat radiating off of his body, subtly spiced with his cologne, all the more intoxicating and intimate as he drew her close to him. His free hand adjusted the dropped shoulder of her hoodie back where it belonged before resting on her upper arm with a gentle squeeze.

“Would you prefer the couch or the bed? We can discuss it, if you’d like, or we can simply sit together. I was reading Midgardian poetry when you knocked. I could read it to you?”

Her heart thudded against her ribcage at the tenderness in his eyes. To be honest, she didn’t want to actually talk about what she’d dreamt about. It was a distant thought at that point, shoved to the furthest reaches of her mind at the rasp of Loki’s calloused thumb over the back of her hand. Quieting her unexplainable nerves, she tilted her head toward the bed. “Maybe the bed? Just for a little bit. I don’t want to keep you, but I don’t want to be alone. I could read over your shoulder.”

“We can do much better than that,” he countered quietly, releasing her hand to turn the lamp off with a lazy wave of his hand. He pulled a match from a drawer on his nightstand and lit a candle that had clearly seen some use from previously burnt wicks. Vanilla and cedarwood filled the room at the flickering flames that lent warmth to Loki’s creamy, unblemished skin.

At the sight of her wide eyes and quickened breathing, he pulled the blankets back for her to climb into the bed. “You are safe with me. I promise.”

She wasn’t afraid, no, not of him. Never of him. But the stirring of need deep inside of her was confusing and altogether new, even though she knew the basis of it. He was beautiful, a living and breathing work of the most discerning sculptors, even when skin that she had thought to be silky smooth turned out to be marred with small scars. She leaned against his side beneath the curl of his arm around her back, allowing her fingertips to trace the ridged flesh scattered across his body. His breath hitched at the featherlight map they plotted over his ribcage. That tiny catch, that delicious half sound, had her pouted lips parting with the intense need to taste that puckered flesh.

He cleared his throat and shifted beneath her, crossing his legs underneath the sheets and rubbing her back lightly. The full force of her desire shamed her, Loki was her friend, and she hid the flush of her cheeks by tucking her head underneath his chin. The only way to stop the itch in her fingers to continue their exploration across the planes and valleys of his torso was to wrap her arms around him and press her hands into the cut of muscles on his side. He was so wiry, steel bands beneath supple skin, but he was somehow still immensely comfortable. It was easy to snuggle into him and smother the flames licking at her belly by focusing on the steady beat of his heart against her cheek.

It was safe, in Loki’s embrace. The anxieties that had littered her thoughts dropped away one by one with each deep breath he took to push his chest against her. And despite the peculiar twist of her stomach at his contented sigh, she managed to tilt her head up to leave a soft kiss on his jaw before settling back down. “I don’t wanna talk about it. What’d you have in mind?”

“Ideas which are altogether not appropriate,” he muttered under his breath. The rapid drum of his heart beneath her matched her own. She forced herself to take deep breaths that fanned out across his chest to leave goosebumps in their wake. He adjusted the blankets around them before propping open the book across his stretched legs in front of him. “Listen to my words, little one, and allow yourself to relax. I’ve got you now.”

His cheek rested on the top of her head so that the intimately given words were felt just as much as they were heard.

““Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But not never doleful dream again Shall break his happy slumber when “He giveth his beloved, sleep.””

The decadence of his murmured baritone was enough to loosen her limbs and leave her head heavy upon his chest. She tried to stay awake to listen to it for just a moment longer, just one moment, but the tentative caress of the backs of his fingers down her cheek and the light press of his lips to her forehead were enough to have her drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

Blaring alarms and flashing lights violently woke her. She sat up in an unfamiliar bed, disoriented at the scent of cinnamon and mint that clung to the soft sheets surrounding her. But the events of the night before came back to her in a rush as she stumbled to her feet. Blankets were haphazardly scattered on the leather couch across from her, and her nighttime companion was nowhere to be found.

“Friday, what’s going on?” she shouted over the blaring noise, rubbing the sleep from her bleary eyes.

“The Avengers have been called for an emergency mission. They’re loading onto the Quinjet now.”

There wasn’t time to think. Haley zipped up her hoodie as she ran in the direction of the elevators, hoping that she wasn’t too late. Wanda was just running up the ramp when she peered around the corner. Gritting her teeth, she ran as fast as she could, scampering inside and then throwing herself behind a stack of boxes wrapped with protective netting. She curled into as tight of a ball as she could manage, stifling her heavy breathing against the skin her knees as she stared at the textured metal wall across from her. The jet beneath her shook slightly as it lifted off from the ground, and then her ears popped painfully as they took off from the top of Stark Tower.

“We've been tracking this douchebag for ages. Smuggling, theft, trafficking, you name it, he’s done it. The feds don't want his blood on their hands and I'm more than happy-”

“If I may interrupt, Stark, I believe that we are not alone,” Loki’s agitated voice interrupted Tony’s speech.

Tony’s heavy sigh was somehow deafening over the roar of the engines beneath her. “Damnit, kid. The jig is up. Come on out.”

It wasn’t like she had much of a choice. Haley slowly stood up from her hiding spot with knocking knees and her hands held entreatingly in front of her. “Please don’t be mad. Please. I’m sorry. I can help! I didn’t want to stay behind while you all-”

Tony stepped out from the middle of the huddled Avengers. He was a fearsome sight in his Iron Man suit, brown eyes hard and jaw set in a way that made her feel so terribly small. “This isn’t safe for you. You shouldn’t have come. What if something happened to you, hmm?”

Steve came out from the front of the jet. The set of his jaw was no less fierce, but at least there was understanding in his eyes as they settled on Tony. “She just wanted to help. She can stay here on the jet.”

