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bokunoheroanalysisforthefuture · 2 years

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(grumble grumble) So another mistake on my part, as to be expected. Apparently Japanese homeroom teachers really do just. Stick with their class all day, and don’t actually teach stuff while they’re assigned homeroom duty. Which means he’s not teaching hero informatics (at least not while he’s in charge of a class) and so. Eh. Sorry about that, folks...

[No. 46 - Bizarre! Gran Torino Appears]

We hop in pretty much about where we left off before, with the kids discussing who they’ll be interning with. Mineta immediately declares his intent on going for Mt. Lady; Tsuyu, without even looking at him, calls him out on thinking lewd thoughts, which Mineta shakily tries to deny.

Meanwhile, Ojiro think it’s odd that Mina didn’t get drafted despite how far she got in the tourney, which Mina agrees with. Ochako turns to check on Izuku, asking if he’s decided yet.

Izuku is…

God, their expressions at Izuku’s intensity. Also Izuku oh my god you nerd. You’re really cost-benefit analysing your internship options.

Next, we have the cover page, which is another fun comic book homage - and, interestingly, I think this is the same group that we eventually see taking part in the Nighteye raid several arcs from now. Make me wonder whether Hori was just starting to vaguely outline that arc at this point, or whether this was the inspiration for said arc.

Anywho, back to the chapter. Aizawa explains how their internships start in a week. For this all-important decision, he’ll be handing out personalized lists to those who were drafted. They will be able to choose from among those who scouted them. For those who were not drafted, he’s passed out a list that contains forty agencies from all over the country willing to accept interns. They’ll choose from that list. Each has a different speciality and region. Give their choices some real thought.

Kirishima immediately declares how he’s going for major crimes in the big city. Tsuyu, meanwhile, is interested in a place where she can deal with floods, wondering if they have that on the list. He then tells them that they need to submit their choices by this coming weekend. Sero is startled that they only have two days to pick, which means… hm. Give me a moment to once again readjust my timeline of events.

(finishes recalculating) and that pretty much confirms that the Sports Festival was on a Tuesday, which. Huh. Odd choice. But what’s more interesting, at least to me, is that if this were to be a leap year, then the Sports Festival would fall on the first of May. If the Sports Festival is specifically schedules for the first of May and didn’t just happen to fall on a Tuesday, then that could help further narrow down the possible ‘years’ this story is set in. But I mean, it’s very circumstantial evidence for that, so I’m not gonna hold my breath on it.

(Abet, I do find it interesting that there is a perfect leap year for this to be set, 2164, 150 years after the year the first chapter of BNHA got published [2014]. And since I calculated that quirks have to be around 150 years old, give or take a decade… well, shrugs.)

Back to the chapter. We see a list of Shouto’s offers (some of which really do seem like scam offers but like, I guess whatever works), with the Endeavor Agency in particular the focus of Shouto’s attention. He doesn’t seem particularly thrilled about it, but…

Meanwhile, Izuku is surprised Ochako is going with Battle Hero: Gunhead’s agency, since he’s a rough-and-tumble scrapper. Ochako does a cute little pose while confirming it, saying how he drafted her. Izuku comments on being sure Ochako had wanted to be a rescue hero like Thirteen. Ochako clarifies that her fight against Katsuki got her thinking; getting stronger opens up all sorts of possibilities, and just doing things the same old way is kind of limiting. Izuku seems to understand where she’s coming from.

Ochako then brings up something a little off topic - the fact that Izuku’s been trembling. Izuku explains that he’s practicing air chair, with us finally getting to see how he’s not actually sitting on his seat. Some of the others comment on hoe he’s a bit crazy for doing that during class, and that it’s pretty old school. Someone else (Izuku?) says that it’s a great way to train without moving, since it works your muscles while it’s contracted. Izuku then states that he has to get stronger. Tokoyami chips in with an adage about chasing two hares and catching neither. Tenya seems to have noticed something on his sheet...

(Meanwhile, Katsuki is incredibly irritated with all the noise, but notably doesn’t lash out.)

After classes end of the day, Izuku is the first to head out the door, only to be stopped by All Might literally skidding into a bow right at the front door. The class comments on it, with All Might giving them a quick wave. Meanwhile, Izuku is immediately on edge, since he’s notices that All Might is rather jumpy, but All Might just tells him to follow him.

Subtle, the two are not.

As All Might explains how someone’s drafted Izuku, we see how much he’s sweating. Izuku is briefly distracted by the shock of actually having an offer. All Might says that the drafter’s name is Gran Torino, that he was once an instructor at UA for just one year - specifically, All Might’s homeroom teacher. Gran knows all about the situation with One For All, which is likely the reason he’s reached out to Izuku at all.

Izuku’s imagination is going wild, thinking of how lucky he is to get an offer from such an amazing guy, before noting that that means there’s someone else in the OFA loop that All Might didn’t mention. ALl Might notes that Gran’s a good friend from the last generation, but that he retired so long ago that All Might forgot about him.

(Yeah, I’m probably gonna call BS on that and say that it’s more All Might didn’t want to think about him for too long due to the… everything between them.)

All Might’s voice develops a quake as he mutters to himself, wondering if Gran drafted Izuku because he thoughts All Might’s guidance wasn’t enough. But for Gran to make this scouting pick using his old name… so scary. All Might tries slapping his leg to keep it from shaking; Izuku’s finally noticed All Might’s nervous terror and is starting to freak out himself. All Might’s shaking intensifies as he holds up a sheet of paper, stating that while training Izuku is fundamentally his duty, Gran went to all this trouble, so he guesses he can let the man take a crack at it.

Considering the fact that All Might’s voice cracks at that, it’s kind of understandable that Izuku is now shaking in fear as well.

All Might manages to snap out of it as he remembers the other bit of news he has to share - Izuku’s costume has been repaired!

Meanwhile, in the staff room, Aizawa is going over what internship choices have been made so far. Snipe comments on it being internship time; Aizawa agrees, idly wondering how many of the kids made rash decisions. Snipe notes how it’s important, and to make them really think on it. Some of his own third years made choices they now regret…

(Snipe confirmed homeroom teacher? For third years? Wonder whether he’s in charge of Mirio’s class (3b) or Nejire and Amajiki’s class (3a)...)

Aizawa agrees again, before his attention is caught by Tenya’s agency sheet. There’s only one choice on it: normal hero manual agency in Hosu City, Tokyo prefecture. Aizawa is sure Tenya had some better choices available, but a hero agency in Hosu… could it be…?

And with that, I’m gonna stop off here, since it’s the halfway point of the chapter and the next section gets into the beginning of the internships. Huh, it’s been a while since I’ve done half-chapter posts instead of full chapter, but then again, the Sports Festival did make it kind of hard to find a break in the action…

Anywho, see y’all next time for the rest of the chapter.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #readthrough #chapter 46 #hero killer arc #midoriya izuku #uraraka ochako #yagi toshinori #aizawa shouta #snipe #sorry for the hiatus #(waves hands vaguely) life happened

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theartistichuman · 3 years

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Tma 200 spoilers

I might post this to my ao3. This is a rough draft so please ignore the subpar writing.

Summary-

Melanie and Georgie heal.

They never did find the bodies in the end. That’s not for lack of trying; they scoured every inch of what used to be The Magnus Institute. They found a plethora of tapes, and some preserved Leitners (Georgie insisted on throwing them out, despite Melanie insisting that they were safe, and even if they weren’t they couldn’t hurt her anyways) but not a single body. Not even of the previous archivists.

Neither of them knew exactly what that meant. Georgie stayed stubbornly optimistic, but Melanie knew better. Georgie may have had her encounters, but Melanie almost was an encounter. She knew what it felt like to be afraid of what you’re becoming, but to want to hurt people anyways. She knew what it felt like to want to burn the world around you, and just keep walking. Melanie wanted to believe what Georgie did- that those two were dead and at rest- but she didn’t have the hope to keep it up. Not like Georgie did.

It takes time to make a new normal. Most days it felt like the world was holding its breath; waiting for the moment that their rest would be interrupted and they would be dragged back into their fear. Georgie started going to therapy, and seemed all the better for it. Melanie saw a psychiatrist every month or so for a check up, but after spending so long with Laverne worshipping her, she knew she needed a bit more time. It wasn’t good to put it off, but Georgie (and, by proxy, Georgie’s therapist) insist she take her time.

Georgie starts her podcast up after Melanie scolds her for getting stir crazy (employment was still fickle). She changed the theme, citing t that people probably wouldn’t want to speculate about the supernatural after they lived it. Instead she starts inviting people to send in her stories.

“Community counseling”Georgie told her over their celebratory dinner (dinosaur chicken nuggets and boxed wine) “people might feel better if they get their stories out there.”

Melanie highly doubted that, but she was the first guest on the newly rebranded ‘What the Apocalypse’ anyways. (It did make her feel better, but she suspects Georgie knows without her admitting it.)

The Admiral is different from how he was before. He didn’t pounce on things and his separation anxiety got so bad the vet put him on meds. The Admiral didn’t seem to like the dark much either, but according to Georgie that might not be because of the end of the world.

Every morning they take their meds together at breakfast. Melanie (with the assistance of her Scanmarker Air, that she refers to as her “sketchmarker air” to Georgie’s dismay) gets The Admiral his tuna, as Georgie makes them cereal.

Every evening they sit together and listen to their favorite books. Georgie will order them Hungarian on Fridays, and Melanie buys a cat carrier for The Admiral for Tuesday walks. It feels like family, and Melanie loves it so much it hurts.

Basira wanders in an out of their lives. Melanie isn’t sure what she’s up to, but she seems lost. Before she always seemed headstrong and powerful: like she knew where she was going and why. But now, without the pressure of the world on her shoulders, Basira seemed... timid almost.

Whenever Basira came over Georgie and Melanie would bring out their board games. They would drink an obscene amount of apple juice, and laugh until the sun came up. Basira never stayed past that, and they never asked her to.

One day Georgie interrupts their newfound evening “Melanie, we should talk.”

“About.....?” Melanie tries to point her face at where she approximates Georgie’s is. Georgie gently touches Melanie’s chin and guides her face up.

“Up here babe,” she says, fondly, “but I’ve told you that you don’t need to do that.”

Melanie knows she doesn’t need to do it, but the hand on her skin makes it worth it.

“I know.” She says back. “But I’m being polite.”

Georgie snorts. “Polite? You? You made Martin cry in your first week of work.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Melanie takes the hand on chin, and rubs her thumb across the knuckles. She ignores the small pang of loss she feels at his name. She thinks that in a different life they would’ve gotten along, maybe even been friends. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Martin, actually. Well, Martin and Jon.” Georgie said. “I was thinking, and I understand if you disagree, that maybe we could... do something for them? Like a funeral or memorial or something? Maybe even just a headstone or something.”

Melanie opens her mouth to respond, but Georgie rushes in before she speaks.

“And I know you and Jon never got along, but I just think that after everything he deserves it. And even if he doesn’t , Martin certainly does. Even if neither of them deserve it I think it would help. My therapist told me I need closure, and I just thought-“

“Babe, babe, slow down,”Melanie interrupts, “I’d love to. Even if Jon and I... even if he was a bit of a wanker, he did sacrifice himself to end the apocalypse. And. Well, I just think t-that-“

Melanie stutters to stop for a moment to think. Georgie seems to understand that she’s not done, and squeezes her hand. Melanie takes a deep breath before continuing.

“I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. Or after that. It was just me and my dad. When he died, they told me- they told me I couldn’t bury him. I couldn’t even have the ashes. Some bullshit about how he was part of a crime scene, which, looking now, didn’t make any sense. Not that I had enough money or time for a funeral, but... well, any closure would have been nice. I just- I just- I just don’t think I could let anyone close to me go un-un- I don’t know it’s just... it’s just bad.” Melanie winces a bit at her ending.

Georgie doesn’t say anything. Her hand stills from where she was playing with Melanie’s fingers. Melanie realizes a little belatedly, that she’d never talked about her father’s death with Georgie. After all they’d been through it seemed almost silly that Georgie didn’t know.

“And even if Jon was a wanker, Martin certainly wasn’t.” She tacks on in attempt to lighten the mood.

Georgie snorts at that. “Jon was... an acquired taste. He was a lot less uptight in University, but good god sometimes you could actually see the rod in his ass.”

“Hey!” Melanie says in mock offense “don’t speak ill of the dead!”

“You literally just called him a wanker!” Georgie retorts.

“Yeah but I’m allowed to! I don’t like him!” Melanie smacks her arm.

“Anyways. What do you want to do for them?” Georgie says once she stops giggling. “I was thinking a headstone, but that might be too much upkeep.”

“And people may not take kindly to a memorial to ‘The Archivist’ and his plus one.”

“Exactly,” Georgie agrees, “ so out with it. Give me an idea, oh wise prophet.”

Melanie pinches her hand. “Shut it, you. Maybe- maybe like a... bench or something?”

“A bench?” Georgie says teasingly, “that’s the best you’ve got? Not so wise after all.”

“Okay prophet, what have you got?”

“Maybe we could do something here? Like a photo album or something.”

“We don’t have any photos of them.”

“We could, like, write a heartfelt letter and burn it.”

“Maybe.” Melanie says with no small amount of suspicion.

“Okay, fiiiine maybe I don’t have any ideas.” Georgie relents.

They sit in silence for a bit after that. It should be uncomfortable, and probably would have been if it wasn’t Georgie and Melanie. Eventually Georgie gets up to find her phone so they can listen to the next chapter of their book. Melanie tries to lie down in the warm spot Georgie vacated, but The Admiral had already taken up the vacancy.

Melanie’s head lands in his soft fur, and he chirps inquisitively before curling around her head. Melanie buries a hand in his fur, and he rewards her with a content purr.

“Comfortable?” Georgie says when she re-enters the room. Melanie groans.

“Yes yes you fuss pot. Ready for our next chapter?” Georgie sits on the edge of the couch by Melanie’s head, and when she starts to pet her head, Melanie wishes she could purr like The Admiral.

Georgie snorts. “I think I might have a type.”

“And whats that?” Melanie nuzzles further into Georgie’s hand.

“Yeah,” Georgie pokes her cheek, “my type is ‘cats re-incarnated as people’. You can’t tell by looking at him, but Jon would absolutely melt at the slightest hair petting.”

Melanie is just about to protest being compared to Jon when an idea hits her. She sits up abruptly, and she hears Georgie give a little gasp in response.

“That’s it!” Melanie shouts.

“What’s it?” Georgie says, almost as loud.

“I’ve just had a great idea.”

Melanie gives her proposal, and even though she can’t see it, she knows Georgie is smiling the rest of the night.

—————

A week later, Georgie and Melanie walk into their apartment with two boxes. They would have just used one, but they were nervous the little ones would fight in the car ride that Rosie graciously provides them (with the payment of demanding photos).

And so Jon and Martin entered their lives.

One of the kittens is sleek black with golden amber eyes and short hair, and the other is white with blue eyes and so much fluff that he looks three times the size he really is. There were more kittens in the running, but these two were at the top (according to Georgie, they were basically photo copies of their namesakes), but Melanie decided these were the two when the woman at the desk told her they were inseparable.

They were worried about how The Admiral would react to their new additions, but it was proved irrational within three hours. The Admiral seemed to take a liking to them immediately.

“Maybe it really is Jon.” Georgie jokes when she stumbles on the three cuddled together. “Sometimes I thought The Admiral liked him more.”

(That was obviously false; anyone with -or with damaged- eyes could tell The Admiral adored her.)

They barely had to make an adjustment to their routine- the only real difference was the number of bowls during breakfast, and the number of feet that pattered in the halls.

Basira didn’t know what to make of it at first, but Georgie later told her that she stumbled in on Basira apologizing to Jon. Neither of them judge her for it; both of them did the same thing when they got him.

The days stretch to weeks, and the weeks stretch into months. Melanie goes to therapy, and attempts to keep houseplants. Georgie records her podcasts and teases Melanie when she fails to keep a cactus alive. Together they make their home with new cat toys (that The Admiral still refuses to play with), a cat tree (which the Admiral is more than interested in), crotchet throws from Rosie and the occasional mug from Basira.

One morning Melanie wakes to find the last bit of residual anger in her gone, and when she cries Georgie holds her tight.

Melanie loves it so much it hurts, and she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

#the magnus archives #the magnus pod #tma #what the gfs #what the ghost #fanfic #jonmartin #wtgfs #Georgie barker #Melanie king #Melanie is trans #just assume she’s always trans in my fics #this is my first Magnus fic #I didn’t edit this at all #what the girlfriends #Melanie/Georgie

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drunkserval · 3 years

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A Fresh Canvas: Incomplete Preview

Quite some time ago I did a silly little thread on Twitter, and I’ve always wanted to take that and actually make something out of it. Well it was a little harder than expected, but it’s coming along!

When I have the entire thing done I will be uploading it to AO3, but for now it seemed seasonally appropriate to at least drop this.

I wanted to have this posted yesterday but festivities kept me busier than expected! Story is below the cut. Keep in mind that this is still technically a rough draft, and will receive its final beta pass before the full story hits AO3.

(Tentative) Title: A Fresh Canvas Fandom: Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System by MXTX Rating: G, No Warnings Apply Summary: Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan are neighbors in the same modern apartment complex who, despite looking similar enough to be mistaken for each other, couldn’t be any more different. Or so they think.

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Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan were neighbors in the same apartment complex. They lived on the same floor, in the same hall, and were often mistaken for one another due to this proximity combined with how similar their appearances were.

But there were key differences, as both would readily point out to their neighbors. Shen Jiu’s hair hung shy of his shoulders while Shen Yuan’s was shorter and lighter in tone.

And still the mix-ups kept happening, particularly if they were at some distance or facing away. The misunderstanding would very rarely last past the first glance since Shen Jiu would snap and take immediate offense, and Shen Yuan would just sigh and say, "Sorry, wrong one."

Shen Yuan had no idea why Shen Jiu got so offended over it. Surely he didn’t look that bad, come on!

The neighbors eventually started learning to look at the clothes first--or to at least look for Shen Yuan’s thick-rimmed glasses.

Both men carried and dressed themselves so differently. Shen Yuan dressed in hoodies and jeans--well, if he was planning on going any further than the mailbox, that was. Otherwise why bother changing out of pajamas or sweatpants?