“There isn’t time to turn back,” Natasha chimed in from where she leaned back against the wall. Her black leather catsuit practically blended into the matte metal behind her, only making her blonde hair and fair skin that much more entrancing. “That intel is time sensitive. He’s on the move. Either we all take her back or she stays.”

Tears filled Haley’s eyes and she cowered back as far as she could go. Tony stopped his approach and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sniff. She squinted her eyes shut and bowed her head. “I won’t leave the jet, I promise. Please don’t leave me. Please, please,” she cried, her voice thick with sobs that she barely contained. She didn’t even know what she was begging for or against at that point, only that she wanted the fear gripping her lungs to ease.

“Can’t you just zap her back there, Reindeer Games?” Tony asked, the anger gone from his voice, disappointment remaining to cut deep in a wound that even she couldn't rapidly heal.

Rough hands from years of blade work gently wiped the hot tears from her face. She leaned into the large palm that cupped her cheek and opened her eyes to find the intricate patterns of Loki’s protective leathers completely blocking her vision. He pulled her flush against him so she was acutely aware of the tension vibrating in his lean frame.

“I will not leave her in this state. I can take her back, but I will not return to assist in this mission.”

“That’s just great, man. We need you on this,” Tony huffed his frustration, and Haley could hear the frown in his voice that matched the sound of his metallic hands hitting his sides.

“She will remain on this vessel, and I will ensure her safety,” Loki offered, smoothing his fingers over the curls at the nape of her neck in what would be a soothing gesture in any other circumstance. “Once we are back at the tower, we will further discuss her role in your band of misfits. Is this agreeable?”

Muttering that she couldn’t make out went on for several of Loki’s deep breaths. Her fingers dug into the thick cape flowing down his back. Just when she was about to pry herself away so she could at least see their deliberating, the talking stopped. And so did her heart.

“You stay on the jet,” Tony commanded, leaving no room for argument with his harsh tone. “You do what we say. And if anyone gets hurt, you do not touch them. Do you understand me?”

Summoning all of her courage, she lifted her face from the sanctuary of Loki’s chest to meet Tony’s stony gaze. “I understand.”

~

Helping Hands taglist: @kneel-before-queen-loki @alexakeyloveloki @from-hel-i-with-love @cleocc @cateyes315 @coldbookworm @rjohnson1280 @bambi-butt @skiddleskaddle @lokis-high-priestess @myraiswack @ilovetardis @midgardian-mistress @lisaspageofstuff @kathrynwynterbourne @bluestaratsunrise

Little Bit o’ Loki taglist: @myownviperroom @grahoundart @darealbellabelleoftheball @boubouinscarlet @iamverity @rt8815 @lots-of-loki @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @ms-cellanies @rosierossette @thathedonistgirl @lokixme @hellethil @myraiswack

Whole Shebang taglist: @just-the-hiddles @yespolkadotkitty @nonsensicalobsessions @vodka-and-some-sass @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @myoxisbroken @brokenthelovely @polireader @wiczer @littleredstarfish @the-broken-angel-13 @arch-venus25 @xxloki81xx @jessiejunebug @tinchentitri @sllooney @devilbat @vikkleinpaul @bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @angelus80 @wolfsmom1 @kthemarsian @toozmanykids @princerowanwhitethorngalathynius @sabine-leo @peterman-spideyparker @lovesmesomehiddles @wegingerangelica​ @bluefrenchfries604​ @catsladen @snoopy3000​ @silverswordthekilljoy​ @villainousshakespeare​ @kitkatd7​

#loki #loki fanfic #loki/ofc #loki fluff #loki angst #marvel fanfic #protective!loki #protective loki #helping hands #hopeless writes #slow burn

[seancerpg-archived]

THE POET

Name: UTP

Age: 27-36

Pronouns: he/him

FC: Regé-Jean Page

BIOGRAPHY

tw - stillbirth

He's always understood the fragility of life, and held a deep reverence for death. It was as though he was born with an innate understanding that many around him lacked. Whilst most boys, in all their youthful naivety, believed themselves to be invincible, immortal, old age and the passage of time a far-off impossibility, he always knew everything must come to an end. Perhaps it was the manner in which he was born, clutching at the heel of a stillborn twin, life and death intertwined as one. He's often thought about the child that never came to be, wondering what became of their soul. She was a girl, and that was all he knew, a girl with no name and no future. He named her Daisy, in his mind, but amongst the uncertainty, he was sure of one thing - she was not sad, wherever she was, for he bore the melancholy of two, his soul marked with so much sorrow that he was certain that he had absorbed all unhappiness from her in the waters of the womb. His parents spoke of her little - it was just one of those things, a sad but all too common statistic, but he was determined, in some way, to ensure that she was remembered.

But how could you preserve the memory of somebody who had never lived? There was nobody to speak of her with, nobody who felt the gaping hole she had left behind like he did. And so, he took to paper and ink, breathing life into his imaginings of who she could have been. Sometimes, she was bold and brash, a heroine clad in golden glory. In others, she was shy and pure, a blushing maiden in virginal white. He had no way of knowing who she would be, and so to him, she was everything all at once. He never expected that he would get any sort of attention for his little poems, but that was his own humility, underestimating the talents that was undeniably there for all to see. He was able to attend a prestigious university off of the back of it, although he never quite felt like he fit in - not until he met the two he would come to regard as siblings, The Believer and The Dandy. Though they brought a joy to his life he had never known, they were no replacement for his sister, the crutch he has always leaned on, and always would.