On the other hand, Shen Jiu didn’t touch anything that wasn’t from a known designer.

Shen Jiu spent proudly--and why shouldn’t he? Because he at least earned his money!

That Shen Yuan kid down the hall? Rumor was that his parents were paying his rent and he'd never had a real job in his life.

But because he never went out, Shen Yuan was one of the only people still hanging around the apartment complex when Shen Jiu went around knocking during a major holiday.

In Shen Jiu’s arms was a box containing two fluffy black pups.

Shen Yuan’s eyes widened at the sight of them and he completely forgot to greet his neighbor until Shen Jiu cleared his throat. The dogs were like little storm clouds with feet and stubby tails, staring back at him with big black eyes. One started wagging its tail with such vigor that its whole back end wiggled about.

It took Shen Jiu a moment to find his voice as he followed, such was the state that his neighbor had chosen to answer the door in. Hideous cucumber-print pajama pants, a tacky anime shirt covered in snack crumbs, and unkempt hair had greeted him. But the continuous movement of the box in his arms reminded him of his mission.

“I found... ” Shen Jiu shifted the box in indication as Shen Yuan shut the door behind them, “these, out by the garbage.”

Shen Yuan blinked as the other passed by him, “Have you tried calling any nearby shelters?”

“Of course I have,” Shen Jiu scoffed at the implication that he was so simple. “You try getting a real person on the phone today, though. It’s impossible. I could only leave messages.”

Shen Yuan put a finger to his lips, “Oh, right. Today is…” Glancing at a wall calendar almost as ugly as his shirt he nodded, “Right. Right.”

Did this kid ever so much as leave the building? Shen Jiu was starting to wonder. Shen Yuan dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed in the latter part of the daytime. And he hadn’t realized it was a major holiday. And then there were the countless odorous takeout boxes covering every available surface in his apartment.

Shen Jiu wrinkled his nose but still asked in spite of his rapidly growing doubts, “You don’t know anyone who can take these little mutts in for a day or two, do you?”

Shen Yuan shook his head and heard Shen Jiu sigh. His neighbor set the box down to give his arms a rest… but Shen Yuan couldn’t seem to rip his attention away from one of the pups. It hadn’t stopped staring at him, or shaking its fluffy little behind, for a moment.

“What if we take them in?”

Shen Jiu’s tone was flat, “What.”

Shen Yuan picked up the excited little pup and it immediately started wiggling in his grasp. Not struggling, however--just trying to get closer to his face, paws waving in the air and its little pink tongue darting out to reach for him even though it was still well outside of range. He had to fight back the urge to laugh at the silly little storm cloud.

“The building allows us to have one animal per unit, right?” Shen Yuan shrugged, “so what if we each took one, even just long enough to find them new homes?”

Shen Jiu frowned. Taking in a dog, or really any animal, had never been on his agenda. He liked his nice clean apartment and intact furniture unlike a certain someone. Plus he was more partial to cats. He moved his gaze from the overexcited animal back to the box. Though the pups looked identical on the surface this one was clearly the calmer one. It looked up at his scowling face but put forth no such ridiculous display… thank goodness.

Who knew? Maybe Shen Yuan’s idea wasn’t so bad. And if it was, it was only a temporary arrangement, in the end. He might be able to get rid of the animal as soon as tomorrow if it was truly intolerable.

Tentatively, Shen Jiu reached out to pick up the dog…

And felt tiny teeth close around his fingers.

Jerking his hand backwards, Shen Jiu sneered down at the animal. “What, you ungrateful little beast!”

Shen Yuan finally stopped cooing at his own pup to look over and said, “Maybe he doesn’t like your cologne?”

“And what’s wrong with my cologne?” Shen Jiu snapped, voice raising.

Stepping back, “Nothing, nothing!”

“It was a gift, you know!”

Shen Yuan barely avoided tripping over a haphazard stack of game cases as he kept moving away. “P-perhaps it’s just too strong for a dog’s nose, that’s all!”

This time Shen Jiu moved quickly, snatching up the dog by its middle before it could get its ridiculously tiny muzzle around anything, and he stared directly into the animal’s eyes.

“Do that again, and I’ll put you back out in the cold where I found you. Understood?”

The dog stared back at him, placid and indifferent… until its tongue darted out and licked the end of his nose.

“...good enough.”

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

It was a few days before the two of them crossed paths again.

It’d seem they both had decided to keep their newfound pets and they were both out that day to take the dogs for walks.

The air in the park was warm, so they sat themselves on a bench to enjoy it for a bit longer and soak up some of the sunlight that was so rare that time of year. Shen Jiu’s pup sat like a sentry at his feet while Shen Yuan’s pup curled up on his lap the moment he sat down.

It was through the ensuing conversation they realized they both gave their dog the same name by sheer coincidence.

One was too lazy and the other was too stubborn, so neither changed it. At least they’d bought different-colored collars. But this brought to light a new revelation, and Shen Yuan just had to ask…

“How did you come up with it?”

“It was just the first thing to come to mind,” Shen Jiu had explained, “from something I’ve been reading, probably.”

"Wait, you read that too!?"

As he suspected! That name was from one of the top-rated web novels that year, from its stallion protagonist: Luo Binghe!

Shen Yuan couldn’t imagine someone as outwardly prim as Shen Jiu reading trashy webnovels, but it turned out to be true. It was just a quick, easy way for him to kill a few minutes of downtime at work, Shen Jiu reasoned in his defense.

Whenever they met up from that point forward, Shen Yuan talked his ear off about his various grievances with Proud Immortal Demon Way.

‘Villains that dig their own graves but don’t bother finishing! Women that lead the protagonist on a three-chapter long subplot just to get to their lewd scenes, only to never see them again! And every single character lost all of their intelligence when the protagonist came around!’

And yet he had nothing but praise for said protagonist… almost excessive praise.

Shen Jiu is annoyed at first but he starts enjoying the company. Which is good because the dog turns out to be a menace.

Well, both dogs could be counted as menaces, just in different ways.

Bing-mei (as they come to call him) would start whining so pitifully when Shen Yuan shut the door between them, thus he often just gave up and took the dog with him whenever it was feasible.

Bing-ge, on the other hand, broke his toys within days, climbed around on furniture he wasn’t allowed on--sometimes when Shen Jiu was looking right at him, too--he barked, he scratched furniture, he tore up pillows.

Despite all the trouble he was causing for his master, Shen Jiu would no longer entertain the idea of giving him up. Not after Bing-ge tore up three separate muggers on three separate occasions and growled at the person who kept taking his parking space until it never happened again.

But the biggest takeaway from their conversations, for Shen Jiu, wasn’t webnovels or dogs. It made him start to realize how lonely he'd been.

The only other person he really spoke to was halfway around the world for their work and they only spoke a couple of times a month. Now that Shen Yuan was around, Shen Jiu actually started to have things to look forward to besides the monotony of work--knocks on the door, long walks with the dogs, the occasional cup of tea afterward on colder days...

Shen Jiu was never the sort to be up-front with his feelings, so he found a way to show his gratitude by helping Shen Yuan with his confidence issues. He started encouraging him to go out more, and to put a little more effort into his looks when he did. This morphed into helping clean up his squalid apartment since Shen Jiu could barely stand to look at it when he came over.

Months later, Shen Jiu’s recommendation had helped Shen Yuan to land an entry-level job. That, and a steady habit of going out once a week, gave them something else to do and talk about.

Progress was slow, but visible. Shen Yuan seemed a little less awkward in public with each passing week.

One night they were leaning on Shen Yuan’s balcony. It was a night of celebration, for he’d just earned his very first promotion, and Shen Jiu had brought over wine for the occasion.

He found himself leaning closer to Shen Jiu, telling himself it was just to get a better look at him in the dim light of the city night. His focus wasn’t the best even when he was sober after all. Yet Shen Yuan didn’t stop. And when Shen Jiu turned to look at him in confusion, and their lips met, he didn’t withdraw for several seconds.

Neither did Shen Jiu.

Shen Yuan tried to flee as soon as he realized what he’d done only for Shen Jiu to pull him back saying:

"Don't run, take responsibility. We talked about this."

#svsss #svsss fic #mxtx #modern au #bingpup #shen jiu #shen yuan #jiuyuan

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katnissmellarkkk · 3 years

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Summary: At the Seventy-Fourth Reaping for The Hunger Games, volunteering is outlawed, thanks to a tribute four years prior. Because of this, when Katniss’ sister Prim’s name is chosen from the bowl, there’s nothing she can do but hope that Peeta Mellark, past victor and now Prim’s mentor, can somehow bring her sister home alive. (Obviously heavy on Everlark.)

AN: Hi! I don’t really have a big author’s note or anything--at least, I don’t think I do? We’ll see how long this trails on--but this is one of the fics I’ve been working on for a while. It’s multi-chaptered so there’s gonna be a lot more coming in the future, but this first chapter is honestly a little similar to the original book, with some (significant) deviations here and there, but after this first chapter, this story becomes extremely different from canon. I gotta thank, obviously, @rosegardeninwinter for a). making me my pretty lil banner and for b). reading the million, unpolished, unedited screenshots of my drafts that I’m sure ya’ll got tired of really quick. And also for encouraging me to write this in the first place. And also, I gotta thank everyone who liked and reblogged the lil story edit I posted months ago for this concept. It really encouraged me to write this concept out. (I’m talking about this edit right here if you forgot or never saw x). Okay, anyways, I’m talking too much but thank you! Also link to this story on AO3 [x].

Chapter One :

I stare out into the sky, introspective, as I wait for familiar footsteps to approach. The footfalls of my hunting partner, my friend even, Gale, still remain absent, despite our longstanding agreement to hunt on Reaping Day, no matter how hot it is, or how scarce the game, or how worried we may be deep inside.

Of course, how could a couple kids from the Seam not worry about Reaping Day? At least a slight bit, deep down?

Reaping Day. The day that decides the almost absolute fate of a lucky—as our assigned escort, straight from the Capitol itself, so proudly proclaims—boy and girl.

We're District Twelve. The smallest and one of the poorest districts in the country of Panem. There's an almost guarantee that whoever gets their name picked from the reaping bowl, even the strongest eighteen-year-old boy in the district, will have an almost sure fate of death. Likely before the number of tributes drops below twenty.

Tributes from our district almost never fare well inside the arena.

Almost never.

We have had a few winners in history, two of which are still around, but a few out of seventy-three games isn't inspiring much hope in anyone today.

The wind breezes against my arms, prickling the hair at the back of my neck, and I'm struck by the memory of being out here, in the forbidden territory of the woods, outside our district limits, when I was just a kid. When my dad was the one hunting and I was just along for the ride. Just along because I wanted to be with him. When I used to blindly trust him and my mother, when I thought he'd live forever, when I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the Hunger Games. When I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the world in which we live.

When I was eleven my every illusion was shattered violently. Almost as violently as the death in which my father must have endured, underground in those mines, as they exploded.

I remember hearing the alarm at school, blaring so cacophonously over the speakers that it shook the schoolrooms themselves. I remember blindly grappling through the scurrying bodies of my classmates, until I found my way to my little sister, Primrose. Her room was completely empty, but she still remained, sitting behind her desk with small folded hands, waiting for my arrival with excessive patience.

I'd always coached her on what we'd do, if there ever should be a mine accident. I made sure she knew the drill, just as I knew it. Like the back of my hand. Like a prayer or a lullaby. I could recite it in my sleep. Because my father had just as sternly instilled it into me.

I wove my way through the chaos of bodies and white-hot panic, towing Prim only inches behind me by the hand, as the kids from town lingered in the hallways, their classic, bright blue eyes large and their voices all quivering, and as the kids from the Seam dutifully made their way to the nearest exits, hoping and praying and begging silently that it wasn't their parent who had been hurt. Hoping the accident hadn't taken what was typically the sole provider in most households, here in the poorest section, in the most impoverished district.

Prim and I must have not hoped hard enough, because we learned almost immediately upon finding our mother, who was now immobilized with grief, her characteristic gentle smile eviscerated and in it's place, a blank stare, void of any life at all, that our every fear from hearing that alarm were coming true.

My mom was supposed to get a job. She was supposed to find a way to provide for us, to take care of her two daughters, who were grieving her husband just as much as she was.

But instead she lay in bed day after day. On the good mornings, maybe if Prim begged and pleaded, she'd move to a chair, in front of the fireplace and stare at the flames with the same vacant expression that had replaced the loving, kind woman who'd raised us.

The money from the government, the minuscule amount of money given to keep us afloat until our mother found work, ran out. The meat our father had hunted, the plants he'd saved, ran out. The food we had the small luxury of sometimes buying—or more times than not, trading for—quickly ran out.

And our mother still did absolutely nothing.

I take a deep breath now and try to force myself to forgive her. Forgive her for not being strong enough to keep going, forgive her for not caring enough about her own children to keep them alive in the face of her grief, forgive her for being so in love that losing my father had almost killed her too.

I know it's what my father would want. And I know it's something I can't let myself do. Because if I let her off the hook, it's like saying it's okay that she almost let Prim wither away to nothing. Forget me. I will never forgive her for almost taking my little sister away from me.

Our mother did absolutely nothing until Prim's ribs were prominent, until my stomach was nearly hallow, until our cheekbones were so blatantly obvious you could count them from down the road.

And all my fears, all my resolve, to keep the three of us together as a family, went out the window. There was nothing left to do, but wait for me and Prim to be taken to the Community Home, with the other orphans or kids from unsafe families. Kids who still remained too thin, who's eyes told stories no ear wanted to hear, who still wore bruises upon their skin like freckles from the sun, who looked nearly worse than the corpses I encountered every winter, while walking from the Seam to town. Those corpses were the unlucky ones who'd actually starved to death, who had sat down to merely rest, because they had no substance to carry them any further, and somehow never got back up.

On that day, at eleven years old, living in the Community Home sounded no worse than living with the immobilized shell that had once been my mother. My resolve to hold out until my birthday, until I could get the tesserae that would feed my family for an entire year, was shattered by the harsh raindrops pelting me from the grey, unforgiving sky.

I vaguely heard the baker's wife, the mean-spirited woman, with her deeply embittered, hostile blue eyes that somehow seemed black, scream at me, calling me names, shooing me from her property.

I'd simply wanted to rummage her trashcan, so desperate for any small morsel to take back to Prim, any motivation to take even another step forward, when I felt her rough and calloused hands shove me away.

I toppled over, my legs already weak and shaky from lack of nutrition and substance. My depleted form laid on the ground, my eyes bleary from exhaustion and the shivering wind and rain.

The witch went back inside the bakery as I scarcely conjured up the will to sit upright. I was beyond done. The fighting to even gain a fraction of my mother's awareness, to get something, anything, to feed myself and my starving sister, to even stand up, became overwhelming and I felt the last bit of my resolve crumble from deep inside.

Let them come and take me and Prim to the Community Home. I don't care any longer. Let them come.

Out of the corner of my eye, a boy exited out the same backdoor the witch had gone through. He was carrying a bag of trash in his hands and my famished mind focused on that first, focused on what could be inside the contents of that bag, on what a baker could potentially be throwing away, before I realized the boy was in my year at school. I knew him, or at least, I knew his face. But he stuck with the other blonde-haired, fair-skinned town kids and I didn't even remember his name in that moment.

In hindsight, that's absolutely hysterical now.

But he evaporated as soon as he'd appeared and I closed my eyes and let the rain drown me, hoping perhaps I could be swallowed up within the downpour itself. Hoping that perhaps I'd never have to face the reality that I was out of options and I had nothing of subsidence to take home.

But then I heard a clatter and a clang and the sound of a scream. It was her, the witch. She was screaming and calling someone names my own mother had never even uttered in my lifetime.

I mentally prepared myself for her to come back outside, to drive me away with a stick or a knife. Or possibly even a hot, scorching prong.

But it wasn't the witch. It was the boy, the one from my year. The one I thought went back inside after taking out the trash, that I believed didn't even notice me before.

He was carrying bread. Two loaves, in fact. The crusts were black and burned and the welt across his face told me, without a doubt, that he was the target of the witch's insults. That he was the victim of whatever clanging noise I heard.

And though I was the one starving to death, I didn't envy him having her for a mother.

I remember vividly, the most crystal clear image I have of this day, the boy checking and making sure the witch's attention had been claimed elsewhere. And then, without even glancing in my direction, he tossed one loaf of bread to my feet. Seconds later, the other followed.

He didn't hesitate to head back inside after that, and I've spent more time in these last four years than I'd more than likely care to admit, wondering what possessed him to commit such an act of kindness. No one was kind for free, I'd learned by that point.

And yet, as I shook myself forcefully out of my stupor, and carried the loaves back to my house at the edge of the Seam, I had no explanation for his simple act. I had no basis to explain why he would help me, when no one else ever had.

The next day, I saw him at school. I passed by him in the hallway, and saw his eye had now blackened, his cheek welted, but somehow he still managed a joyous smile. He didn't notice me then. He was surrounded by his friends. Like always, he was surrounded by a constant crowd.

He is, after all, one of the most charming and sweet people Panem's ever known.

Later that day, when I was about to walk home with Prim, who was excitedly chattering about the leftover bread awaiting us on the kitchen table, the bread I'd brought home the night prior that had filled our stomachs for the first time in months, I caught the boy looking in our direction. My grey Seam eyes met his baby blues for a microsecond, before he looked away. I snapped my gaze downwards too, embarrassed, when I caught sight of a dandelion.

It was that moment that a bell went off in my head. That I saw how I could survive, how Prim could survive. How, through the things my dad had taught me, I could keep me and my sister alive.

After that day, I could never stop associating the boy with the bread, the one who gave me hope, with the dandelion that reminded me I wasn't doomed.

I never stopped associating him with his simple act of kindness, even when he became famous for some much less appreciable acts.

And I never stopped kicking myself for failing to thank him, for saving my life and my family's life, before he was whisked away, to a land far from Twelve, called the Capitol. When he later returned, now a part of a much more elite social class, thanking him for his kindness became even less of a possibility.

A girl from the Seam had no business seeking out a boy from Victor's Village. Even if I did have the guts.

Though he isn't exactly in good company here in Twelve, seeing as the only other person who holds the same title is a drunken, middle-aged man who can barely form a coherent sentence most days and lives like a hermit by his own volition.

My thoughts are interrupted by the quiet—almost as quiet as mine, but not quite—steps of Gale.

"You're late," I state without turning around, pulling the cheese from my pocket. "You're lucky Prim's cheese held up under the sun."

But Gale pulls something even more impressive from behind his back. "This will probably go nice with it," he says and I almost gasp.

Fresh bread is so rare in our district, generally reserved for the Peacekeepers and perhaps a merchant who is having a good day. Here in the Seam, fresh bread from the bakery is as common as new school shoes.

Gale updates me on his day as we split the bread and cheese and have our own version of a small feast. He'd gotten to the woods early, while I had been still at home, and shot a squirrel to which he traded for the bread.

"The baker really went for that?" I ask in disbelief. The baker was a subdued, large man, who resembled all three of his sons quietly strongly, and was one of my dad's best customers. Sometimes I think he still trades with me and Gale out of respect to my dad's memory, but a simple squirrel for a loaf of fresh bread isn't common.

"I think he was feeling generous this morning," Gale suggests a little snidely, his bitterness leaking through. "Besides. It's not like the Mellark's need the money they ask for bread. They could easily skim off their precious son and he'd probably never notice."

Gale has a special affinity for hating anyone and anything associated even minimally with the Capitol. He was lost his father in the same mine explosion I lost mine in. But whereas I don't let myself get too worked up over the inequities between the town and the Seam, and especially between us all and the victors, Gale takes a special pride in fuming over the things he cannot change.

I don't mind listening usually, since neither of us can speak our minds in public or even within our own homes, out of fear small ears will pick up on our words and repeat them elsewhere. But today, I just don't have the energy to be a sounding board.

Instead I take a segue towards a slightly different topic, but one, without a doubt, weighing on both our minds. "Prim has been having nightmares of the reaping," I murmur solemnly. "She's convinced they're going to call her name."

Gale shook his head, his demeanor becoming more subdued now. "Least Prim's name is only in there once, Catnip. Rory had to take tesserae this year."

I nod silently at that admission, knowing what it must have cost him to even allow his little brother to take additional risks of being called. Knowing it meant his family of five must be even more hungry than he leads on.

We don't say much more after that, only lingering in the woods long enough to catch some additional game from what I've already collected, and hurry back to town to trade.

As we walk back to the Seam, having divided up our goods evenly, Gale murmurs suddenly, "I might be able to stomach the idea of Rory's name being in that bowl six times if we were still allowed to volunteer."

I bypass his words the best I can. I don't want to think about what Gale must be going through, making himself sick with worry, not for himself but for a sibling in which he considers himself responsible for. And, as it happens once in a lucky moon, I feel grateful that my tesserae is still sufficient for a family of three, and I don't have to worry about Prim the same way. Her one entry pales in comparison to the thousands that are piled in that bowl.

Still, the silence between us as we walk is deafening and I can't take it any longer as we come closer to my house. "At least then, you'd get to see the Capitol," I say lightly, as a means to brighten his mood, even just a little.

At that, Gale rewards me with a humorless smirk. "Generous of the president, isn't it? To allow us district people to experience the great Capitol firsthand while they slaughter our family."

And it's true. Just a few years ago, it was allowed to volunteer as tribute in the place of whoever's name got chosen, as long as you were the same gender and between twelve and eighteen on Reaping Day.

But four years ago, when a twelve-year-old boy volunteered for his seventeen-year-old brother, an outrage sparked across the entire country. People are never happy, in any district, to see a twelve-year-old be chosen for the games. They're the youngest, the smallest, the most innocent, and never in history had a single one made it past the Final Fifteen in the games.

So when one volunteered, the country wasn't pleased in the slightest. However, like always, the anger was contained by Peacekeepers in a matter of weeks, and promises came pouring out from the Capitol that a change would be made after the games that year to ensure never again would this situation occur.

And it never again could. Because three days after the Seventieth Hunger Games, President Snow announced that all volunteering, from that point forward, was officially banned.

This new law is even more ironic when you realize that the twelve-year-old volunteer from that year became the youngest victor in the entire history of the games.

Still, I suppose the president was feeling generous that day, and he threw in a bonus treat for us in the districts. Now when someone is chosen from the reaping bowl, though their fate is sealed definitively when their name is uttered, they get to choose one family member to take on the train ride to the Capitol with them, to get a special viewing of the games with the mentors and the sponsors and the past victors, to get to experience the wonder that is the mysterious Candy Capitol firsthand.

However, when all is said and done, twenty-three family members must ride the train home alone to their districts, with their loved one in a casket beside them. The thought chills me to the bone and I shiver as me and Gale wish each other good luck. We probably won't see each other again until it's time for the customary dinner we all try to put on with our neighbors to celebrate, even minimally, that we've survived another year unchosen.

Prim is already wearing my first reaping outfit when I enter the house, though it is a bit large on her. She's slimmer than even I was at Twelve, despite her having months on me when I attended my first reaping.

I get ready quickly, if only because I want to spend time with her before we have to go. I protect Prim in every way I can but I'm powerless against the reaping.

Still, she's only entered once and that's as safe as anyone can get from being chosen. It's almost unheard in the Seam to be that safe from the games.

But my sister never did appear like she fit in here anyway. Her golden blonde hair and sky blue eyes resemble the merchants, not the Seam, and her and our mother stick out like sore thumbs next to our neighbors.

Our mom is restless now, busying herself with preparing the food for our small feast tonight and braiding Prim's hair and then mine.

I still haven't fully forgiven her for leaving us when we needed her most, but I also can't imagine how difficult it must be to have to send both your children off to be potentially chosen for an absolute death. And I let her hug me as I guide Prim out the door.

Attendance is mandatory for all in the district, but the ones viable for being chosen and those just watching don't typically enter together.

I guide Prim by hand into town, the walk feeling longer than it did with Gale. Perhaps it's the trembling twelve-year-old I'm towing, or perhaps I'm more afraid than I'm even admitting to myself.

After all, unlike my sister, I have twenty slips with my name splayed across this year. It's not as a bad as someone like Gale, who has forty-four chances of being called. But it's not as safe as the kids from town, who likely only have to worry about a handful of slips with their names.

Its not that they're rich by any standard, but they get by better than those in the Seam. Even if they're hungry, they're not at risk of starving, and no one is going to sign up for tesserae unless there is no alternative.

A year ago, my mother let it slip once over dinner, just out of the blue really, that my father had always sworn no child of his would be in need of tesserae.

I shake my head, as if to physically rid myself of the reminder. I don't want to dwell on what my father would feel if he were here. I don't want to be reminded how different things would be if he hadn't died.

I help Prim sign in and then drop her off, as gently as I can, with the other girls her age. At the last minute, she pulls on my hand, yanking me back to her with surprising force.

"Prim, I have to go stand with the sixteens," I say as she leans up and kisses my cheek.

"I just wanted to say I love you," she whispers softly, her big blue eyes so terrified, and then she steps back into the crowd of twelves surrounding her.

I sigh softly and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. She truly is the best of our parents. Kind, smart, level-headed. She's funny and resourceful too, even if she can't take hunting animals herself.

She is the only person I'm certain that I love. And just about the only thing that keeps me going most days.

As I make my way to the sixteens, straightening my mother's dress on my hips, I check the clock. Only five minutes before we start. Before our lovely Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, reads off two names in her distinctive, afflicted accent. Before two kids know they're never coming home again.

This place isn't much. But it is all we've ever known, and no one wishes to leave it.

As more people crowd in, I begin to pick up an excited buzz in the girls surrounding me. Already knowing what I'll see, I crane my neck just the same, to peer up at the stage ahead.

Sure enough, I see exactly what I knew I would.

There's four chairs set up on the stage. One for Effie Trinket, because no one from the Capitol could ever bear to stand for more than three minutes at a time and she must have a seat to relax in before she calls out the names and sends two of us—a lucky boy and girl, as she says it—to the slaughter.

One of the other chairs is occupied by Mayor Undersee. A man who looks like he's been beaten down by life too many times as it is and would rather be anywhere but here. His daughter is my age. She sits with me at lunch, since Gale is two grades ahead of me and we rarely see each other at school. We make polite small talk but other than that, I barely know anything about her, and by association, her father.

However, it's neither of them that's stirring up the buzz within the crowd—admittedly, more so with the female portion of the crowd—and it's definitely not Haymitch Abernathy, who's stumbling on stage right at this moment. He managed to win the Fiftieth Hunger Games and I still can't imagine how. He's a paunchy man my mother's age and he's never sober, on the rare time he's even seen in public. Today is no exception, as he flops onto a chair gruffly, and murmurs something unintelligible with his eyes closed.

No, the murmuring, the now batting eyes and coy smiles, the soft vibrato still traveling within the crowd, are all because of the last guest of honor, walking upon the stage right behind his old mentor.

Peeta Mellark.

Winner of the Seventieth Hunger Games. Youngest ever. District Twelve's first and last volunteer. The twelve-year-old that changed the rules for the entire country.

The youngest mass murderer in history of Panem.

And now one of it's most beloved celebrities.

Peeta is smart—brilliantly smart—and he's always been charismatic. Even at twelve, he had the Capitol audience, as well as every single soul watching on television at home, eating out of the palm of his hand.

It doesn't hurt that at sixteen, he's become quite a looker. His blonde curls, his blue eyes, those long lashes and bubblegum pink lips. His fair, perfect skin that has not a blemish in sight. His toned, muscular body and devastatingly genuine smile that no one can help but fall in love with.

He's also the boy who saved my life. The one who committed the simple act of kindness, knowing it would cost him, to help me.

I never thanked him. And now I never can, as I'm sure he has zero memory of me. After everything else that's happened to him since, after the last four years of living as a Capitol darling, as one of the country's most cherished victors, he'd never remember the starving eleven-year-old he threw some burned bread to in a rainstorm.

But I remember him. I don't know if it's what he did for me that day or what he did for his brother only a matter of weeks later, but something about Peeta Mellark crawled under my skin four years ago and ever since, I've never been able to completely shake the feeling I get inside upon seeing him.

I break my gaze away, refusing to stare at the boy, who I will always accredit as the one who saved my life. I venomously refuse to gawk at him, like every other girl in the district.

He rarely comes out of his house when he's home here in Twelve, and I know the overzealous amount of attention he receives just by going to his parents' bakery has to be at least a part of the reason. Unlike Haymitch, who has lost his clout and his appeal with age and with deterioration, Peeta has only gained more and more notoriety as the years pass by.

You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in Twelve, outside of a few outliers like Gale perhaps, who'd say a negative word about Peeta Mellark.

Of course, rumors about his random and long stretches spent in the Capitol itself are always floating around, no matter what time of year it is, but they don't affect his public persona or anyone's opinion of him. He is, after all, the most valuable figure Twelve has and perhaps the only thing we can take any pride in.

Effie Trinket steps up to the microphone just as I turn my head away from the stage. "Welcome!" She greets, so vivaciously, so brightly, I can't imagine it even resonates in her head that she's just moments away from announcing two of our impending funerals. "Welcome, everyone! To the reaping for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!"

I can't even bear to listen as she prattles on, with too much confidence and dignity for someone dressed in every neon color known to man, speaking in such a peculiar accent, with a thickly painted face that is so blatantly visible to the every eye here today, even in the back row. Doesn't she realize how ridiculous she is to us? Doesn't she realize how wrong it is to preach about the morals and disciplines of the Capitol, in such a prideful voice, when they're the ones about to murder us for entertainment, and in repentance for a long over war that only a few elders can still remember?

As I advert my eyes, my gaze travels once again to the back of the stage, and I'm more than a little surprised to see Peeta Mellark with a similar expression as mine. He, too, is shifting his eyes elsewhere, away from his own escort, looking sick to his stomach.

Of course, it still can't be easy for him, even with his own games four years in the past. He was a literal child when he volunteered and it's fact that he didn't understand what he was getting himself into when he took his brother's place that fateful day. His innocence was stolen as soon as the countdown ended and talk still circulates, even in the Hob, that he wakes up screaming most nights, calling out the names of fallen tributes. Though those words are not given much weight in the Seam, as we all know, people get bored in this tiny district and bored people begin to spew lies whenever encouraged.

Effie continues, in a long overdone mantra, one I could recite in my sleep, the same one she spews every year, that two kids from every district must be chosen to battle to the death in a new and invigorating—one of her favorite words—arena, in order to pay for the blood shed during the rebellion and war, in order to ensure we'll never again even think to rebel.

It would almost be easier to swallow, this whole charade, if the people sent from the strange land of the Capitol would just be honest and blunt with us. If they'd just admit that they see us as lesser than, as animals or beasts of some sort, as less than human beings. It'd be easier if the Capitol spokespeople would just outright say, "we'll take your children, we'll starve your district, we'll ruin your homes, we'll broadcast the deaths of those you love most, all to keep you too powerless to fight. In order to make sure you never are able to stand strong, we have to kick your legs out from under you first."

Instead of being honest though, Effie Trinket is reiterating the Treaty Of Treason, in a tone so serious that it takes all the self-control possible to stop several boys standing in the fourteens from bursting out laughing. Her accent and a serious tone do not mesh well together.

Once she's done though, my heart automatically skips a beat. Because, after four years of standing in this square, I know exactly what's coming. "Ladies first!" Effie announces and I feel a bead of sweat glide down my forehead, both from anxiety and from the overload of heat. Reapings always take place in the start of the hottest month of the year.

Standing in my mother's well-crafted dress, one of the most luxurious pieces of clothing we own, only makes my perspiration worsen, as the dress was clearly made to keep the wearer as warm as possible.

Our district escort makes her way over the bowl containing the names of every girl eligible to be picked in the entire district and I feel myself take in a breath involuntarily.

There's twenty chances she's going to call out my name. Twenty chances I'll be sent to an almost imminent death. Twenty chances Prim will grow into her teen years, and later adulthood, without a sister.

The gut-churning fear I'd repressed all morning, in that moment, overtakes my entire being, curling up like a ball in the pit of my stomach, as I do my best to listen on baited breath, somehow expecting to hear my own name spoken through the raucous microphone for all to hear.

Don't be me, I whisper inside my head, more fearful than I'd ever admit out loud. Don't be me. Please, don't be me.

And, as it turns out, it's not me.

Instead it's the name I never in a million years thought I'd hear. The name I believed to be so safe I didn't even allow myself to worry about her.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

#everlark #everlark fic #thg #the hunger games #thg fic #everlark fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #everlark fanfiction #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #writing #fic #fics #au #aus

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tanoraqui · 4 years

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uhh please enjoy this rough draft of the first half of chapter two of Iron, Blood, and Grave Dirt, aka the demon baby!A-Yuan au

0. Lan Wangji arrives at the Burial Mounds too late to find A-Yuan, but not too late to see Jiang Cheng and the YunmengJiang disciples flying away with him. He follows.

He waits, bleeding and aching, for night. It doesn’t take long - Lotus Pier isn’t far from Yunmeng, as the sword flies, but the day has already been long. When the sect compound quiets, Lan Wangji slips in.

He is spotted almost immediately. He is clumsy with pain and grief, and Jiang Cheng has not trained his people to be incautious of intruders. Through sheer force of will, he (mostly) does not lean on the alarmed disciple who offers him an arm, a seat, a bed in the infirmary, Hanguang-jun?!?

It’s easier when Jiang Cheng stalks into sight, because Lan Wangji is fueled by determination and fear and rage and love and just a little bit of spite.

He may never know what in his face - his posture? his mere presence? - makes Jiang Cheng’s eyes widen in realization. He will certainly never realize that Jiang Cheng’s voice cracks more with betrayal than fury when he says, “You? You knew?”

He dismisses his disciples with a sharp wave of one hand and Lan Wangji stays standing because he is bleeding and broken but his hand is on Bichen’s hilt, he will fight if he has to, because -

“Wei Yuan.”

“Is my nephew, and you are not touching him.” Zidian throws off sparks.

It’s a testament, frankly, to Jiang Cheng’s mental and emotional disarray, that Lan Wangji is the first to realize that they do not need to kill one another in defense of the same child, because Lan Wangji is, as discussed, bleeding and broken and 3 steps from passing out.

“He needs to be...hidden,” he says.

Jiang Cheng laughs with bitterness so vast it can only be folded and compressed to rage, like steel folded into a sword, and waves a handful of papers bent in one fist. At Lan Wangji’s stone-faced bafflement, he loosens his grip and smooths them out, and shows off the familiar handwriting. Unfamiliar designs, but recognizable concepts.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji breaths without a thought.

“I went looking in his room for- some sort of explanation,” says Jiang Cheng. “Found this half-baked thing - it’ll disguise resentful energy as spiritual, if- when I finish it.” (The sort of invention that would get the Yiling Patriarch accused of villainy and deception from the eastern sea to the western heavens, but both of them know that’s not the reason for it.)

“Will you?” says Lan Wangji (and can you as well; both rude, but the older Lan Wangji grows, the less time he has for politeness.)

Jiang Cheng nearly spits at him, and for once, that is answer enough.

Here’s where, in another timeline, Lan Wangji might collapse and need a bed to lie on, or Jiang Cheng might look him over and offer one, and the Second Jade of Lan might spend his seclusion, very quietly, at Lotus Pier. This is not one of those timelines, though. In this one, Jiang Cheng looks him over and maybe, maybe he thinks about it - but instead he bunches the paper up in his fist again and drops it to his side, and says gruffly and almost kindly, “Go home, Lan-er-gongzi. Can you make it?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t waste his effort nodding.

“Good. Then go. You being here will only raise more questions.” As an act of mercy he says, “Wei Yuan has a fever, but it’s probably some fucky demonic thing, not real illness. He’s - ” his face twists - “strong. I’ll send you a message when he pulls through.”

1. Wei Yuan is still bedridden when he receives his first (remembered) assignment from his sect leader (that isn’t “go to sleep” or “eat your soup” or boring stuff like that). But he’s been permitted to sit up and provided pencils and paper with which to draw, so long as he does both without either getting up further or making enough noise to wake the baby (again). He’s doing it all fantastically, singing softly to himself in accompaniment to the story he’s drawing about two butterflies who are friends, when actually it’s shushu who breaks the quiet.

Wei Yuan looks up in shocked delight. “That was a bad word!”