He integrated well into London society, even becoming something of a celebrity. His works are well-received, though he can't help but think that those who devour his every word are quite missing the point behind them - the biting edge, the dark wit, the social commentary that flies well over their heads. His words have become undeniably darker of late, less focused on immortalising his lost sibling. He's crafted a persona for himself, one of flamboyance and decadence, masking the pessimism and desolation within his mind. Lately, he's been working on something new - a play, a twisted gothic tragedy designed to enchant and unnerve. It was in his research that he stumbled across the world of the occult, the mediums and psychics that dwell in the city, and to say he was fascinated is an understatement. If there was ever any chance to finally speak to the shadow that has loomed over his life, this is it, and he's willing to grab it with both hands. But for now, he's  watching and waiting, gathering all the information he can before making his move.

THE GHOST

He has always felt it with them, but it is stronger  of late. They cling to his side, an invisible shadow, but he feels them there, and that is enough. It's the little things that they appreciate, the softly spoken words as he reads aloud to them, the fresh bunches of flowers on the side table despite the fact that they make him sneeze. For their part, they help him too, moving objects he needs directly into his reach, lighting candles in rooms before he enters, guiding him in the right direction when he's searching for answers. Their fate and his are inexplicably entwined, and despite the fact he cannot see them, and they cannot speak to him, they have a deep understanding of one another

CONNECTIONS

THE BELIEVER: They couldn't be more different to him, their head in the clouds whilst The Poet's are firmly planted on the ground, but their friendship is a strong one, thriving on the balance that is drawn between them. Sometimes, he thinks they are naïve, and they need him to remind them of the realities of the world. They take no pleasure in doing so, in seeing the disappointment flash over their eyes when they are reminded of just how cruel things can really be, but it is with their best interests at heart that he does it. He cannot deny the other's talent, either, and has tremendous respect for their professional works.

THE DANDY: He takes nothing seriously, and that's what The Poet needs. Nobody else can draw out his wild side quite like The Dandy. It is something he never knew he needed, and it is not uncommon to find the two of them causing trouble somewhere they shouldn't be, usually under some form of inebriation. The two can talk for hours, about everything and nothing at all, and he thrives on the unexpected adventures that they always seem to find themselves in the midst of.

THE DANCER: He first caught a glimpse of her on the stage, and from that moment on, he was enthralled. Her ability to utterly embody every emotion that's raging within him when she dances is remarkable, but it is the sadness, the hollow exhaustion that he sees upon her face when she is herself, that draws him in the most. It is not a romantic interest - but rather, a recognition, that the sorrow that lives inside of him dwells within her too. In his desperation to be understood, he hopes that she feels it too.

THE HATTER: They're utterly unnerving - but The Poet doesn't mind. They frequent his shop, always with an apologetic look on his face for misplacing the last creation they purchased from him, and often share polite conversation. They seem to enjoy his humour, and his outlook on the world, without being as sycophantic as some of the people who flock to his side these days, and for The Poet, that's enough for him to enjoy their company.

THE POET IS OPEN FOR APPLICATIONS.

#the poet #open #all

[lemon-writings]

Hamish Update Pt. III

Genre: Literary fiction // Word count: 77,037

Here we are! Chapters VII-IX! I’ve written these chapters really recently, so I can go a little more in-depth with the process. The second half of this book (and specifically this particular trio of chapters, for some reason) is definitely the part I’m most proud of. Writing everything coming to fruition is just so satisfying. Is this what people who write books with actual plot feel like? Because it makes me consider writing books with real plot.

But in all honesty, I really enjoy writing this part of Hamish. I’m super happy with how everything’s turning out. One problem I do have with the latter half is that it is super depressing to write all the time, especially with the amount of rain we’ve been getting in Ohio right now (we love depression), so it is taking me a little longer to write than normal, since I keep sidetracking with random projects to try taking my mind off the deeper things. But when I am working on it, the words just flow. It’s beautiful.

Chapter VII

Epitaph: “I’m a strange new kind of inbetween thing aren’t I? Not at home with the dead nor with the living.”-Anne Carson, Antigone

Here is what’s been building this entire time: the funeral. That, and everything funerals entail, with the Celebration of Life and whatnot. The first time I wrote this, I read the funeral scene to my mom in full detail, and she started crying, because it reminded her of her father’s funeral. I, personally, loathe funerals, for what boils down to the fact that I am greatly horrified by being in the same room as someone who I once knew to be alive. That, and the crippling fear of death most people experience at least once in their lives.

There’s also a lot of Horacio’s... fantasies. There’s something deeply personal about the way I write him, sometimes, that makes rereading certain parts difficult. Horacio, in his darkest moments, feels he deserves bad things happening to him, nearly craves them, and he hates himself for it. The amount of self-loathing in this work is high.

Excerpts: 

Horacio, as always, is concerned about Hamish’s state of being alive, because that man always looks halfway dead, and at times, he’s more ghost than living person

The question of if you were dead or alive laid on my tongue, begging to be asked. Maybe I should’ve asked you. Maybe I should’ve checked your pulse. Maybe I should’ve laid my head on your chest and listened to your heartbeat. Maybe I should’ve left with you then and there and avoided the trap Leon kept guiding us to.

Hot take from a Farm Child: broken machinery is one of the most haunting things you can ever see. I could probably wax poetic about how terrible their beauty is, but I really don’t think anyone wants to hear about farm machines for three hours. (On a completely serious note, my uncle’s coat got tangled in a grain auger yesterday, and he could have died. Be safe around farm machinery. Please. It can be really dangerous, even if you’ve been around it for 60+ years.)

Leon’s descriptions are always some variant of men thinking being tall is intimidating. 