“Oh shut the- ” Shushu, who is also Sect Leader Jiang, takes a deep breath and puts aside the papers he’s been reading, in chair near Wei Yuan’s bed. He eyes Wei Yuan sitting attentively with his lapdesk, and the baby (Jin Ling, Wei Yuan’s cousin) in the crook of his own arm, and opens his mouth to shout for a servant - than looks again at the sleeping baby. At Wei Yuan. He releases the shout as a slow, quiet, exhale.

Very carefully and slowly, without adjusting the angle of his bed-arm almost at all, he stands, walks over, and puts the baby down on the bed next to Wei Yuan.

Wei Yuan holds perfectly still. He doesn’t even breathe. Jin Ling squirms a little, and shushu takes Wei Yuan’s arm and tucks it around his fuzzy head, so Jin Ling still has something to nestle into. Possibly even shushu holds his breath as Jin Ling quiets again.

“Don’t move,” shushu instructs quietly and quickly. “Don’t let him move, except to wiggle or whatever. I’ll be right back, I’m just going to go get a couple reports from my room. If he wakes up and starts crying, shout for help.”

He pauses and adds, “Breathe, A-Yuan.”

Wei Yuan takes in a deep, gasping breath, and immediate tries to calm it so the baby doesn’t notice.

“Got it?” asks shushu.

Wei Yuan nods as furiously as possible without moving anything below the neck. Shushu gives him a serious nod and slips silently out of the room.

(Wei Yuan doesn’t...remember either his uncle or his cousin, or Lotus Pier or much anyone or anything else. Shushu and the doctor say the second thing is okay because he’s never actually met Jin Ling before, and anyway Jin Ling is so little that he doesn’t remember anything at all; and the first and third are okay because he had a bad fever and it hurt his head, and so long as he can still remember things like words and how to draw butterflies, and kind of remembers enough that he never thought to be scared of waking up in Lotus Pier with a grumpy uncle beside his bed, then that’s okay. And they also say it’s very impressive that he can count to three, which is satisfying.)

2. “I’m Chifeng-zun!”

“I’m Sandu Shengshou!”

“You always get to be Sandu Shengshou - I want to be Sandu Shengshou!”

“Fine - I’ll be Lianfang-zun!”

“I’m Hanguang-jun!”

“Don’t be stupid,” scoffs A-Jiao, and pulls the sword-shaped stick from his hands. “You have to be the Yiling Patriarch.”

“Who says!” Wei Yuan demands, and grabs the stick back. “Gimme Bichen!”

“Everyone says!” A-Jiao refuses to let go, and gives it a good hard yank for good measure. “You look like him, my mama said, and he’s your dad and you’re weird!”

It’s one of the weeks when Jin Ling is at Carp Tower, is the problem. Those weeks are always the worst. When Jin Ling is here, Wei Yuan can bounce happily between training and lessons and playing with Jin Ling, and nobody complains at all. When Jin Ling gone, Wei Yuan has to try to play with the other kids, the couple in the sect and the varying dozen who run around the market while their parents tend stalls. It’s pretty much always terrible.

He lets go of the stick abruptly and lets A-Jiao stumble back.

“Fine!” he shouts. “I don’t want to play Sunshot anyway! It’s stupid!”

Jiang Cheng finds him a couple hours later, sitting in a corner rather than eating dinner with the other young disciples like he should be.

“What are you doing?” he demands. “What’s this I hear about you shoving a girl in the market?”

“I didn’t - ” Wei Yuan redirects his scowl to his knees (it’s not a very good scrowl, anyway. There’s too many tears hovering at the corners of it.) “Sorry, Jiang-zongzhu.�� (It’s Jiang-zongzhu when he’s yelling, especially if Jin Ling isn’t here.) (Wei Yuan can call him shushu sometimes, but not Jiang-shushu, because he makes a Face and then snaps at everyone even more than usual.)

“Hrmph,” says Jiang Cheng, because there’s clearly, like, Feelings happening here, and that’s bullshit. “Are you still wearing that necklace I gave you?”

“Yes, Jiang-zongzhu.” Wei Yuan brushes his hand along the chain and pulls the pendant out for inspection. It’s not especially pretty, just a few lotus seeds carved with marks indicipheravle through the thick lacquer that glues them together. It makes him feel a little better and a little worse, because it’s something his father, the Yiling Patriarch made for him, a protection charm that shushu found (he says) in a pile of Wei Wuxian’s things, and passed on to Wei Yuan.

“Good,” says Jiang Cheng. “Now, if you have a problem with anyone, show them up by getting your butt to dinner and eating well, and going to bed early, and being better than the rest of them in training tomorrow. And every day after that. That’s the only real way to get people to shut up.”

Wei Yuan looks up with a little bit of hope in his eyes.

“And you’ll be waking up early to kneel for an hour, because YunmengJiang disciples don’t shove girls in the marketplace. What are you waiting for, go! You want all the food to get cold?”

3. Wei Yuan thinks that maybe the Second Jade of Lan is heartbroken, that Wei Yuan doesn’t recognize him. It’s very hard to tell - there’s the slightest widening of his eyes, the tiniest downturn of his mouth - but that very reticence of expression is what makes Wei Yuan think that even the little he sees probably says quite a lot.

“This one apologies, Hanguang-jun,” he says with as formal a bow as he knows. “I had a fever, when I was little. I don’t remember a lot, from before I was four.”

Lan Wangji remains silent.

“I’m seven now,” Wei Yuan says helpfully, straightening, because he just had his birthday and he’s proud of the fact.

“You have grown,” Lan Wangji manages, because that’s certainly one of the things that is leaving him frozen.

Wei Yuan beams up at him. “I’m 120 centimeters tall!”

“And you are...well?”

(It’s...possible that Lan Wangji had entertained himself, from time to time in the last three years, with thoughts of striding into Lotus Pier the second he was free of “seclusion” and being instantly greeted by Wei Yuan flinging himself into his arms. Wei Yuan would be simultaneously weeping with yearning and beaming with pure joy, that wide smile that was so very much Wei Wuxian’s even when nothing else about their faces looked particularly the same (except the eyes, the ghost-pale eyes). Wei Yuan would cry that Jiang Wanyin was a wholly inadequate guardian and beg to go back to Gusu with Lan Wangji, or maybe to travel around doing righteous things, and in the truly extravagant dreams, he’d say that before leaving him in the tree, Wei Ying had confessed that - )

“I’m very well, thank you!” Wei Yuan says with perfect manners, and beams Wei Wuxian’s smile. “I...” He looks around uncertainly. “I was doing sword practice, but I guess that’s...over?”

“LAN WANGJI!” comes a familiar bellow as Jiang Cheng stalks into the training yard, a couple junior and senior disciples at his heels. Others have clustered at the edges of the yard pushed back by more or less the force of Lan Wangji’s focused attention. It is...possible that Lan Wangji carried out the first part of his daydreams without thought, striding (barging) into Lotus Pier without warning and not stopping until he found Wei Yuan and confirmed that he was -

He blinks. “You plan to wield a spiritual - ”

Jiang Cheng grabs the interfering idiot in white by the elbow and pinches hard enough to bruise, and hisses in his ear, “Don’t you dare fucking tell him.”

4. Jin Ling sprinted down the corridor, shrieking gleefully at the top of his lungs.

“I’m gonna get you! I’m gonna get you!” Wei Sizhui hollered at his heels. “I’m gonna - ”

“HEY,” Jiang Cheng broke off conversation with a disciple to bellow, as both boys skidded to a halt. “Do you think this is a playground? A race course? Shouldn’t you both be in lessons right now?” In fact he knew they should be, Jin Ling with learning letters with his brand-new tutor and Wei Sizhui in basic talisman class with the other young disciples, under Yang Bozhao’s watchful eye.

“Lessons are boring,” Jin Ling said promptly, though he had the grace to look shifty.

“Many apologies,” Wei Sizhui said much more politely and a little out of breath with laughter, half a step behind him. “A-Ling wanted to play, and Yang-shixiong said we may have a stretch break - ”

“So you run screaming through the halls of my ancestors?” Jiang Cheng snapped. “A-Ling, back to your tutor - I’m sure she’s looking for you.” Though how the woman could’ve missed the trail of shouting, he couldn’t imagine. “Wei Sizhui, you will return to class, then you will report to the discipline hall, for three hours’ scrubbing floors and contemplating proper behavior.”

Wei Sizhui looked unhappy, but he bowed. “Yes, [shifu].”

“What- but then we can’t play [checkers]!” Jin Ling complained.

“Tough luck,” said Jiang Cheng.

“But - ” Jin Ling looked between his cousin and his uncle in bewilderment. “I wanted to play tag and I don’t have to scrub floors! Why’s A-Yuan got to!”

“Because Wei Sizhui is four years older than you are and should know better,” Jiang Cheng snapped. (Though, gods all above, he regretted letting Lan Wangji choose that stupid courtesy name.) He loosened his darkest glower. “Such impropriety brings shame on our sect, and on any decent ancestors he has.”

“A-Ling.” Wei Sizhui caught him by the elbow.

Jin Ling shook him off, balled his fists and planted his feet with all the authority of his five years, and glared back at Jiang Cheng. “No!”

Great, now Jin Ling’s getting into trouble because of him, Jiang Cheng thought, and, I don’t know why I expected propriety from a literal demon child anyway, and, Mother, please! You don’t have to cut off his hand!

Ever since he’d first gotten it, Jiang Cheng had gotten used to letting Zidian react to his mood with little restraint. So what if it meant people could read him - they’d also know he was strong. He was used to the comfortable feeling of it warming on his finger, sparks crackling, bond to his golden core strengthening.

With hardly an indrawn breath, he cut it off so hard and absolutley that for a moment the ring felt foreign on his finger, cool and distant and dull.

5. There is something terrible in the Lotus Lake.

It comes and goes, swimming here and there or not appearing at all. Often it is with a group of living things, or at least one or two, though it does not devour them. Always, it is draped in illusions such that the water ghoul trapped under the boulder cannot identify it apart from the other bright and living things until it comes close, terrifyingly close. Close enough to see the ghoul and, according to the ecosystem of the dead, devour it.

But it does not. Nor does it devour the bright things among which it swam, ripe with power through they were. So very ripe, so very bright... the water ghoul strains to reach them, scrabbling against its imprisoning boulder with resentment that grows day by day, year by year. Only when the dark and terrible thing appears does it cease its struggles, frozen in the pale fear of the dead.

Until the boulder moves. Years of scratching and scrabbling with nothing more than fingertips, from the ghoul’s place buried in the silt...the boulder moves. It tips just an inch, just a millimeter - and then another. And then another. The ghoul scrabbles for purchase to pull itself up, to push its cell door further; it twists and contorts and shoves and breaks free.

The water ghoul has long since forgotten who exactly it blames for its death. It rages simply at the living, every bright, breathing one of them. They’ve taunted it for years, swimming down to tap its prison door like a challenge, ignorant of the hatred beneath - no more. There are two little bright things on a raft above. The ghoul rockets silently up toward them with all the hunger and fury of the dead. They will make a good start.

Too late, as usual, it realizes that one of them is the monster. It cannot stop its charge - it crashes into the raft and knocks it over, throws both riders into the moonlit water. The ghoul does not think well; it is a creature of jealous rage and hunger. It hesitates - and goes for the smaller prey, the one that is prey, is bright and screaming with life and breath and a flickering, half-grown golden core -

“Stop!”

If the ghoul has long-since forgotten language, stewing in silt and resentment, cannot misunderstand the monster’s terrible will, carried on a wave of resentful energy that crashes on it with frothing fury. it cannot resist the wave, either, strong with inpatience though the ghoul is. The ghoul freezes -

“Come over here!” follows on the first demand’s heels, crashing upon the ghoul with a panicked desperation that it would wonder at if it had the mind to do so. With what it has, it fights this one harder, self-preservation stronger even than the need to kill that one child that dares live when it was dead. It snarls silent defiance at the monster even as it swims helplessly closer.

Go away! It’s not spoken at all this time, but that hardly matters. The monster’s eyes are wide and white-edged and its power floods over the water ghoul, and the ghoul accepts the mercy for what it is and swims as fast and far as it can.

“A-Yuan?” Jin Ling’s voice is high and just barely held together, though at least he’s managed to get back on the raft. “Is it gone? Did it bite you? Was that a ghoul?”

“...Yeah,” Wei Sizhui says slowly. He stops treading water and swims back to the raft (overturned, and all their illicitly collected lotus seeds lost). He doesn’t climb on when he reaches it, just holds the side and looks back in the direction the...thing went. He can almost still feel it, he thinks, if he focuses his golden core like he’s meditating, reaches out to commune with the energy around him...

“Yeah,” he says more confidently. “It’s gone, A-Ling. You don’t need to worry.”

Jin Ling lets out a shuddering breath of relief. For a moment, Wei Sizhui feels pretty good, Responsible Older Cousin-wise.

Then Jin Ling scrambles over to his side of the raft, threatening to overbalance it again, and asks, “How?”

#mdzs #the untamed #lan sizhui #jiang cheng #jin ling #lan wangji #my fic #fanfiction #there is...not actually very much demon baby content in this one #like i said: meant to write an au where sizhui has cool demonic cultivation powers #ended up writing an au where wwx has a son and how that works out for everyone

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desperationandgin · 4 years

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Strawberry Wine - Chapter 14

Also Read On: AO3

Summary: Where has Jamie been, and where did he think Claire was, all this time?

A/N: Thank you so much for the incredible and overwhelming outpouring of support for this little fic. You have all been amazing, and I'm so grateful you came back to finish reading ❤️See you back here next week for the 2nd to last chapter!

Chapter 14: I Come Back to this Place

He was there. Right there above me, staring as if I were the ghost.

Perhaps we both were.

Jamie was cupping the back of my head, a look of shock etched on his features, and when he spoke, it wasn’t in English. Finally, slowly, his eyes met mine, and I could see they were shining with unshed tears as he seemed to refuse to blink.

“Ye...ye’re alive, Sassenach…”

Carefully he helped me sit up, and when my hand wrapped around his arm, I felt the sting of my own emotion to feel him, real and solid under my touch.

“So are you,” I whispered. A tear slipped down my cheek and dripped onto the back of his hand as he cradled my face.

“I thought...they told me ye were dead,” he choked out, and I felt his body sag, the two of us coming together in a tangle of arms.

“I’m here,” I insisted over a tremor in my voice, taking his hand and pressing it to my chest, over the beating of my heart. “I’m here with you, Jamie.”

His free hand moved into my hair, cradling the back of my head as his eyes raked over my face. “I grieved for ye. Mourned and ached…”

My tears only fell with more force at his words, and I had to let go of a sob before I could begin to form words. “Then why did you come?”

Jamie blinked and looked down at me, rearranging himself so that he could better fold me in his embrace. He squeezed me as tightly as he dared while composing himself enough to speak. “I returned a few months ago, to see what condition the property was in, now that I’m in a position to buy it back into the family.”

His voice sounded rough, right on the edge of tears. He paused to kiss my temple, and I sank into the sensation, into the reality that was Jamie holding me.

“Somethin’ drew me out to the river,” he continued, dropping his forehead against mine. “I dinna ken what it was, but I thought of ye and found my way to the strawberries. I wanted to think of ye in the place where it was only ever the two of us. I found yer message and I…”

When he paused this time, I reached up with both hands to hold onto his face. “You had hope again.”

Jamie nodded against me. “I didna ken how it could truly be you. Officers told me ye were in an explosion,” he managed to say, even though his voice grew strained and broke. “That they couldna even find anythin’ to send home to bury.” He’d gone pale and looked as if he wanted to vomit.

I shook my head, trying to somehow wrap my entire body around him. “Another unit found me. But no one knew where I’d come from. I was injured,” I explained, wetting my lips as fresh tears began to fall. “The attack forced everyone to move, and by the time I regained consciousness, I had no idea where you might have gone.”

His eyes were closed, a frown drawing his brows together as his hands skimmed up my back slowly. “Yer letters began returning to me unopened.”

His voice was nothing more than a whisper, but I could feel his words in my bones.

“The day after they told me ye’d died, Ian and I went on a raid. I had no mind to return alive if it meant being denied a chance to be wi’ ye.”

I felt my chest heave as a sob attempted to wrench its way free from my throat, but I swallowed it back as my hands held onto him in desperate reassurance that he wasn’t a figment of a dream.

“I was injured as well. Ian…”

He trailed off and I looked up at him, prepared to mourn the man I’d once thought would be my brother-in-law.

“There was a bombing. Thank Christ he lived, but he lost a leg.”

I looked Jamie over and ran my hands down his arms. All there.

“But there was a fire. My clothing, it...” He cleared his throat uneasily. “It melted to my skin. I dinnae remember anythin’ about it happening. No’ even before the fighting began.”

I didn’t have to ask what his last memory was. He’d gotten word that I was dead, and everything else had ceased to matter.

“I meant to die that day, a nighean.” His voice shook, but I still understood his words. “Always wondered why I hadn’t.”

I was powerless now to stop the whimper that cut through me as I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck. “I was out there. Looking for you.” I managed to pull myself together enough to explain everything to him — how I’d met Ned Gowan — but didn’t get much further.

“Is Jenny alright, Jamie?”

He smoothed a hand over my hair softly, nodding. “Aye, she’s well. I’ll tell ye everything, Claire, but right now, I...I need to look at ye, I need to see ye.”

I wasn’t sure if I would ever stop crying, but I pulled back so that he could see me fully. I took my own time looking into the face of the man I loved, taken aback by how the decade had changed him. He had more facial hair than he ever had before the war, just a touch or two below a full beard. Gone was the soft roundness of youth he’d still held onto before the draft. Now, he looked older — less like a farm boy, easy to laugh, and more like a hardened soldier with a sharper edge.

I wondered what he saw on my face.

When my eyes met Jamie’s again, I let myself believe, finally, that he was here.

“Claire.”

Apparently, he was convincing himself of the same thing.

“Ye’re real.”

I closed my eyes as two of his trembling fingers grazed my cheek. Then, he reached for my hand, the one with his first initial jaggedly etched into my palm. Slowly, his thumb moved over the scar before he spoke in an unsure, shaking voice. “I want...I would...verra much like to kiss ye.”

When I opened my eyes he was looking directly at me, tears on his lower lash line refusing to fall.

“May I?”

Knowing my own eyes were shining, I smiled so widely my cheeks hurt before nodding, leaning closer. “Yes.”

He leaned forward, pausing to wet his lips. “I havena done this in a verra long time.”

Before I could respond, Jamie’s lips grazed mine, and his hands fell away to drop down against my waist. One of my hands came to rest against his cheek, and I was powerless to stop my tears from falling. I could feel his dropping against my palm, and when I tasted salt on his lips, I couldn’t be sure whose tears they were.

“I saw ye so many times,” he breathed out raggedly once we parted. “Ye came to me so often...when I dreamed, sometimes. When I was in a fever. When I was so afraid and so lonely, I knew I must die.”

My hands paused their movement over his features as he spoke, my heart wrenching painfully in my chest. To know he’d been so ill, and I hadn’t been there — sorrow passed on my face even as he continued, his hand cradling my chin.

“Whenever I needed ye, I would see ye, smiling. Yer hair curled around yer face.”

I began to smile, but it died on my lips when he spoke once more.

“Ye never touched—”

His voice broke, and our foreheads came to rest together as our fingers twined.

“I can touch you now,” I whispered, nuzzling the side of his nose with the tip of my own. “If you give me a thousand words,” I began quietly.

Jamie let out a quiet, tearful laugh. “I’ll give ye a thousand kisses.”

We melted into one another once more, kissing with everything we’d tentatively held back before. My arms wrapped around him, and we kissed until we were breathless, only pulling back to take a few greedy gulps of air.

“Where were you, Jamie?” I finally asked, just as gathering clouds broke and a raindrop landed on the tip of my nose.

“I’ll tell ye,” he promised, patting my hip to stand. “Out of the rain.”

Rising, I reached for his hand and held it steady as he took it and pulled himself up. That swift movement was all he needed to pull me flush against him, kissing me again for all he was worth. The sound I released into his mouth was something between a whimper and a sob, and he responded in kind before finally pulling back as the sprinkling transitioned into a steady pour. Leading me by the hand to his vehicle (another truck, I realized happily), he opened the door and let me in, urging me to scoot across before he slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut behind him.

For a few quiet seconds, we simply watched the rain come down over Lallybroch, the stone of the old home darkening in the damp. When Jamie reached for my hand again, I turned to find him already looking at me, and closed my fingers tightly over his.

“It took months for me to be able to do anythin’ other than lie on my stomach,” he began, and I covered our joined hands with my free one.

“Your back?”

“A ruint mess,” he admitted.

I shook my head and kissed his wrist. “You're alive, Jamie.”

“Only barely. I had an infection that nearly took me, before I was finally well enough to stand the flight to America.”

I blinked in confusion. “America?” Never had I thought to expand my search overseas, and I said so.

“I had nae reason to mention my Aunt Jocasta before. But when Da…” He paused to swallow, squeezing my hand. “Jenny wrote to her when she had nowhere else to go. Jocasta never thought she would see us again once she moved to the States, but our aunt has enough that she could take her in.”

My mind was swimming with new information, and as he spoke, I felt as though I only had more questions. Jamie anticipated them, it seemed, and raised my hand to his lips.

“I couldna find anyone while I was convalescing, so I wrote to everyone I could think of in the family.”

“You found Jenny when your Aunt Jocasta wrote back,” I surmised, closing my eyes and exhaling as events played out in my mind. I couldn’t imagine him weak and vulnerable, unable to move. It contrasted so starkly with how I’d always known him and as I saw him now: strong and solid.

“Aye,” he murmured, gathering me into his arms, unable to stand the foot of space between us. I went easily, pressing my ear firmly against his chest. I could hear his heartbeat, and when he spoke, I could feel the low vibration against my cheek.

“Ian was able to go before me. Was another two weeks or so before I was cleared.”

His voice took on a quieter, more subdued tone, and I tilted my head up to look at him.

My heart felt as though it had broken in my chest, snapped jaggedly in two.

There were tears on Jamie’s cheeks, falling silently as he held me as tightly as he dared. “I’ve no’ ever felt so alone, Sassenach,” he admitted shakily. “My da was gone, then Ian left and you were…” he swallowed and closed his eyes as fresh tears fell.

“Ye were lost to me, Claire.”

The tenuous hold both of us had on our emotions broke then, and as he wept, my own sob escaped ahead of tears. I could feel the way his large hands spanned the width of my back, and in an instant, I knew no one else could have ever made me feel so whole again.

“I kent ye were dead, and that I wanted to be.”

I’d spent so long thinking he was exactly that, and I shook my head in rejection of his words. At the same time, he seemed desperate to find my lips, tugging me away from his chest only to pull me up into a kiss. Our teeth clashed with the urgency of it, his hands helping me move until I was sitting in his lap, able to kiss and touch his face, both of us overcome with emotion. Only when thunder cracked, so loud it seemed to shake the truck, did we reluctantly part.

“Where are ye staying, Sassenach?” he asked me quietly, his nose nuzzling my temple.

“Mrs. Baird’s. Do you know it?”

As soon as I said the name, Jamie gave an owlish blink before exhaling what might have been a laugh under different circumstances. “Truly?”

Confused, I nodded. “I rented a room when I arrived. Why?”

“That’s where I’ve come from. I have a room too, left directly there and came here.”

Now, I matched his awed expression. “We slept under the same roof last night.”

Closing his eyes, Jamie pulled me close again, his forehead pressing to mine. “Perhaps our minds grieved wi’ little to no information to go on,” he suggested, finding one of my hands and tangling our fingers together. “But our hearts were already together again.”

I reached out with my free hand and traced his bottom lip with my thumb. “Take me there, Jamie,” I requested quietly before sliding back into the passenger seat.

There was more to talk about, more to learn about one another and how we’d lived in our time apart.

But it would all have to wait until we caught up with our souls.

#outlander #outlander fic #jamie x claire #strawberry wine #my fic

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smarchit · 3 years

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Do No Harm, Pt 5

Hey y’all, it’s been exactly.... /checks watch/ well over a month since I last posted a chapter of this. Oops. Oh well. Found this while digging through my drafts while procrastinating working on Poetry.

"No, spread your legs a little further," Mando instructed. He used the tip of his boot to nudge Wynn's own foot back a few more inches in the dirt. "You want to have a wider stance. It makes it harder for someone to knock you down. You take up more ground space this way."

Wynn adjusted her stance and took a deep breath as Mando circled her, taking note of the position of her arms and legs. She didn't even realize she had a white knuckle grip on the spear until Mando tapped on her fingers.

"Too tight. You want it to be firm, but loose. Steady. Good."

Wynn loosened her fingers and watched Mando take his own stance across from her, his back to the early morning sun. She tried her best to mirror his form; he made it look effortless.

"Arms in," he corrected, reaching over to lightly touch her elbow. "Keep everything as close to you as you can."

She nodded and did as he instructed.

"Hit me," he ordered.

Wynn brought her spear up and tried to smack it off his arm. Her attack was easily blocked by a parry from him.

"You didn't say you were going to block me!" she cried.

He chuckled and shook his head. "No, I didn't. But neither will your enemy. Again."

Wynn gave a cry and tried to strike him again. This time, her attack was countered by Mando's own spear knocking against her exposed torso. Lucky for her, both of their vibroblade tips had been removed for the sake of practice, but she didn't doubt that Mando would still be able to cause harm with just the metal pole. Already, she could feel a bruise forming on her ribs.

Wynn quickly ducked under the second of his rapid attacks. The pole barely missed the top of her head when she tried to go around him and catch him from behind.

Mando grabbed the end of Wynn's pole and jerked it to the ground within the blink of an eye. It was quick enough that Wynn couldn't change her trajectory and she ended up tripping over the spear.

She landed on her side and quickly turned onto her back to face Mando. Wynn tried to roll out of the way of his next spear attack - a rough jab with the end of the weapon - before it could catch her in the throat.

Mando lifted her chin with the end of his spear so she would have to look up at him. "Do you yield?" he asked as he stood over her.

"Yes!" Wynn gasped. "I yield!"

Mando kicked her spear over to her. "Get up. We'll try again."

It went on for hours. By the time the moons rose over the horizon, Wynn's body was covered in bruises. She was doubled over, shaking and out of breath as she gripped her spear.

"Again," Mando growled, his helmet inches from her ear. When she shook her head, he got closer to her. "Go. Again."

Wynn let out a scream and cracked her spear across Mando's chest. "No!" Her shout, accompanied by the metallic thunk of the spear against beskar echoed off the nearby hills and sent a flock of birds squawking and flying away.

Mando barked out a rough laugh when the top half of the spear went flying off into the dirt.

Wynn was staring at the broken edge of the spear handle, her eyes wide with fear. She had done that. She had broken one of his weapons.

He turned to face her quickly, his helmet tilted to the side to look at her. He reached out to take her wrist in his hand, the metal spear handle falling from her grip.

"You've got some nice blisters forming," he said, turning her hands over in his. "These will hurt. They will break and bleed. But you'll get stronger."

Wynn nodded, already feeling the ache in her muscles from the rough day of training. They'd only stopped briefly for dinner, though Mando insisted she practice on a tree stump while he fed the Child.

"Get some rest. We'll go again tomorrow," he said, letting her hand fall from his grasp.

Two weeks passed quickly on the tiny planet while they looked for any sign of the Child's people. They never stopped Wynn's training though, going at it in the early hours of the morning and resuming after their search late into the night. Wynn had never been more exhausted in her life. She would collapse into her cot for a few hours at a time, only to be awoken by the Child's loud cries for food. Mando would help with that more often than not, but it still roused her from sleep.

She was definitely getting the hang of fighting with the spear. That had been made evident earlier that evening when she had landed on her back in the dust, her own spear the only thing keeping Mando's from puncturing her throat, when she twisted the staff in her hands, effectively disarming her sparring partner. She thrust her spear up, the metal tip pinging off of his beskar chest plate.

He raised his hands in defeat and reached down to help her up off the ground. Mando had to admit to himself that she was an incredibly fast learner. She insisted they put the spear tips back on after only a few days.

I need to feel the danger, she insisted.

Mando only wished that she could see the pride that was constantly painted on his face at her success.

"Wynn," he called up the ramp after her. "Tomorrow, we should do some fist fighting. You won't always have access to a weapon."

She turned to him and nodded before she headed off to the fresher to clean up.

Mando sighed and leaned against a crate to relax. He looked over at the sleeping Child and smiled. The little guy didn't know it, but he was about to have two protectors instead of just his adopted father. Mando checked some coordinates on his wrist comm and swore softly before he picked up the Child and went back into the Crest.

They couldn't stay on this planet much longer without getting a surprise visit from their friends.

The very next morning, Mando was surprised to find Wynn not on board the ship. The manual locks had been disconnected from the inside, but she was nowhere to be seen. He could feel anxiety creeping its way up his stomach to wrap icy fingers around his heart. He ran to check on the Child and found him still sound asleep in his pod. But where was the young doctor?

She'd left her comm unit along with her blaster on the table in the hold, though her bag was missing. Odd, he noted, if someone took her, why let her take the bag?

Mando shut the Child's pod and locked the door to his quarters. He would be safe there for a few minutes. He grabbed a blaster and rushed down the ramp. He had to find her. Who knows how long they had before the Imps showed up? If there was any time left at all...

The thought of Wynn being taken by Gideon sent a shiver up his back. He didn't want to think about what they might do to her because of her association with him.

He followed her footprints through the dirt to the nearby forest. Mando knew he could track her without a problem. She didn't appear to be leaving with anyone, but he knew better than to take a chance with that.

It only took him a few minutes to find her. She was in the middle of a clearing a hundred yards or so into the forest, leaning up against a tree. A book was resting on her crossed legs and her shoes were kicked off several feet away from her. A few blossoms from the tree above her had fallen into her unruly hair.

Mando watched her for a few minutes. For how long they'd been travelling, he never saw her this relaxed or this calm. He thought back to the morning after he'd first met her when she was singing to the Child. She looked so unaware that he was standing so close to her.

Wynn immediately looked up when he approached her and she gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "Oh, Maker! You scared me!"

"Why are you out here alone?" he asked, "It isn't safe."

"We've been out here for weeks," she said, raising an eyebrow. "We haven't seen anyone or anything. I think I'm fine." She stood up and stuffed her book back into her bag.

"There could be an animal," he continued as she crawled past him on her knees to get her shoes.

She kneeled in front of him and scoffed. "You mean that cute little thing we saw the other day? Yeah, real threatening."

Mando ignored the way his pants felt just a little tighter when she looked up at him from her knees.

"The Child was worried," he countered.

"Ah, right," she hummed as she stood. "He was very worried."

Mando flushed under his helmet.

"Come on, we have to get going anyway," Wynn said with a sigh. She stood up and grabbed her book. "We wouldn't want the baby to worry."

Mando sighed and followed her out of the clearing and back into the woods. He admired her genuine sarcasm, but as always, he worried for her safety. What would have happened if an Imp found her? Or Gideon?

What if he had to leave without her? He quickly came to the conclusion that he would never be able to leave her somewhere alone. Even if she had the proper training.

"We need to keep working at your training," he said, quickening his pace to join up with her. "How's your aim with a blaster?"

Wynn shrugged. "I don't know. My dad had an old model. He showed me how to turn it on and aim it, but I never actually fired it or anything."

Mando sighed and nodded. "Okay, we'll work on that next."

When Wynn and Mando reached the ship, she turned to him and grabbed his arm for attention. He stiffened and slowly looked at her.

"I am sorry, by the way," she said. When he didn't respond, she shook her head. "For running off this morning. Sometimes it's too quiet on the ship and I just like to breathe air that isn't recycled, you know?"

He looked at her briefly before turning to the door control. "I know," he said as the door slowly opened. "Just let me know next time, okay? I don't-- I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

She smiled and then nodded. "Okay. I can do that."

Mando nodded once and turned to go back into the ship. He could already hear babbles and coos coming from his quarters. The baby was already awake and would soon be demanding attention.

Wynn chuckled and bounded up the stairs after him, but not before sparing one last glance at the planet they'd spent the last several weeks on. It had almost started to feel like home.

TAGLIST: (I really hope you guys don’t mind me tagging you in this) - @the-feckless-wonder @gallowsjoker @phoenixhalliwell @waatermelon-sugaar @huliabitch @miscellaneous-mando @lestrange2703

#do no harm fic #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian x ofc #my writing #din djarin x oc

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himbo-beel · 4 years

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To Hell and Back Again - Chapter 2

"Explain it again."

The dark haired man at the center of the table narrowed his eyes at Ami's demand and I flinched. His glower wasn't directed at me, but the intensity of his ire spread fast and wide throughout the room and I struggled not to fall under its weight. I wanted to grab Ami by the shoulders, to shake her and beg her not to make anything worse, but my feet were stuck to the floor. My knees shook and, if I could move, I wasn't sure I could even make it the few steps to her.

"You two are to be the two human students here at the Royal Academy of Diavolo. You will participate in classwork and extra-curricular activities for a period of one year, after which, you will be tasked with drafting a paper on your experiences and sent home."

Academy. One year. I wasn't immediately being attacked and my brain started to slow from its fight or flight panic to something just barely able to retain small words. Familar words. The connections were made, quickly, and I nearly lost control of myself again as realization settled heavy in my stomach. Or maybe it was insanity. Oddly enough, that was the only option that made sense and the irony of that nearly made me laugh.

This couldn't have been the educational program my manager had mentioned. It certainly wasn't any sort of vacation, either. I was just tired from work and after a few nights of restless sleep. I'd never had a history of hallucinations but that didn't mean they suddenly couldn't develop. Maybe my dinner had gone bad. Really bad.

I glanced at the people sitting at the table again and shrunk back at the pairs of eyes on me. The disdain on all of their faces looked so real. Dinner must have spoiled really, really bad.

"Any further questions," the one in the middle asked, though the way he sighed it made me think he wouldn't answer them.

I caught Ami open her mouth and I gave a sharp jerk of my head. I could only hope she saw me and the message got across. One more day alive was one more day I could figure out how to get us out of this situation. The cold, clammy feeling on the back of my neck made me think she hadn't, though.

"How about 'why are you scaring the newcomers so much', hm?"

The cold feeling turned freezing quickly, fast enough that all my muscles clenched against it and I could only stand in place while the suffocating pressure in the room increased tenfold. My locked knees became the only thing holding me up as another man, even taller and more imposing than the one in the middle of the table, strode into the room. He crossed to the table with ease, either unaware or uncaring of the dark haired man's glare, to stand besides him. The smile on his face didn't match the way he crossed his arms.

"I'm doing nothing of the sort, Lord Diavolo," he said, smoothing down the front of his jacket.

The taller one, Diavolo, hummed. I swallowed back a whimper when he turned to face us. "I'm sure you're still confused despite Lucifer's explanation, so I'll repeat it one more time. I, the future King of the Devildom, wish to see a better relationship between the three realms. To do that, I created this exchange program! Two of our students have been sent to the other realms while you have been chosen from the human world to attend R.A.D. along with two others from the Celestial Realm. As I'm sure you're aware, that means you'll be taking the classes and living in the dorms here."

"With angels?" The sound of my own voice startled me, both at the fact that I'd managed to say something at all, and that it had come out so small and rough. The feeble attempt made Diavolo smile.

"Yes. You'll be meeting them shortly."

"After we determine who will be overseeing your stay," Lucifer interrupted. The name fit him with his dark hair and eyes and glowering expression. "It is too dangerous for a mere human to wander the Devildom alone. One of my brothers will accompany you at all times." The reassurance from knowing there'd be angels nearby disappeared in an instant. "Mammon should do well enough."

"The Avatar of Greed," Diavolo chuckled. "What a choice."

Lucifer. Greed. If I wasn't insane already I was going to be. School in what was essentially Hell? Overseen by the Seven Sins? Because the straight up devil wanted to shake hands with humans? I was at a loss as to how to rationalize any of it. It almost made more sense to let everything simply keep happening.

Such as the phone call Ami was currently having. A phone call. In Hell. Devildom. Whatever.