Leon bared his teeth once more, the animalistic beauty of it all making me wonder where Leon ended and his rage began. Primal is often used as a way to pull down others, to say you are not advanced the way I am, but Leon’s rage seemed like an advancement of humanity, a way of saying I have advanced my own humanity through my anger. He was gorgeous in the same way broken tractors on the side of the road are, monolithic kings taken over by the passage of time, their steel teeth rusty and eternal.

Did I reference “Father” by Warsan Shire? Yes. Yes, I did. Hamish is a huge Warsan Shire fan, because, like, it has his vibes. 

You recited a poem about fathers, about death, about life, speaking it as if it were scripture. When you finished, you began again. Or perhaps you never ended, speaking this poem forwards, then backwards, then repeating cyclically.

Yeet.

Chapter VIII

Epitaph: “I could be a wolf for you. I could put my teeth on your throat. I could growl. I could eat you whole. I could wait for you in the dark. I could howl against your hair.”-Catherynne M. Valente, “The Red Girl”, The Bread We Eat in Dreams

There’s a lot of plot stuff that happens in this chapter, so unfortunately, I do have to be a little shorter when it comes to this summary, but let it be said that I am not meant to be a thriller/action author. Do I enjoy watching Indiana Jones and Star Wars? Yes, I do. Should I be writing anything close to that? Absolutely not. It takes a lot of effort to do, and even with that, I would say that any sort of action scene I write is... not exactly “half-baked”, but most certainly not up to par with the rest of my writing. I’ll need to edit this chapter heavily the next time I go through Hamish.

That being said, there are moments in this chapter that I am proud of. Horacio and Ofelia’s interactions in this chapter are some of my favorites, just because they’re some of the only characters in this book who don’t violently hate/distrust each other.

Excerpts: 

When I mentioned kudzu to my mother, she mentioned it was an invasive species she’d seen a lot of during her time in the south, which just confirmed that it was a great metaphor to use. That’s always a sign, right?

I looked down at the flowers, then at her, wiser than anyone I’d ever met, the freedom ripping open her seams like something terrible and sharp, the parts of her that were so carefully cultivated spilling out of her like kudzu.

Horacio feels like he’s the only real person in a world of ghosts. The disconnect between Horacio and the people around him is heavily based upon the first time I disassociated. We watched the Blue Man Group in Chicago on a music/Spanish department trip, and the second I walked out of the building, I thought I was a freaking ghost. I had my first panic attack at 14 because I didn’t know if I was actually experiencing life. It was a wild experience.

Next to Ofelia, I looked out of place. Ofelia was hazy and magical in her presence, looking more like a dreamy memory than a real person, as if I touched her, my hand would touch only air. I was the solid type of real, unfortunately. Tall and unnaturally skinny, with a gritty, starving look to myself, the two of us next to each other were like a pastel-covered, out-of-focus impressionist painting next to a photograph of childhood labor in Industrial Revolution-era factories.

There’s also a confrontation with Leon that has some, um, spoilery moments. Leon is an asshole. I kind of love him.

Chapter IX

Epitaph: “[Grief is pain internalized, abscess of the soul. Anger is pain as energy, sudden explosion.]”-Lauren Groff, Fates and Furies

Again, there’s a lot going on in this chapter. A lot. Marcus the bodyguard makes another appearance (underappreciated character of the book) and acts as a guardian angel. Bless Marcus. Seriously.

This chapter is more introspective than the last, so I enjoyed writing it a bit more. Or... a lot more, actually. I was not created to write action scenes, and I accept my fate. Horacio’s musings on fate are long-winded and beautiful and what I’m meant to write. It’s just a chapter of him reflecting, pining, and wishing he was in a different situation. Which. Fair.

Moments like this make me realize I am a cruel god who treats her characters terribly.

Excerpts: 

Starting this chapter strong with the true weighted blanket: death.

Death cloaked me like your blanket.

As I said before, Marcus? Underutilized character. I use him as much as I can, but the plot makes it difficult to use him as much as I wish. He’s the man we deserve.

Marcus was smart, was good at playing the game we all played without making it apparent that he was playing it. He knew what he was doing. “I want the best for Hamish,” Marcus said. He looked into my eyes. “You do, too.”

Horacio takes a moment to think awful, rage-colored thoughts about the people around him, which are, of course, one of my favorite things to wax poetic about. He’s a salty man, and he has all rights to be, because this entire work is just “things to be salty about, the novel”. Poor Horace. He just wants to live in a gay daydream, but he’s stuck in a nightmare. 

(Not to sound too Midwestern, but OPE, the shade.)

These people played their sick, twisted games like gods, forcing everyone to play along for their survival while they watched and knew exactly what they were doing to the rest of us mortals around them. In that moment, I was filled with the type of righteous anger that made me understand why people were drawn to religion. I wanted a higher power to strike them down, to make an example of them all, to say don’t do this, or you’ll end up like them.

I sounded like my parents, like all the religious nuts I’d ever met, the ones who said that those who didn’t fall their doctrine were inferior, were going to die, and suffer for being different. Is that how it begins? Is anger the true root of all cruelty?

That last line, is anger the true root of all cruelty? was probably my favorite line when I first wrote Hamish. It’s sort of become a thesis statement for Horacio’s past and the way he sees the world. 

Lastly, of course, we have

The Jams

We have a fine selection of songs here, a lot from my Lucy playlist (Lucy has one of my favorite playlists I’d ever made).

Oh No!!! - grandson

Temple Priest (feat. Paul Wall & Kota the Friend) - MISSIO

Destroy Me - grandson

BTSTU - Jai Paul

Seven Devils - Florence + The Machine

Pretty Little Head - Eliza Rickman

That’s the tea, y’all. If you’re interested in this and hearing writing updates for Hamish, then ask to be added to the tags list!