I could only stare blankly as she handed the phone out for Diavolo to pass back to Lucifer and I barely jumped this time when Lucifer yelled something into the speaker. Were they talking to Mammon? The demon that was supposed to keep us safe? And the others…

None of them looked all to pleased to be there, let alone interested in us. A shorter blond was absorbed in a book while another on the other side of the table tapped away at something that… oddly resembled a gaming device. My eyes passed across the rest of them, my vision going blurry with each new brother, as Lucifer had called them. Behind the dark spots forming in front of my face I could just make out Lucifer point to each one and open his mouth, most likely to introduce them, but the rinigng in my ears was too loud to hear him. I swayed and didn't have the energy to flinch when a hand wrapped around my wrist to steady me. Something cold and solid was pressed into my palm and I lifted a brow at the phone left behind. I stared at it, blankly, as the rest of the conversation continued on around me as a distant hum.

I'd have to ask Ami what was going on after, I managed through the heavy fog in my brain as panic won out. No one seemed to mind, or care at least, as I rocked silently on my feet.

"Rotten bastard!"

The shout knocked me back to my senses and I jerked away from it, letting out a shout of my own as something tugged me back. I panicked and clawed at the hand still tight around my arm, whimpering as each finger replaced itself on my skin the moment I managed to pry it off.

"Stop, stop it," I heard after another minute of struggle, and I paused long enough at the familiar voice for Ami to cover her hand holding mine to keep me from trying to escape again.

We were walking. Outside. I lifted my face to the sky and tried to stay calm at the empty black above us. Behind, Lucifer and Diavolo followed us closely, and to the side… I moved closer to Ami, bumping my shoulder into hers. I couldn't feel her shaking against me and I wondred how she did it. She didn't look afraid and she hadn't sounded afraid when she questioned everything going on. And she wasn't afraid, now, surrounded by them.

"You can't run. We're going to the dorms," she said. She kept her hand tight on mine.

"-making me look after some stupid humans," the demon besides us continued to spit. "I'm only doing this babysitting job because Lucifer told me to. Not that I can't say no to him! I totally can!"

"Sure, sure," I heard Ami mutter under her breath, and it was the first time I felt the knot in my stomach unwind.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me fanfiction #obey me shall we date fanfiction #my writing #obey me diavolo #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me asmodeus #obey me satan #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #2p au #to hell and back au

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volganic · 4 years

Text

Eyes like yours

[AO3] || [discord] guess who didnt want to write important things like the next chapter of song? or any of my other unfinished drafts? guess who wanted to write a whole new thing based off a song by shakira? it’s me

Hyrule Castle was under siege.

In the blink of an eye, monsters and fire laid waste to the green of the undisturbed fields that surrounded the castle. It was terrifying how quickly the pace of battle moved and washed over the Hyrulean forces, but Link moved quicker. Where the other trainees stood by in the safety of the walls of the castle, Link was out in the thick of it, fighting side by side with his more seasoned captains without a second to waste. Every second counted.

It might have been his first time taking the lives of enemies, but his actions didn’t go unnoticed as he cut his way through the waves of the grotesque monsters. The general herself, Impa, took note of how he took charge of the situation; she mentally thanked the three that there was still hope in light of these rapidly darkening times. She marched over to the rookie soldier after cutting through a duo of raid captains that dared to cross her, and planted a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“There’s no time to thank you properly, trainee,” she began as Link turned to face her, “but the princess is farther out in the field. We need to regroup. The only thing keeping us from accomplishing that is capturing one of the enemy’s vital keeps.” The Sheikah’s eyes scanned the field, drawing the Hylian’s gaze as she pointed to closed doors on the other side of the field. “There! I don’t know what is in there, but start there and I will assist you once our men have control of the field. Understand, soldier?”

The recruit gave a stiff nod and a salute. Impa returned the gesture. “May the goddesses smile on us all.” She turned on her heel back to aid one of their knights in the distance who was beginning to become overwhelmed with another wave of enemies. Link wished he could help there, but the entire weight of the battle weighed on his shoulders with this new task he was given. He swallowed thickly; capturing this keep could easily help them win or lose this war.

Link burst through the large doors of the abandoned fort, finding it seemingly empty. Impa said it was a vital stronghold for their assailants, but there was nothing to show for it; not even a blade of grass was out of place against the pavement. The Hylian’s senses told him to stay on high alert regardless as he inched across the stone path to the other pair of locked doors. His instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong.

He didn’t make it too far — a sound whizzed through his ears and a heavy spear collided into the ground inches away from where he planned to take his next step. He stepped back reflexively when rocks splintered in every direction, and his sight went skyward to the source. A large shadow of a man stood on the top of the stone wall of the keep. He paced along the edge like a predator, staring down at the lone soldier below — at least, Link assumed he was staring. The glare of the sun shrouded him in darkness, making it difficult to discern certain features.

The man lurched forward to meet the ground, and Link’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. He ignored how heavy it suddenly felt in his hands as he watched the taller man move with grace to pluck his weapon out from the cracked earth. Adrenaline flooded the Hylian’s veins now that he could fully see his enemy: his built physique, macabre armor, dragon-shaped helmet, deadly weapon in hand — everything was set to strike fear into anyone lesser. He steeled his resolve and kept his sword drawn.

The red-clad knight circled the trainee soldier like a lion. He made no movement to strike. It was intimidating how slowly he stalked around him, just waiting for an opportunity to make his move, and Link knew that he wasn’t fooling anyone with an act of bravery. The man tsk’d with an amused grin on his face, watching the blade in the boy’s hand beginning to shake.

“They dare send only one lowly soldier to take my keep?” His low, mocking tone echoed off the walls, worming into the Hylian’s mind, taunting him. “I do not know whether to be flattered that they finally threw me a bone,” he suddenly frowned, coming to a stop in his pacing, “or insulted that they sent someone not worth my time.”

In a fit of anger, Link blindly ran forward to strike the man down. Rage cried out of his lungs and filled the silence between them, but was replaced with a cry of pain as his side was struck with a hard kick. He crumpled to the ground and watched his only means of attack be swept out of his reach. An armored boot filled his view before it moved, finding a home placed firmly on top of his sternum. The man’s growling was the only thing Link could hear besides his own strained whimpers as he scrambled underneath his boot, his breath being crushed out of him.

“Pathetic,” the knight hissed, digging his pointed heel into the thick metal mail, trying to expose the fleshier bits of his prey’s chest. Some links of the chain gave out under the rough treatment. Pained cries fell on deaf ears. “You’re nothing but a boy playing a sad excuse for a soldier.”

Link screwed his eyes shut, trying to collect himself with the combined force of the crushing weight on his chest and with hearing his enemy’s words. It struck a chord deep in him — he was praised highly among the rest of camp for his swordsmanship, but falling so quickly in battle drowned him in shame. It was pitiful that he wished for this stranger to kill him quickly to spare him the humiliation of returning to what would be left of the castle with his tail between his legs, not only failing his general, but all of Hyrule.

Suddenly the weight was lifted off his chest, and Link’s lungs burned with the rush of air. It was all the reprieve he was given when he was forcefully pulled up by the collar of his blue and white tunic, nearly nose-to-nose with the enemy.

“You must be new to the ways of war,” the knight crooned. “Running headstrong into the fray without so much as a helmet.” He turned the soldier’s head from side to side with his other hand, looking him over with vague interest. “Pity, you are a pretty thing. Stupid, but pretty nonetheless.”

Link couldn’t hear the words the man muttered under his breath. He was completely entranced with the way how the pointed tips of his eye markings moved over his cheeks with each carefully selected word. It drew his attention to eyes which he couldn’t see from a distance, but with him being so close, the Hylian could see underneath the pointed snout of the dragon-shaped helmet. If he couldn’t breathe before, he certainly wasn’t breathing now.

The man’s eyes were an even deeper black than the paint that shrouded his eyes, an expanse of a void that Link felt so lost in, but he was fixated on the way his eyes seemed to pierce through his very soul, irises swirling of emerald and gold, and even a ring of fiery red along the edges. It was unlike anything Link had ever seen before: so daunting, so primal, feral, instilling fear through his veins —

— but also leaving him awestruck in its own twisted sense of beauty.

A strangled gasp managed to worm its way out of the Hylian’s throat as he was pulled off the ground again by the neck, held an arm’s length away from the enemy. He kicked furiously at the air, the toes of his boots barely scraping against the pavement, being held higher and higher up into the air. The knight laughed cruelly at his struggle.

“I’ve wasted enough time with you, boy.” The air crackled with an energy unknown to Link. An aura of red magic covered the knight’s arm holding Link hostage, striking panic through Link as the temperature rose to a dangerous degree, the clawed gauntlet threatening to burn through his tunic and mail. Another swirl of magic caused his arm to distort into something akin to a dragon’s limb — or at least, that’s what Link could only imagine it being — and gripping the Hylian’s throat even tighter. “I’ve only come to fight worthy foes!”

If the dragon squeezed any further, it would surely kill him in an instant if he didn’t suffocate first. Adrenaline surged through him to fight for his life — have to run, get away, do something! — screaming at every one of his nerves to act. His arms slipped through the spaces between the dragon’s claws, hands desperate to scratch his way out of the other’s grip, red scales flaking off with each futile swipe. Link’s racing heart and panicked breathing filled his ears, falling deaf to the man’s threats.

A searing pain struck across his left hand even through the leather of his glove. Link wasn’t sure if the light blinding him was a signal that he was knocking on death’s door, but whatever it was, it also blinded his assailant; its rays dared to rival those from the sun. The ground rushed to meet Link’s body as he felt himself drop to the ground again, no longer being held in a crushing choke hold or close to the heat of his enemy. Through his rattled mind and the ringing in his ears, sound slowly came back into his senses, filled only with curses and snarling from the disoriented knight on the other side of the keep.

Link sat up quickly while he had the chance and scanned the pavement for his weapon. If only he had his sword…

“You—” the man growled, rubbing any streaks of light that distorted his vision, “you can’t be!”

“Soldier!”

Quick footfalls approached the two of them, and soon enough, Impa stood between them, hand steadied on the hilt of her blade and shielding the Hylian from any more torture from the red-clad knight. Her eyes stared at their enemy with a piercing gaze, daring him to make another move.

“Volga.”

‘Volga’ scoffed in response to being called by anything other than his full title. “I am not here to entertain you, Sheikah.” His eyes fell to the boy that lay behind her. “I may have… underestimated Hyrule’s forces. But I promise you this, I will not make the same mistake again.” With a roar and another swirl of magic, a pair of leathery wings stretched outright from Volga’s back. Impa’s stance grew tense as Volga pointed his spear at them — specifically toward Link’s direction. “You haven’t beaten me yet. Next time we meet, boy, I will cut through your shields and mount your head on a pike!”

With that decree and a beat of his large wings, Volga retreated into the sky. Embers filled the space where he had once stood, leaving Impa and Link in a keep that now belonged to Hyrule’s forces. This was the turning point of this battle, but it was far from over.

“The princess still awaits us to regroup. We haven’t won yet.” Impa turned to offer her hand, which her recruit gladly accepted. He couldn’t meet her gaze as he rushed over to where his knight’s sword had lay discarded a few feet away from them, holstering his blade back in its place, half-expecting an earful of reprimands —

Impa placed a hand on his shoulder, much to his surprise. Link tilted his head to look at her in question. The general’s hand pulled his left arm away from his side to reveal the source of the burning pain from earlier, the only thing that spared him from an premature death: the glowing mark of the Triforce on the back of his glove.

“But now that we have found you, perhaps we just might win.”

Link’s fate was now set in stone. There was only one thing that thrilled and terrified him both at the same time: coming face-to-face with Volga again.

#hyrule warriors #fic #volink #its gonna be volink *bdg voice* dw ill get to it

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darkwalk · 4 years

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Trading Stories

Hey guys. Writing for the Together AU has been hard recently, mostly because there’s a lot of violence in the story (a lot of riots at one point) and it’s pretty hard to write that when there are riots going on in real life. I’m not sure if it’s disrespectful to write about them when they’re happening for real. I also don’t want people to have the impression that I’m encouraging the violence.

At the moment, I’m on the third chapter of the second draft (and wow, my writing is so much better with another draft.) and thought I’d share a part of the rough draft - it’s a conversation I wrote nearly a month ago that will get changed later.

This seemed a bit relevant for the present time. Warning: Long post, a dead body, and references to violence/class differences.

Trading looks, the adults sighed but surprisingly, didn't seem upset with Orion. Even the Glitch Mob mech just shook him helm tiredly. Something of Orion's thought process or apprehension must have shown on his face as an older femme chuckled at him. “Aw, don't be like that mech. We ain't gonna bite chou 'cause yer runnin' with Jazz's crews. We already knew yah were with 'em anyway. Yer symbol ain't exactly hidden.”

“I wasn't sure if you would be upset that Jazz hasn't solved all this yet or not. The other gangs seem to be laying all the blame at his pedes.” He admitted, having forgotten the symbol on his shoulder. To be fair, the glow paint barely showed under the dust and grime coating his frame.

A couple people actually snorted at his admission. One gestured broadly, a little wobbly and out of sorts. “They don't get to- get to throw blame when they ain't doin' no better. Honestly, what they gonna do? Only so much you can fight when they're sendin' so many enforcers down here.”

“Could be worse.” Someone added solemnly, making a gesture over their spark.

Several others copied the gesture to ward off bad luck. Another settled morosely against a broken crate piped up. “It ain't ever been this bad before though, has it? They never got down this far.”

“How often do riots like this happen?” Ironhide asked.

Orion glanced at him. He'd have thought the mech would stay quiet to avoid notice but the Ironhide appeared calm. The locals didn't seem to care that he wasn't one of them either. Perhaps being with a mech under Edgerunner protection gained him some leniency. Or the fact that he'd helped save them.

A shaky old mech, unassuming as could be, straightened in the creaky chair he'd snagged and took on a storyteller's voice. “Not as often as you'd think. The worst ones were a real long time ago, back when the Darklight didn't even have a name an' was a lot smaller. The lawmechs didn't like how many of us there were an' how we were growin' so they'd march in to make sure we weren't breakin' the law none. An' if folks got dead or disappeared during that time, well, who were we gonna tell about it?”

Ironhide face shifted, turning from exhaustion to quietly concealed rage as some of the younglings scooted closer to listen in and the old mech continued. “That's why we started buildin' down instead of up. They don't like when they can see how many of us there are. Not that any of us here were around then, ah don't think.”

He looked around the group with a smirk. A few people chuckled and some of the younglings exaggeratedly shook their helms 'no'. Orion stifled a grin.

“They've only tried barging in a few times, since the beginning.” Sitting with her back to a pole, a larger femme stroked the unconscious face of a mech settled in her lap. Surprisingly, Orion could see wings on her back. They were big enough that she could have been a shuttle and he couldn't help but wonder how a flight frame came to live down here where mostly cargo and racer frames roamed. “I don't think they ever got further than the second level.” She looked at the old mech for confirmation. Grimly, he shook his helm.

“No. They never have.”

“You were in the last one?” The youngling with the missing arm piped up, looking at the big femme. “Mah creator was but he didn't tell meh much an' he's dead now.”

“Hmm,” She shifted to get more comfortable and nodded, “Last one was a good hundred vorns ago or something. Don't rightly remember. But it was way before your time. It was bad but not bad like this 'cause they only did the surface. I know a couple patrols tried coming down here but they didn't make it back up.”

“Anybody remember that goodie shop, on the corner of Hololite Square by Fracture's shop?” Asked the old mech.

A number of sighs answer him. Someone hummed, “Daybreak an' Cinnabar's place?”

“Oooh, I remember them.” The Glitch Mob mech smiles, “They had the best oil cakes around. Even better than anythin’ in Polyhelix.”

A youngling asks,“They're dead?” The little frames had steadily and sneakily gotten closer to the group as the adults talked. Orion noted most had cuts or cracked plating, faces lean and hungry looking. But at the moment, they were distracted by the old stories.

“Yeah, surface level during the last riot.”

“Didn't even fight none.” Growled the flier femme. “Everybody knew those two didn't get involved in no street fights or gangs or nothin'! Weren't their fault they didn't have the creds to get a shop in Polyhelix proper!”

The conversation almost stalled as no one had anything to say to that, so Orion brought up something he'd been wondering. “Is Fracture's place really that popular? A lot of people seem to know him.”

That sent a wave of chuckles around the room. The lounging mech outright laughed, high and sharp. “Darlin', everybody knows Fracture! He's the reason we got crystals growin' outta ever crack, hole in the wall, and even our own platin’ if we don't watch 'im close enough! That mech keeps plantin' seed crystals everywhere.” Orion startled, unsure if the mech was exaggerating or not.

“It's like he's tryin' tah turn this place into a fraggin' garden!” Another moaned.

The old mech snorted. “At least some are edible. Free snacks right there.”

“Yeah, he puts tags by those so folks know if they can eat 'em.” A mech nodded in agreement. “Primus, I love the hematite shavings in plain energon. That's good stuff right there.”

“Reverie.” A younger mech whispered, looking at the old one in the chair. They glanced back at the mech on the floor and the group fell silent as everyone took in the deactivation gray plating. Reverie slowly got out of his chair, joints creaking as he crouched to lay his helm against the downed mech's chest plates. After a moment of waiting, he straightened and shook his helm.

“Yah did a good dance youngling. Safe journeys.” He murmured to the body.

Everyone shifted, mouths thinned back to grim lines. The Glitch Mob mech pursed his lips. “We don't got a name, do we?” When several mechs shook their helms, he added, “Whose got claim to his subspace then?”

Ironhide jerked, turning to stare wide opticked at the mech. All the others around them frowned and looked at Reverie for guidance. It seemed surviving long enough to become old in the Darklight earned one quite a bit of respect, even if they couldn't fight anymore.

Although Orion wouldn't have bet that the old mech couldn't fight. Out of everyone in the room, he was the only one with out any injuries. Everyone from Ironhide to the younglings sported at least minor wounds. Reverie ignored the energon staining his legs as he reached into the dead mech's subspace and started pulling out supplies; mainly normal items like knives, a few guns, a couple cubes of energon, credits and some random shinies.

After a long moment to look it over, he turned to the smallest frames in the room. “Younglings, come 'ere.”

They did not 'come here'. In fact, a few near the edges started inching away, as the entire lot of them scowled mightily and flicked their optics around the room like they’d been setup. Reverie's mouth ticked up in amusement but he gestured again, and moved back a little from the body and the loot. “Come 'ere. You bigger one there, get the guns, Armless gets first dibs on a knife,” Orion tried not to make a sound at the terrible nickname, “an' ya'll share the rest. Especially that energon. 'kay?”

No one seemed to disagree with Reverie's decision, even if a few adults frowned sadly at the energon. They all knew none of them really had a claim to the supplies. So they shifted back out of the way and let the wary younglings inch forward. After grabbing the loot, they skittered back behind the props and eyed the adults while they examined their new treasures.

Reverie chuckled sadly and nodded at one of the other adults and the body. “Help me move him to the side a bit, yeah?”

None of this was out of the ordinary for Darklight folks, as far as Orion was concerned. He'd seen much the same when a few of Tumult's crew had fallen in a shootout during that gang war with the Crowncutters. Supplies couldn't be wasted so they went to whoever the deceased was closest to. In the Edgerunner's case, most had gone back to the gang's general supplies and the personal items to the dead mechs’ friends. He'd gotten the impression though, that this might not be the way people in other places did things, especially from the way Ironhide had startled.

A quick look at the mech gave Orion a sudden feeling of relief. He looked thoughtful, instead of offended and about to say something about it. Perhaps he was learning one couldn't just snap at Darklight people demanding answers to their weird behavior.

He didn't expect the question that came out of the Iaconian's mouth. “You don't consider yerself Polyhexian, do yah?”

The group glanced at each other, surprisingly mellow about the question. Perhaps they'd had enough fighting for the day. Smiling grimly, the shuttle femme answered, “No. Polyhelix don't want us, and never has. Even if they claim this area as part of their city. Why should we call ourselves what we ain't?”

“At least Darklight knows Darklight.” The lounging mech sighed softly. “Even if some of us don't have the accent an' some of us don't have the neon an' glow on our plating.”

“Remember...remember that time, that they tried tah tax us?” The possibly drunk but probably concussed mech snickered.

Someone snorted. “If they wanted tah tax us like Polyhexians they shoulda treated us like Polyhexians. Instead, they built a Primus-damned wall.”

“They actually tried to tax the Darklight?” Orion gaped. “Seriously?!”

One of the femmes laughed, “Yep! It didn't work at all-.”

#writing #snippet #tgau #together au #lighting fires #transformers #orion pax #ironhide #darklight #darklight culture #riots

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sarah-writes-stories · 4 years

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I'm notorious for asking this, but it's one of my favorite things to learn about people -- do you outline? What does your story-mapping process look like generally? Do you use OneNote or Word or a different method for tracking ideas/plot points?

Ooooohhhhh. LOVE THIS QUESTION. Okay, are you ready for a novella? Because that’s what my answer is gonna be. HA!

100% yes, I do outline. My process begins with a huge brain dump. Getting the “story” part of the story out of my head: major plot points, tiny side plot bunnies, all of it. Next step is to take chunks of those notes and divide them into rough chapters. And oftentimes what I originally outline as one chapter at this point will, in reality, become two or three chapters in length, but that’s okay because it’s more about chunking the story out and figuring out what’s needed where and when at this point.Doing this also allows me to see how things want to flow together: where I can put easter eggs, or drop hints, or why certain things need to be one way vs another so that the story can deliver those beloved a-ha revelation moments for the reader later on.Next, I’ll take those segmented chapter outline “chunks” and start fleshing them out further. What sorts of interactions do I want to have happen between characters in this chapter? What do I want the outcome of the chapter to be? Will there be a cliffhanger? How do I want to get them there? Lots more spitballing and brain-dumping comes in at this phase.After that usually comes research. If I know there is something that I need to learn more about in order to ensure that my ideas will actually work, then I’ll pull together some reference documents to help with consistency.Finally comes the fun part, WRITING!

So what I’ll do is take my entire chapter outline and space it out so that there’s just a sentence or two followed by lots of white space in the document, followed by another sentence or two and then more white space. It’s into these white spaces that I write, visually ensuring that I connect the dots between plot points throughout the chapter. But after that? My actual writing style is very stream-of-consciousness, actually. I think I saw a meme once about a writer who said they just listened in to what their characters were saying or doing and wrote it down. That’s often what my actual writing time feels like.

Sometimes what comes out causes me to change things that I’d originally had planned. Other times it gives me a-ha moments of my own that I wasn’t really expecting. Other times I’ll find myself so inspired by things they say or do that it warrants me queuing up additional chapters to write, or honing in on subplot points that I now want to bring in later down the line. Yes, this inevitably requires me to rework my original outline on an almost weekly basis, but again, all of that’s okay. I actually think it helps me keep my characters “in character” when I just allow them to do what they want without judgement at that point of first-drafting. What wants to be written will be written!Now, when it comes to these first drafts, if I’m writing in the flow the whole chapter can literally come pouring out of me in mere hours! In fact, when I first started To Fight For Tomorrow I was literally banging out a chapter A DAY, which is insane to me now, but I was in such a flow state that it came so easily and required little cleaning up!Nowadays though, it’s more like it takes me a week (if not more) to get through the first draft (Mostly because I’m into a section of the story that needs more of a guiding hand, I think). Sometimes I’ll get bored or distracted and will switch to editing the chapter for a while and then go back and draft some more. Anything to keep it moving foward.

Once I finally get that first draft done, the second draft is a lot more fun! I like filling in the gaps, adding more waff or fluff or angst just because I can. Making sure I get those easter eggs, or hints at this or that in there.

And then it’s time for my final draft (aka proof-read) I usually do this myself as well since I worked for 5 years as a proofreader and copy editor and that stuff comes pretty naturally to me. (No beta though. I’m intrigued by the idea but not sure if I have the patience for it!)

And that’s it! I usually need to take a break for a few days after I finish a chapter before I begin the next one just to keep from burning out. Oh, and I'll reread my chapter during this time to take notes. I keep a running document of important points from each chapter. Things I don’t want to forget so that I keep the story consistent throughout, like this:

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

And as for what tool I use to manage this all?I LIVE AND BREATHE FOR SCRIVENER!

The “binder” outliner function is just a MUST for me. I don’t think I could write a story like To Fight For Tomorrow without it. Plus you can do things like set target word counts and other goals, or compile various documents into one, or look at two documents side by side, or look at all your chapters as cards on a pinboard. IT IS GREAT!

See what I told you? NOVELLA.

I hope this answers your question @fantastiqueparfait! It was fun to write all that up!!THE END.

#see how I snuck a sneak peak at the next chapter in there?#Yeah I did that.#sarah-writes-stories #to fight for tomorrow #fantastiqueparfait #fanfiction writing #ao3 writer #writblr

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thegoldenavenger · 4 years

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Chapter 2 of the kny fusion no one wants haha

Content Warnings: aftermath of death, uhhh some non named, non canon characters get munched, content warnings applicable to kny canon and to iron man canon. not beta’d we die like mne. mobile beware of read more cut.

Read Chapter 1 | Read Everything |

Steve asks Tony if they can return to the humble homestead where Bucky was turned. It's not a terrible idea to see if there are any clues as to the whereabouts of the Demon King there, and Tony understands the need to say goodbye.

The small house smells like blood. Tony sees Bucky's hand clench tighter to Steve's but the newly made demon doesn't react otherwise. Steve let's go of Bucky and begins the arduous task of dragging his family's bodies out into the night snow.

Tony does not help. He walks the perimeter, keeping his eyes away from Steve and Bucky's lonely work. He traces a long cold trail to the edge of the woods, traces it back to the house.

He traces it until Steve and Bucky are knelt, quietly over five unmarked graves, the freshly turned earth blemishing the white snow. Tony waits as long as he can before approaching the two, his footfalls intentionally heavy.

"Unless you want your friend to fry, we should get moving."

Steve makes a scoffing noise in his throat, but he pushes himself up anyway. After a moment's pause, Bucky follows. Tony leads the way, trusting his senses to let him know if the demon starts making a move.

The night is cold, it makes breathing difficult. He focuses on the sharpness of it, like the moon is holding a knife to his lungs, like it will freeze the shapes of five lonely graves from his mind.

He should have been faster.

The walk is too short and they arrive in a small, quiet town before the sun rises. Tony finds an inn, asks for a room, pays cheaply so they're guaranteed one without windows, and leads his two new charges inside before the morning light can touch them.

As the pre-dawn breaks he can see Bucky get fidgety, but the demon stills when he notices Tony's glance. Fine enough. He doesn't look like he's about to go feral, just like he's uncomfortable.

"Steve, get food," Tony tosses a pouch of money at the man, resisting smiling at his shocked face as the purse's weight settles in his hands.

"I'm not leaving Bucky here," Steve says .

"Then feel free to starve, because he can't leave this room today." Tony's tone brooks no argument as he shrugs out of his over jacket.

He unbuckles the belt his sword is attached to setting the whole mess on the small end table provided in thee room, and untucks his undershirt, finally collapsing into a pile on the tatami. Steve furrows his eyebrows at him, but Tony ignores the glare, instead stretching extravagantly and leaning back on his hands.

There's fight in Steve's eyes but Tony isn't in the mood to encourage it. He leans back his head and pretends to sleep, his eyes closed. A long second passes and Steve slams the door to the room shut on his way out.

Tony peaks at Bucky. He has retreated to a corner of the room, knees drawn to his chest. His hair mostly obscures his face, but Tony doesn't need to watch his eyes to see the way the fingers on his good hand tremble.

The hastily made bandage covering his left arm is still wet with blood. It should have dried by now. It should have healed completely by all rights. How many demons had Tony dodged limbs that he had just taken the liberty to remove? A demon's healing factor was one of the things that made fighting them so difficult.

But here Bucky sat, fangs peaking out of his mouth, claws sharpened, yet wound still dripping.

Tony sits back up, facing the demon. Perhaps sensing Tony's focus, Bucky raises his head to stare warily at him. His eyes aren't human but they don't look like a demon's.

"Does your arm hurt?" Tony asks.

Bucky does not respond other than clenching his fingers.

"Blood might help," Tony says before he can stop himself. The pupil in Bucky's eyes constrict. "But if you eat a human, I don't know if there's any saving you."

Tony isn't the one who studies demons, he designs swords and puts them to use. He's never regretted the distance between he and his fellow Pillars more so than now.

Tony clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I don't know if saving you is even the question here. But if you're willing to try... I will stand behind you."

Bucky furrows his brows, creasing his skin in such a sad manner, but he seems to consider. Tony cannot tell how much Bucky can put together. He doesn't act like demons Tony has met before--fully sentient but capricious, murderous. Bucky is quiet, following where Steve pulls.

But this must be a decision made without Steve, Tony thinks.

"It's your life, you should decide how it's led."

Bucky doesn't answer, just sits in the corner, quiet, until Steve returns.

They travel at night so Bucky doesn't burn and so people are less likely to notice anything odd between the three of them.

Tony has drafted his letters and sent them. One to Fury, one to Bruce. He doesn't acknowledge his nerves as he waits for a response.

It's quite on accident when they stumble across a minor demon celebrating its hunt of a small caravan. Despite Tony's training, the first sign anything is wrong is the way Bucky stiffens.

"What's wrong?" Steve asks as Bucky trembles.

When the wind changes and brings with it the smell of blood, Bucky starts growling low in his throat. Tony's grip is loose, but steady on the hilt of his blade.

"Careful," Tony warns, lowly, and he doesn't know if he's addressing Steve or Bucky.

They keep walking, cautious now, Tony half distracted by Bucky. Still, he soon picks up the crunch of a demon chewing.

"Demon," he says, and Steve's confused eyes widen with dawning realization.

So enraptured with its meal, the demon does not sense Tony and his companions. Twenty or so meters away Bucky halts and refuses to move. Steve seems to be unable of taking his eyes of the demon and its meal. Tony tightens his grip on his sword.

He breaths in, falling into stance, picking one from Pepper's style. It is made to cover distance. Tony expands his lungs and launches forward, hearing the surprised gasps of his companions as he leaves them behind. His blade striked true, cleanly slicing through the demon's neck and its wrists where it held up a hunk of meat to its mouth.

The pain must register after its head slides away from its body because its head is already falling when it starts screaming. It's so loud he nearly misses the sound of steps on the ground.

He brings his sword up just in time to block sharpened claws coming towards him. Another demon? Tony narrows his eyes, swinging his sword. They don't tend to travel in packs.

These demons are far, far below his level and this one falls to his blade as quick as the first had. Nothing short of a Moon demon would falter Tony or his fellow pillars.

Steve yells and Tony whips around to see the shape of another demon attacking the two he'd left behind. He tenses to intervene, but a rough hand on his shoulder stops him. Even now, and Fury still manages to sneak up on him.

He abides only by Fury's insistence and they both watch Steve get bowled over. Steve is too small to put up a fight, he is reedy and thin. Still, he struggles with the small pack he carries and manages to bludgeon the demon enough to distract it.

Bucky takes a step but it is in the wrong direction. Towards the butchered bodies of the caravan.

Tony senses Fury's hand reach for a hidden blade, and this time Tony puts his hand on Fury. Asking him, silently, to watch.

Bucky shakes under the moonlight and Steve thrashes under the third demon.

"You brat!" The demon cries, Steve must have gotten lucky somewhere.

"Buck--Bucky!" Steve yells, not pleading but commanding from his position in the mud and dirt.

It's enough, and Tony isn't skilled enough to quiet his sigh of relief when Bucky flings himself at the demon on Steve.

He kicks it so hard its head goes flying.

“A demon,” Fury says, voice even. Tony still feels like it’s an accusation.

“He has a name,” Steve hisses, indignant. Bucky sits quietly behind Steve.

“He--Bucky,” Tony says in deference to Steve’s squawking, “doesn’t act like any other demon. You’ve seen it.”

Fury doesn’t say anything, only looks at Bucky over Steve’s shoulder. Compelled, Tony continues, “Demons aren’t social, they don’t process emotions the same was as humans. They follow different instincts. But Bucky hasn’t succumbed to his hunger even once, he blatantly prefers having company!” Tony gestures with his words, like he’s scoring his argument.

Is he arguing? Tony just wants Fury to see the potential Tony has seen.

“He’s my brother,” Steve says, “He’s the best man you can ever meet and he doesn’t deserve to be treated like he’s a monster! He’s not one. I’ll prove it to you!” His fists are clenched tightly over his knees, his back straight and determined. He’s short and thin but Tony feels like that wouldn’t stop him from fighting both of them right now if he felt like he had to.

“How can you prove it?” Fury asks.

“I--” Steve cuts off, looking angrily at the pot over the fire. “There’s demons who do hurt people, right? The one who did this to him, the one who hurt our family. We’ll find him and show you! That Bucky’s better, that we can help.”

Fury only hums in acknowledgment of Steve’s declaration, he doesn’t say anything further. Tony sidles closer to the pot and starts serving them all. The stew is thick and smells delicious. He doesn’t know if Steve has noticed, but Fury must have started on this early in the morning and he’s prepared too much for just an individual. He’d been waiting for them, all of them.

He ladles the stew and feels warmth spread through his chest when he notices Fury had added some of the hard to find wood mushrooms Tony had shown a preference for back when he’d studied under the Mist Pillar. Such a small thing, to show someone still had room for you in their life.

Steve takes his bowl, obviously still concerned about the conversation and not like being left without an answer.

As Tony pulls a fourth bowl towards the stew he hears an inquisitive noise and he smiles at Bucky, peaking around Steve’s shoulder. Tony fills the bowl, sprinkles a garnish over it, and puts in a shallow spoon before holding it out to Bucky.

No one has really had a chance to study demons thoroughly, Bruce is really the only one in the field, but it’s general knowledge that demons don’t need to eat proper food, though Tony is sure that they can. Since Bucky isn’t eating a demon’s preferred diet, he can’t imagine offering a substitute would be a terrible idea.

Bucky reaches out to accept the bowl, staring at it for a disconcertingly long amount of time. Tony isn’t sure Bucky realizes it’s for eating, but he holds the bowl with a sort of relish, and Tony surmises that at least he’s enjoying the warmth.

“Start eating,” Fury says abruptly, and Tony realizes that Bucky isn’t the only one not enjoying his meal. Steve startles at Fury’s stern voice. “You’ll need the energy come tomorrow morning.

Steve blinks, confused and Tony can’t stop the laugh that spills between his lips. The way Steve’s blue eyes reflect the fire remind Tony of fireflies over a still pond at night, and he thinks, perhaps the Breath of Mist may find a suitable successor tonight.

The morning comes quickly, perhaps because Tony insists on waking before the rest in the humble house. He gathers his belongings and is working on his shoes, sitting out on the engawa in the dawn’s pre-morning light. He hears shuffling and is not surprised to see Fury walk around the house to meet him. He’d never managed to wake before Fury.

“I thought you may want to watch your strays a little longer,” Fury says.

“They’re in good hands,” he replies, truthfully, but also to see the way Fury’s eyes soften. He turns his attention back to his feet, fingers tapping against them, stalling. “I can’t stay. I’ve got to relay everything back to the other Pillars, inform them about Bucky’s condition.” He smiles wryly at Fury, “Make it sound like he’s not an incredibly unstable, unknowable force of nature.”

“You could write a letter.” Fury says, but with an air that shows he doesn’t particularly think it a wise move.

“If you’re lonely, you can always write me, Nick.”

It’s not an empty offer, but they both know they won’t take it. Neither of them take particularly well to letters. Fury’s distaste comes from a life time of intercepting letters to gather information instilling a practical paranoia in him. If he must he will send a messenger crow with a missive so encrypted and vague it’s almost useless.

Tony finds it difficult to communicate with written words. His greatest strength is disarming people with his words, more than one person has accused him of wriggling his way into their lives, and that’s harder to do when his words come off as dry and clinical.

Tony sighs and stands, checking his sword on his side. “I think he’ll do good with a shield,” he says as he steps onto the packed dirt path through Fury’s small garden. “Don’t get him used to swords, because I won’t be making one of those for him.”

“Don’t tell me how to train the brats you leave on my doorstep,” Fury says to Tony’s back.

#tony stark #steve rogers #bucky barnes #nick fury #kny #demon slayer au #kamaeteWRITES

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missbrightsky · 4 years

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On My Honor

Fics Masterlist

Chapter 1: Rhysand

“Fall back!” my order rang out over the battlefield. Soldiers left and right were falling to Hybern steel. Each one was a slash to my soul.

“Fall back!” my order came again. The towering wood gate behind us creaked closed on ancient hinges. Each inch was an echo across the war-torn field.