#wip: hamish #writing update #amwriting #writeblr #writers on tumblr #ayyy we're in the home stretch y'all!!!

[bat-losers-inc]

Collisions in the Dark (Ch 20): Buried Piece

Summary: As unbelievable as it seemed to Tim, they were all together as a family again, planning a battle strategy in Jason’s cramped kitchen.

Chapter Notes: Buried Piece: A piece hemmed in by friendly pieces and pawns. Such a piece will have a difficult time actively participating, and may also interfere with the development of other pieces.

“You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming.” —“Introduction: New & Selected Poems.”,  E.E. Cummings

They came as a group, ambushing them in Jason’s small kitchen, the only warning— a text from Damian offering a five minute heads up. There was no knock at the door, just the turn of the lock as Dick used his key to let them in.

Jason turned away from Tim to lean back against the counter, silently appraising the group. Tim knew they were waiting for him to turn as well, but Tim refused to do so until the coffee maker started dripping dark liquid into the pot. He had no doubts that this would be a long talk and coffee would be necessary to keep his calm.

When he turned he was greeted by five pairs of eyes that followed his movements.

He hadn’t expected to see all of them here. If they were going to be lectured on their individual actions over the past couple of days, he expected it to come from Dick and Bruce. Damian had already voiced his opinions on their decisions more than enough, as far as Tim was concerned. Tim hoped that the younger boy had just come to enjoy the show… except he was having a hard time believing that. After everything that Damian had done for him and revealed to him over the course of a day, Tim understood that he took no pleasure from watching this play out. And if he wasn’t here to gloat or to chastise, then why was he here?

Jason must have been thinking something similar for he grunted and said, “Man, you called in the calvary? I guess we really are in some deep shit. What is this a family roast? Everyone’s gonna get a chance to take their best shot at us?”

Steph’s brow creased with confusion, and perhaps a small bit of pain. “We’re not here to kick you when you’re down, Jason. We’re here to help.”

Jason’s eyes slitted. “Oh, yeah? Like how you helped Tim before? Locking him in a room like he’s a child with false promises that everything will be okay?”

Tim swallowed quickly and shifted his weight. He couldn’t help the sudden flash of heat that surged through his gut at Jason’s heated words. He knew that the older boy was jumping to his defence and a large part of Tim wanted to be relieved that Jason was there defending him again, snapping at anyone who might hurt him like a vicious dog. Another part of him, however, understood how misplaced his intentions were.

Tim bit hard into the side of his lip, but couldn’t stop himself from speaking. It needed to be said.

“You don’t get to say that, Jason. You’re just as guilty as they are in this, except where they stayed… you abandoned me.”

Jason twisted around to look at him, the anger on his face slipping away to reveal the vulnerable cracks underneath. Tim couldn’t stand that raw look.

He licked his dry lips and continued. “That’s not to say I’m free of blame, because I’m not. I’m just as guilty as you.”

Bruce looked around at all of them. “We’ve all made mistakes and hurt the ones we care about as a result, but we can’t move forward until this is forgiven.”

Tim gave a weak laugh. “Forgiven? You’re being very naive if you think any of this can be forgiven and forgotten. I think I speak for both of us when I say that I might move on, but that doesn’t mean I won’t still hate you all for your actions.”

“He’s right,” said Jason, eyes cast towards the floor, evidently deep in thought. Jason shrugged one shoulder. “I love Tim and would do anything for him, but I don’t think I can ever forgive him for what he’s done. My love for him doesn’t erase my hatred for his past actions… at most one counterbalances the other.”

“What we’ve done can’t be easily forgiven, but with time, hopefully we can mend the wounds so that they won’t leave scars.”

Tim met Jason’s eyes and slid further to the side until he was leaning against the counter next to him, their elbows touching, their fingers brushing until eventually their fingers intertwined.

Dick seemed to want to smile at the sight of them together, but another thought dragged his expression into a troubled frown. “But none of that can happen until we deal with the most immediate problem. Ra’s al Ghul.”

“As past experiences have proven, he isn’t going to take no for an answer.” said Bruce. “If he won’t stop, we’ll make him stop.”

“Yeah?” snapped Tim, “How’s that?” He couldn’t help the irritation that threaded through his voice. It just felt like Bruce was rubbing salt into an open wound. After all, it was Tim who had been fighting toe to toe with Ra’s for two weeks straight, getting further from victory with every encounter. Yet here stood Bruce, pretending he had all the answers— like Tim hadn’t been wracking his brain for the same thing for days now.  

Bruce eyed him in that same way he’d done the last time Tim had gotten the nerve to lash out at him. It wasn’t anger or disappointment… no. Bruce understood well enough that he didn’t have the right to feel those emotions. The look seemed like more of an acknowledgement, noting that Tim and Jason were justified in their anger and willing to let events play out in whatever way his children wanted them to.

Tim pressed his lips together. In truth he didn’t want to be fighting Bruce. He wasn’t the real enemy here. Their family’s hastily formed peace left Tim feeling like they were standing on a stretch of volcanic rock. Fractured in places and barely holding itself together, their anger spitting lava through the cracks, it would be impossible to move forward until their tempers had cooled.

Bruce looked silently between Tim and Jason for another minute, making sure that whatever needed to be said got its opening.

“We go after him together… as a family. Since it’s impossible to change his mind, the only other option we have is to take his resources away from him.”

Damian stepped forward. “Right now, Grandfather is on the hunt for you, which means that he’ll be based at Nanda Parbat. It’s the strongest league base with the largest force of assassins and the most advanced tech. We dismantle that base and he won’t be able to hunt for you. Not until he’s rebuilt his organization.”

Tim bit his lip, thinking it over. “It’s a temporary solution at best. Knowing Ra’s, he’ll have the league up and running again in a month, at most two.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” grunted Damian.

Bruce nodded. “I know, but it’ll give you time to get back on your feet and it’ll give us time to come up with a better plan.”

“Okay,” Jason scratched behind his ear. “So dismantling a base. That doesn’t sound so hard. With the firepower on the Batwing we might be able to do it without our feet ever hitting the ground. If we’re really lucky, maybe a wall will squash Ra’s into a pancake and save us all a lot of trouble.”

Steph shifted closer to Jason to give him a not so sly fist bump.

“One can always hope, right?” she smiled.

Bruce shook his head. “We won’t be blowing up anything. We’re all going in there to take down as many ninjas as possible and lock down any valuable tech. If it can’t be accessed and altered then we’ll fry it.”

Bruce turned to Tim. “I’m leaving that part up to you, Steph, and Damian. Barbara will be assisting you remotely—”

“No!” Jason barked out so sharply that Tim flinched hard against him. The grin he’d been sporting a moment ago had dropped right off his face.

Tim stared at Jason as he pulled his hand free of Tim’s in order to advance on Bruce.

“I’m not letting you pull him into this again. Tim’s staying here. Get someone else to hack computers for you. Fuck knows we all know how to do it! You never left a stone unturned when it came to training us, that’s for sure!”

One step forward, thought Tim, two steps back.

“Jason,” Tim gripped his arm above the elbow and gave it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. Honestly. I’ll be with Steph an—”

Jason turned on him suddenly. “No, it’s not fine! It’s not fine, Tim. I want you to stay here where you’re safe. I won’t stand by and watch him throw you into that psycho’s arms again.”

Bruce had held his tongue while Tim and Jason spoke freely with each other, but now he spoke up. “Do you really believe that Tim would be safer if we left him at home while we did this? Call me reckless for bringing him with us, but I think there’s just as much of a chance of this being a trap. What if Ra’s expects us to leave him? Do you really want to take that risk?”

A mirthless laugh bubbled out from Jason’s lips. “That’s fucking cruel, Bruce. You’re going into this mission expecting Tim to be taken from us. The only question you pose to me is if I’d rather fight alongside him and watch him get taken right in front of my eyes or leave him here in false safety.”

Tim squeezed his eyes shut.

Jason shook his head and continued, “All you really care to know is which decision I could live with.”

He’d had enough of this… He couldn’t stand here listening to this same conversation play out over and over again. All of this talk about him, yet it was never posed to him. Tim was so tired of being the chess piece moved around on the board.

He slammed his fist down on the countertop, drawing eyes to him. “Stop talking about me like I don’t have a say in any of this, because I do. I love you guys, but your opinions on this matter don’t mean shit. It’s my choice and I say I’m going.”

He’d apparently shocked the room into silence, though Damian smirked approvingly from across the room. Jason’s eyes bored into him the longest of all of them. Tim didn’t say anything, despite the discomfort of his intense gaze. He let his words hang in the air… he wanted Jason to feel them and know that they weren’t going to change.

Finally, Jason gave a half shrug, “It’s your decision. If you can live with it then so can I.”

Tim breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps they were getting somewhere after all.

Nanda Parbat, as far as secret bases went, was usually pretty desolate and hard to find from the outside. With the sonar vision in the Batwing to give them a peek inside the mountain base, though, they could usually get a good sense of what they were dropping into. Today, however, the sonar was reverberating off of the walls of empty hallways, the only movement coming from a small group of sentries completing another lap around their floor.

“Well that’s not weird at all,” blurted Steph. “Where are all the ninjas?”

Dick squinted at the monitor. “Deeper in the base, I guess. Ra’s must have gathered them where our tech can’t reach.”

“You promised me ninjas. There’d better be ninjas.”

Cass placed a hand on top of Steph’s. “I’m sure there will be plenty of ninjas once we get inside.”

Jason balked at the girls. “Hey ladies, we’re only about to engage in a dangerous battle in the hopes of saving my boyfriend from a psycho. Don’t sound so eager, would you?”

Tim blinked at him from where he was buckled into his seat. “Boyfriend?”

“Oh, is it too soon to be putting labels on things?” asked Jason with his eyebrows quirked in way that warned Tim he was arguing a futile point. “I just figured I might as well since we may all be dead in ten minutes.”

Tim couldn’t really argue with him there. “Alright, Boyfriend. Just don’t start calling me babe or anything in the middle of a fight because I will shoot you with your own gun.”

“Noted.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Will you idiots please focus. Please— just for like, five minutes.”

“Oh, lighten up, Damian,” sighed Steph. “We’re focused.”

“Yeah, like a swarm of gnats. It’s no wonder Batman prefers to work alone.” grumbled Damian, strategically ignoring the evil-eye he got from Bruce.

“Alright,” Dick announced drawing everyone’s attention. “We’re heading into this blind as a bat.” He flashed a smile at Bruce while the rest of the group groaned. Despite his dislike of Dick’s puns, intentional or otherwise, it was still nice to have a little humor right before something this big. They might not be the best family, but they knew how to work together and ease the tension before a big mission. Tim thought that in the event that he didn’t make it out of this—if this moment was going to be his last memory of them all together, then it wasn’t a bad one to have.

“Remember your teams and tasks.” Dick continued. “Neither of these are optional. This base needs to be razed to the ground and everyone needs to be watching each other’s backs while we do it. We’re going up against an army. If we get separated, we’ll be outnumbered and then we’re all dead. Understood?”

They all nodded.

Sitting at the controls, Alfred flicked the switch to drop the ramp. It lowered with a mechanical whine until the lip hit the ground. They descended one by one into the packed snow.