Again and again, I swung my shield and sword, years of training keeping me on my feet and alive. Cassian and Az to my right and left shadowed my movements, felling an enemy soldier with each blow. We yielded ground little by little, closer and closer to the haven behind us. I would not stop until every one of my unit was safe behind the fortress walls.

“General!” the cry rang out, the plea apparent to let me know that it was time to let go. With a final swing, I killed a Hybern soldier and stepped behind the fortress gates, just in time to let the door swing shut.

Bodies slammed on the other side, demanding entry by force. The heavy oak doors held against the assault, allowing me to release a small breath of relief. Scanning the courtyard, I could tell losses were heavy but could have been so much worse. Women rushed between gaps in the chaos, bringing water and clean cloth for the healers. Outside the wars of the fortress, violent yells echoed over the field, Hybern roaring at the absence of their opponent.

Cassian had already disappeared from my side, going to his men to bring them whatever comfort he could. Azriel surveyed the courtyard at my side, absorbing reports from messengers that rushed up to him and then disappeared with his orders.

“Hybern withdraws their forces to the mountains, it’s unclear if they’re moving on or if they’re going to try for another attack,” he told me, voice rough from yelling in the battle.

I nodded, my brow furrowing, trying to predict what their next move will be.

Cassian circled back around to where we were, his face grave and ashen. “We lost almost 2,000 today.” I cursed quietly. This was a heavy blow to our forces, almost a third of them.

“I want to send out conscription notices,” Cas said, “We need to grow our ranks if we’re to survive this war.”

I stiffened at his request. I knew we needed more bodies at the front, but my stomach churned with the thought of damning more souls to the outright slaughter. He and Az read every emotion on my face. “I don’t want to do this either,” Cas whispered, “But we need to.”

I nodded, “Do it. Ask for at least one man from each family, two if they can manage it. Make sure the families are fairly compensated.”

“Yes, Captain,” Cas strode away to draft the conscription notice. I watched his back get swallowed by the masses of injured, my heart heavy in my chest. Azriel had also disappeared, off to secure our safety for the night. I turned to the steps built into the fortress walls, climbing them with heavy legs. My head wanted to droop with exhaustion, but I couldn’t let my men see me weak. They looked to me for strength and stability. Rest will come later.

The top of the wall was dotted with archers, those who were better suited to fight from afar than on the ground. A hulking black mass washed with gold from the sunset grew distant with each passing minute. Hybern knew that they had won the battle despite us living to fight another day. At least it looked like they wouldn’t be bothering us for the night, allowing my men time to rest.

I leaned on the outer wall, my gaze sweeping over the bodies that clumped and littered the field. Small fires had broken out, the smoke barely masking the stench of rotting flesh. Tomorrow those fit enough will have to venture out among their dead comrades and pile the bodies for ritual burning. There was no time or energy for digging a mass grave, this was the only comfort I could give their weary souls. Hybern declined to take their dead, leaving them among ours. We would burn them too, not out of respect, but to get rid of them.

The last of the sun slipped over the horizon, shadows deepening over the plain. Bodies became wraiths, forever to haunt the battlefield. The quiet was deafening, a horrible contrast to screams earlier.

The courtyard behind me yielded the occasional shout or cry. The healers were doing their work right. I heaved a sigh, turning my back on the bloodbath below. My mind snagged on each body below, soon to be new recruits would be taking their place.

Az met me at the bottom of the stairs, paper balled in his fist, face grim. “Hybern is retreating further into the mountains and shows no signs of coming out anytime soon.”

My brow furrowed, sorting through the information. They had the numbers, the strength. They could siege this fortress if they wanted to.

“We don’t understand either,” anger biting at Az’s words.

“Keep an eye on them, they’ll make their move soon,” I clapped him on the shoulder. Weaving through the packed bodies, I offered words of strength to the men, occasionally holding down one when a healer needed a hand. The hallways of the fortress weren’t much better, more lining the walls, sleeping or eating.

I finally reached the small room I had been occupying for the past few weeks. A bed and cluttered desk took up most of the space. I had been offered bigger quarters but denied them for the healers or soldiers. Someone had left a bowl of fresh water on the desk. My sword thunked on the ground, soon followed by my heavy armor. Blood had worked its way under my shirt, leaving it stuck to my skin. Peeling it away, I surveyed the damage. Nothing more than a massive bruise on my stomach but all my muscles screamed from hours of use.

Scrubbing down as quickly as I could, the water was a murky red by the time I was done. Even with the slight chill in the room, as soon as my head hit the pillow, a dreamless sleep dragged me down.

Next Chapter

#acotar #mulan #feyre #rhysand #feyre x rhysand #sarah j maas

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dlamp-dictator · 5 years

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Allen Rambles about Assassins Pride

Originally, I was going to talk about Assassins Pride along with High School Prodigies have it Easy Even in Another World as a sort of update/mini-essay post. However... the Assassins Pride portion got a lot bigger than I expected, I was over 500 words into it, and by that point, like so many other of my Ramblings, I just threw up and hands and decided to go all in. So, here we are... talking about an anime with only 2 episodes out and yet I’ve still managed to write over 1,300 words about in the rough draft of this “mini” essay.

But first, a quick synopsis by Wikipedia, who does a much better job of summarizing this show than my first two drafts did:

Humanity has been brought to the edge of extinction and now exists solely in the last remaining city state of Flandore, where individual city blocks are housed in separate glass domes. Travel between the domes is possible only via train lines running through glass tunnels. The world outside the domes has become one of eternal darkness and is completely infested with savage lycanthropes.

Within the domes humanity is divided into the nobility and the commoner classes. Through their blood members of noble families are able to manifest mana which grants them powerful superhuman abilities enabling them to fight and kill lycanthropes. Melida Angel was born to a noble father and a commoner mother but has never manifested mana and attends an elite academy to hone her skills with mana.

On orders from Melida's noble grandfather, Lord Mordrew, the assassin Kufa Vampir is ordered to become Melida's tutor and discover if Melida is a true member of the noble Angel family. If Kufa discovers Melida is the product of her mothers affair with another commoner and not blood related to Lord Mordrew he is ordered to assassinate her. Kufa confirms Melida is likely not a noble but decides he cannot ignore her strong spirit and offers her a way to manifest her mana.

With Melida able to use mana for the first time Kufa must keep his actions a secret from Melida's family and from his guild, White Knight, or both he and Melida will be executed.

So here we have a Combat School anime mixed in with political intrigue and assassins. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Though my interest in this anime didn’t come from the mere announcement. Rather, it came from the manga that I read online almost a year ago that has slowly (extremely slowly) been updating.

And as of me posting this essay, this anime is gone through 10 chapters of that manga in 2 episodes.

That’s... insanely fast pacing, and skipping quite a lot of important context. However, despite this I think the anime’s team might be in the right to do this, or at least I can see a bit of their logic behind this choice.

But... before I go into that, I want to talk a bit about that manga in question and the things that made me gravitate toward. Mostly so I can have a Rambling this is more about the positives than the negative, as my last few have been... less than kind toward any series I talk about.

Ah, but I’ve rambled a little too long, let’s get to the first part this manga that I like, which is...

The Intrigue

If there’s one thing I enjoy about the manga it’s the way it shows how the nobility is. Like the synopsis said, the noble class usually inherits the ability to use mana, and specifically families can even inherit unique and powerful classes like Paladin, Dragon Knight, and Magic Knight. These are people raised to be warriors to fight demons, as well as represent their families and schools in tournaments and competition. So being in the noble class creates quite a lot of pressure to achieve and perform at a level that’s acceptable, if not extraordinary. The pressure is on these kids to do their best and live up to their family names, and the fact that Melida can’t even use mana leaves her ostracized and bullied. And the manga makes sure you know this. She’s taunted and mocked by her classmates at every turn. You see the impossible gap that a normal human without mana is would have to cross. You Melida get knocked down both physically and emotionally by those around her save for her maids. And you see just how little her father cares for her because of it. Not through his direct action, but the fact that Melida’s maids are the youngest, least experienced attendants throughout the family. That Melida herself is forced to live alone in the family’s spare manor instead of directly with her father. And boy did chapter 10 show just how much of a jackass her father is with only a few words and cold glare. This is a nobleman alright.

And seeing all this just makes me want Kufa to succeed in making Melida into a great noble and fighter. Even if he has to cheat and break from his original mission to do it, just seeing Melida throw all that bile back into the faces of those who spat on her will be well worth it. To quote the man himself:

“That right there is the warrior you all called useless!”

Ah, but speaking of her teacher...

Kufa

This might be a little weird to mention now, but Kufa reminds me a lot of Zeabolos from Trillion: God of Destruction. I talk a little about that game here when discussing Idea Factory games last year, saying that Zeabolos was a good main character for having an actual personality and goals that didn’t just reveal around the main cast. Kufa is very similar in that regard. Both are older males past 20 with relations and interactions around a namely young female cast. Both have those relations played more realistically than pandering. In Zeabolos’s case, his female cast consisted of his nieces, cousins, sisters, and close friends. People he treated as family and not like awkward crushes, making those interactions heartfelt and fun to see, even the more pandering things, as Zeabolos rightfully doesn’t blush and get flustered around his own family save for Ashmedia who purposefully always tries to throw him off his game.

In the same vein, Kufa treats Melida as his student first and foremost.He trains her in combat, scolds her when she falters too far, praises her when she succeeds, and basically acts as a better father figure than Melida’s real father could ever be. It’s a cute relationship, and it doesn’t end their. He teases and mocks fellow tutor Rosetti, not only keep her and her student at arm’s length but also because she’s enough of a ditz to fall for his taunts. He treats those that bullied and teased Melida... rather... harshly for understandable reasons. Point being, the author understood that Kufa was a person first, and character second, something a lot of other writers in the medium usually fail at.

Plus, the dude actually has some pretty wicked fight scenes. He’s about as over-powered as most male protags in this kind of story, but since the story made sure to show the audience he’s an instructor and assassin by trade, we expect him to be strong from the get-go and can safely continue the story knowing the tension comes less from a powerful enemy, but rather the power system of government and oppression that a kamehameha can’t just blast away.

Ah, but I’ve spoken a bit too long about the teacher and failed to mention much about the student. So let’s talk about the girl herself.

Melida

Boy… it’s no wonder Kufa would rather risk his life than kill this girl for someone’s political gain. Like I said when discussing the intrigue, she’s constantly put down for her lack of mana despite her hardworking nature. Even though she can use mana she’s still an accomplished swordsman and exemplary student. She trains her body everyday, she studies as hard as she can, and for all her effort... she just gets kicked down by everyone else. Her friends, her family, and up until Kufa came into her life and helped her gain mana all she had were her inexperienced maids.Until Kufa showed up she had to take every bit of venom thrown at her with a smile and laugh. She suffers a lot in those first few chapters, and you really want someone to save, to help her accomplish her dream of being a great noble and fighter. No only for herself, but to honor her late mother who everyone claimed was a part of an affair and that Melida herself isn’t even a true woman of the Angel.

And Kufa does, at the risk of both his own and her life.

And after that, we truly get to see Melida shine as the brave soul she is, now that she has the power and is slowly gain the skill to back up that bravery. It’s a nice foil to her cousin Elisa, a fellow student who does possess Angel blood, has gain the esteemed and rare class of Paladin, is rather powerful in her own right... but is an expressionless, cowardly girl that’s almost too frightened to face the demons. I’d go on to discuss Elise and her tutor Rosetti, but... this Rambling is getting long enough, so... more on.

Other Small Things Allen Likes

Just going to put this in list form for the sake of my sanity as well as the sake of moving on to my final point quickly. That said, here are some other small things I enjoy about the Assassins Pride manga:

The world-building is surprisingly engaging to me. A world trapped in perpetual night with warriors of light being the only thing keeping away further darkness, along with the last bastion of humanity being a literal chandelier city in case you missed the symbolism is... surprisingly effective.

There have been some good fight scenes throughout the manga so far. Not many within the 20 chapters mind you, but all of which had some good build-up to them and rewarding conclusions.

Kufa not only succeeds as a serious character, but is the source of a lot of the comedy as well. The manga takes good advantage of throwing this cold, serious assassin off his game enough to be funny at times.

The expressions in this manga are done very well. Half the reason Kufa is so effective are the moments with the artist finally decided to give him a really dark or comedic expression.

Okay... now that I’ve gotten everything off my chest about the manga, it’s about time I finally discussed...

The Anime

Since only two episodes of the anime have came out as of the time of this essay I’ll try keep this short, but… no promises.

Now, in two episodes we’re already at chapter 11 of the manga. That’s… very quick. And chapters 1-11 did a lot of that build-up I was talking about in the last few sections of this essay. To skip all of that really does give this anime a mediocre feel to it, like it just wants to get to the big action shots and give more of a “best scenes” montage than a story.

That said, this isn’t a bad thing. As another anime did something similar...

Yes folks, Allen X is going to compare the action-drama combat school Assassins Pride to the bombastic sports parody Keijo!!!!!!!!

If that disturbs you’re free to leave now, I’m going to continue.

Now, if you’ll mind the comparison, Keijo!!!!!!!! skipped its entire first arc in its anime adaption, over 20 chapters of manga, and the end result was honestly better for it. When you understood the context and plot of "Butt Battle Anime” you didn’t need much else. At that point, you can jump straight into the second arc that focused on developing techniques and had diverse battles for each main character. The exposition and characterization could be explain later, or even skipped if your suspension of disbelief could accept Keijo for what it was, an action-packed sports parody.

At the same time, for all the good build-up the manga does, I can also admit that if you understand that context and plot of “Combat School with Assassin Teacher and Aristocratic Intrigue” you can probably follow the rest of the series just fine. You don’t need to know how classes work to the letter if you can see them in action in the tournaments and battles. You don’t need to know all the trauma and suffer Melida has been through if you got the point after episode one, as it’d be needless suffer-porn. You don’t need to know how deep in trouble Kufa is for going against his guild’s orders if... well, spoiler events happen in the next few episodes that will very much show how determined Kufa’s guild is to get rid of Melida. I’d also like to add that even with online fan-translations the manga only has 20 chapters available.

And twenty chapters of manga isn’t enough to cover a 12-episode anime.

I’m willing to be something that happens around the 30s will be conclusive enough, but the anime has to skip a lot to get to the meat of the plot. Actually, I know this is the case. Here is a link to the Assassins Pride anime’s english website. If you go to the character selection it’ll give you a list of the main cast. This cast consists of Kufa and Melida, the main character. Elise and Rosetti, the main characters’ foils. Nerva, the antagonist of these first 2 episodes. And... 3 characters we aren’t familiar with yet. These 3 in particular are revealed and explained in the latest arc, but as they just got revealed in chapters 19 and 20 and the manga has once again slowed down its updates as fan translations tend to do... we can only speculate what their purpose is. This tells me the latest arc will be not only meaty, but also intense with a main cast this small.

I’ve got hopes for this anime despite my nervous feelings. And I hope the show exceeds my expectations.

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At the very least, Share the Light is a stellar song for an OP, and the OP itself is done well too. If this song is the only good part about this adaption… then I think at least something good came out of it.

...

Usually, this would be the part where I once again lament the lost of the line break feature on Tumblr and awkwardly move on to my conclusion. However... there’s some things I have to get off my chest. Nothing related to Assassins Pride, but to the manga community in general that tends to scream and moan about the book being better than the movie one too many times for liking. So...

Allen’s Grievance

Again, this has nothing to do with Assassins Pride, so feel free to move on to the conclusion if your done reading my mad ramblings. However, there are a few things I have to get off my chest when it comes to comparing manga panels to animation frames:

First, let me say this: Anyone saying the manga is source material to the anime just became irrelevant. Assassins Pride was originally a light novel published in 2016 with 11 novels out as of this essay. To mention the manga as the main source is not only ignorance, but also arrogance, which is an almost unforgivable sin in my book toward anyone acting as a critic.

As someone who’s trying to write his own story I’ll also say there’s a huge difference between serialized writing and writing for a show. I’m not in the animation or show-writing business, so I can’t speak on that end, but in terms of serialization the focus is more on quantity than quality. It’s not just about writing a good story, it’s about writing a continuous story with frequent/timely updates at a consistent rate of quality. I can’t speak for the writer of Assassins Pride, but most places I’ve went to for advice in this regard focus on consistency of writing more than quality of writing. This type of environment creates a lot of downsides, but having this understanding also means that Assassins Pride, being a serialized story, likely has a focus on a long story to keep selling rather than focusing on overall quality.

To that point, by the way the manga explains it, this story is suppose to cover at least 3 years of Melida’s life. Now timeskips will likely happen, but that’s a huge amount of content if they pace it right, and impossible for a 12-episode show to adapt well without cutting some corners in its own pacing, hence the reason they’re skipping this first arc’s details to get into the meat of the second arc.

And need I remind everyone that read the manga that you are likely pirating it for free. I’ve yet to hear of any overseas translation or sells of the light novel yet, so most people complaining about this point likely didn’t read this manga legally. I’ll fully admit I didn’t either, but I also believe most people should put their money where their mouth is. Literally. The main reason the manga translations are so slow is likely because the fan translators aren’t doing this as an actual job, but either for fun or for patreon money. And translators... you can honestly get better money translating hentai. Believe you me, there’s a big market for it and you’d be surprised how many people want context for their Japanese/Korean/Chinese porn.

As I mentioned before, you can understand a lot of details by simply seeing them in motion rather than having them explained to you. The Samurai class is speedy, the Gladiator class is a good attack, the Paladin class is an advance combat/support class, the Maiden/Dancer class is good a mid-range. These things can be shown through the animations and fight scenes rather than having a character explain it. The anime can easily show more than tell, and people need to realize a lot of manga, comics, and novels are guilty of overdoing exposition.

I could go on with my annoyance, I really could, but I’m going to stop their before this thing gets to over 4,000 words.

So...

Conclusion

In short, I’m cautious, but I’m not disappoint… yet.

I’ll keep an eye on this anime. If anything, it definitely looks pretty, the fight scenes have been down well so far, and seeing Melida be cute in full color is great. If I just get a decent action series out of this anime, I’ll be happy. And hey, maybe the light novel and manga will be translated and sent to the west too. Here’s hoping.

Anyway, that’ll do for me. I’m gonna’ try and post something weekly again. Not so much a weekly update, but just essays in general.

#your dictator is speaking #assassins pride

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