Tim followed in Cass’s footprints as they head for the hidden entrance. He didn’t look back as the Batwing lifted off the ground, whipping snow up around them, and left them to their fate.

#collisions in the dark #JayTim #batman fic #batman #jason todd #Stephanie Brown #dick grayson #damain wayne #Tim Drake #cassandra cain #bruce wayne #robin #black bat #spoiler #red robin #red hood #nightwing #DC comics #fanfiction #Jason Todd/Tim Drake

[millennial-star-gazer]

Grey Days( reuploadfrom dragon-shield-maiden account)

Grey Days

Vera's May Prompt Challenge 2018 Prompt(s)9when on dragon-shieldmaiden): "Don't leave me! (Sort of implied in an angsty sense of the word) Genres: Romance, Fantasy, Friendship/Family, Angst/Drama Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy(due to this being from Natsu's/E.N.D's Perspective), Gothic fiction, and Poetry

Characters: Natsu/E.N.D, Lucy , Gray, Diamara, Igneel and Zeref Pairing: Nalu/Endlu (Natsu x Lucy/ E.n.d Natsu x Lucy)

Rating: K+-T for some violence, references to death, mature and dark themes. Reader Discretion is advised for those younger than 12 or 13 years and/or anyone who may not at the level of development (maturity) to handle such heavy subject matter . Side note: Please use your own judgement and proceed with caution before deciding to read If uncertain as to whether you're comfortable with such themes.

Summary: Without his most precious star and father's light, the demon of hellfire is lost—all days perpetually gray. For the loss of his beloved really does drive the heart mad. A retelling of the events surrounding Natsu's/E.n.d's transformation (chapters 503-505) from his perspective in poem form. Title taken from the song of the same name by Chelsea Wolfe. Originally  For Vera's May Prompt Challenge and  Nalu angst week 2018 on previous accounts . Nalu/Endlu

A/N: Hey guys, it's your girl Millennial Stargazer (formerly known as twishadowhunter/ comsicdragonqizard/dragon-shield-maiden/star-crossed-dragon! I'm finally back under a new name (on fanfiction and tumblr as millennial-star-gazer) after months of forced hiatus due to personal extenuating circumstances (which can be explained via private message for those who already don't know why) This time it's an reupload of an installment in the wonderful universe of Fairytail—an angsty gothic little ditty retelling the events of chapters 503-505 and other related chapters mostly from Natsu/E.n.d's perspective which was originally as an entry for Vera's May Prompt Challenge and for Nalu angst week 2018 on my previous dragon-shield-maiden account (tumblr). As you may know, the title is taken from the evocative song of the same name by the lovely Chelsea Wolfe which has heavily inspired the poem.

Yes, I know there's been a lot of poems on my profiles, though I do also write other kinds of non-poetry works if my ongoing fics Tantric Flames and the Draconic Demon -soon to be reuploaded by the way- among others are anything to go by). Also partially by Within Temptation's The Heart of Everything plus the musical body of works from Peter Grundy (Bury My Heart) Brunuhville (River of Tears), Nights Amore (This Dreadful Emptiness , That Which is Called Void, Twisted Goa: Lone Deranger , and A Billion Stars Will Die Today) and Adrian Von Ziegler (Ashes, Twisted, Heaven's Touch, One, My Everything, Ethello-iel and Even in Death) who are all incredibly talented composers in their own right that you should check out! (The songs can be found by by clicking on the song titles or via google. Also see below for "Grey Days" if on Tumblr)

Anyway, I don't think y'all need me warning you that spoilers are present when it's already pretty apparent. Without further ado, here's the poem. Don't forget to let me know what you think by leaving a leaving comment/review. (Links to everything below, sidebar and bio if on tumblr plus Fanfiction profile). Enjoy!

Disclaimer: As you all know by now Fairytail does not belong to me, but the most honourable Hiro-sensei instead, for whom without this labour of love wouldn't be possible.

Read More Here:

1. Grey Days

A. Tumblr Version

B. Fanfiction (Click Here:) (or here:https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13112482/1/Grey-Days-Reupload-from-dragon-shield-maiden)

2.  The Rest  Of My Writing 

A.  Master Fic Rec Post(Click Here:) (or herehttps://millennial-star-gazer.tumblr.com/post/179665258923/master-fic-rec-post:) 

B.  Fanfiction  Profile (Click Here): (or here: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/11384058/)

More to follow.  Links can also be found in bio and  top blog parts (if on desktop)

"Grey and holy You said it was the first time Like the morphine You take it all away Pretend it's okay The grey days" (Chelsea Wolfe: Grey Days)

“A lifeless lover was the high mountains” Where we tried to reach the stars The moon, the ways beyond It was the purest love of all”

(Draconian: Pale Tortured Blue)

“If all else perished, 

and he remained, 

I should still continue to be;

 and if all else remained, 

and he were annihilated,

 the universe would turn to a mighty stranger

(Heathcliff: Wuthering Heights)

"Natsu!" The screams of his celestial maiden Oh how, they call to the dragon of fire through the darkness piercing the shadows of his subconscious Severing the ties that bind

His eyes open The Gods of Time themselves defied Damaria decimated in the blast Scorch and crimson stains through tattered remnants of fabric on skin All within the blink of an eye

Natsu's attempts to rouse the motionless angel in his arms fail when she does not stir Scarlet tears a ghastly sight No single heartbeat , nor breath of life he can hear Vital signs so pined for falls on deaf ears The perceived second loss of the brilliant star in his universe drives him over the edge enough to fully awaken the infernal power within

Flashes of the two's life together before the demon's very eyes River of tears flowing like cascading rain A grief-stricken kiss of on the zodiac wielder's forehead of farewell A piece of his soul here now dying right along with her Oh how the agony of her absence cuts right down to to the bone Soulmates , would-be lovers torn asunder The great divide all together just too much for the demon of black flames’ unholy, forlorn, heart to bear How could it not be when the iridescent light of a billion stars was blotted out from the midnight sky? Never to shine again

Oh, how the cursed fates are cruel

"Zeref, where is Zeref?" The name of the fire demon's accursed brother spilling from his lips over and like a non-nonsensical mantra as if he's a deranged mad man Onward the song of Igneel trudges Any with prying eyes from afar

may just see infernal darkness incarnate annihilate all

those who block his path fall at his feet in firey wake Driven by bloodthirsty instinct to obliterate the creator

Forward E.N.D marches on the hunt in search of his so-called dear brother Eye for an eye Tooth for tooth Raging thirst for the other's blood All in all vengeance apparent

The thought of meeting his inevitable demise just barely crosses the prince of hell's mind yet he cares not For without his the light of his father and  most dear  com he is lost, all days perpetually gray No tomorrow in sight Totality of his desolate existence an infinite void Devoid of meaning just the same

Reunited they all will at least be in the the golden fields of Avalon after his spirit departs

Just Lucy wait, Natsu tells himself in his arms she soon will be on the other side when he crosses the threshold Watching over those so precious together Instead of her buried along with his heart six feet underground Side by side at last Apart nevermore

A figure, there standing in the distance the son of Igneel finally catches a glimpse Is it the one he's been searching for? No, just the ice devil slayer himself Former brothers in arms , comrades in life Mortal foes now, team mates no longer Infernal hellfire and ice will clash A rift far too vast to mend Shattered remnants of a fraternal bond beyond repair All for naught Natsu's goal of sanguinary retribution clear Purging the world of the one who started it all Even it means cutting down almost any who stand in his way The loss of etherious's beloved really does drive the heart mad Delerium not overcome

Oh, but little does the demon know that his most

precious star lives

If only he could see how she still breathes Alive and well

Alas he does not

All is not lost

In the end, who alone will stop the volatile discord? Who alone will be brave enough to be up to the task? Oh, who alone will stop the clash?

Fic tag squad: @writer-appreciation  @nunnatheinsanegerbil @mautrino @rougescribe @goddesofimortality  @phoenix-before-the-flame  @nalufever  @petri808 @thecelestialchick  @nalu-natic

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed! Just a few housekeeping notes in terms of clarification and reminders.

1. "Scarlet Tears" is one of the literary metaphors used in poem alluding to the blood stains under Lucy's eyes after Diarma attempted to scratch them out-unsuccessfully I might add (Thank God lol). The whole bit about regarding the stars being blotted out overall symbolizes Natsu's/E.N'D grief who feels that the world—or his world at least— has become that much less brighter without one of his best friend's light. Not to mention his existence ceasing to have meaning in the wake of so much loss—especially just one year after Igneel's death. Yes, he loves and cares for his other friends a great deal—especially Happy-, but losing them (with a few exceptions like said cat ) isn't quite the same as losing Lucy to death— at least not to the point as being as soulcrushing. I am by no means trying to downplay how much he values others in life—just offering my take since naturally the loss of someone is only futher magnified based on the nature of the relationship and how close you were which is no different for our favourite dragonslayer. In the end, Natsu/e.n.d ultimately would much rather be with Lucy and Igneel in the afterlife watching over their other friends in the afterlife than be without the former in the realm of the living—once he's had a chance to destroy Zeref with his bare hands (most likely using fire and whatever else he has at his disposal—Natsu I mean.) Just so you know ?.

2. To anyone who were following my other works on previous accounts , The Draconic Demon Within is a semi-au Nalu/Endlu fic in which it follows the original timeline of events from the manga and anime up until chapter 478 or so where Natsu saves Lucy from certain death by intercepting Jacob's attack just in the nick of time. After his brutal defeat is where the plot of TDDW deviates. In this fic, the original Team Natsu(Natsu, Lucy, Happy) soon gets word that the Tartaros has remerged with resurrected members and forged an alliance with the Alvarez empire they've (save a few such as Brandish)— all while overthrowing Zeref in the process now that they've gained total independence.

Natsu and Lucy are then lured to Tartaro's new base of operations (in part because said dragonslayer wasn't about to let his girl go barging in alone what with her being one of the people he's most protective of for obvious reasons and all) where they subsequently learn from Tempester that his (Natsu's) life is no longer tied to his brothers —which comes as a shock to you know who that it was mind you—; all this before an incantation is recited from a particular tome to fully awaken the demonic aspect of Natsu's identity from within now that the seal is broken. Pretty sure you guys know the rest for which the rest of the plot unfold as more chapters are posted. Just thought you guys should know in case anyone had any questions about the original timeline of the Fairytail series fits in with TDDW. I'll be sure to post this within the bottom A/N notes in the one chapters in the process of revison of said fic. Side note: I hope to start reposting while also uploading new chapters for both this fic, Tantric Flames and others in the works ASAP.

All right y'all, that's it for now. Be sure to let me you know what you think by leaving a review/comment and don't forget to give the rest of my writing a read once posted/. (Corresponding links above in this post, in sidebar and bio if on tumblr. Also on my Fanfiction profile)! Many thanks once again to all who've been supporting me thus far (including my friends/mutuals, followers and readers)! Until next time—take care!

#Fairytail #ft fanfiction #nalu #endlu #natsu x lucy #e.n.d natsu x lucy #natsu dragneel #etherious natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #gray fullbuster #zeref #repost from previous accounts #more to follow soon #please reblog #millennial star-gazer writers #enjoy