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kingmaker-a · 2 months

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Winter without Fireflies | Yu Jimin

Non-Idol AU

Previous: Like a Moth to a Flame

Warnings/Tags: Angst, guilt and regret. Alcohol usage, cheating (?), longing for your friend's partner. Things aren't going well for Jimin.

Summer has since faded to winter, the night lost between the two of you seems all but a distant memory in the torrid affair that is adulthood. Still the scars linger in their own way, life never goes to plan does it?

Word count: 3k

Genre: Angst

Winter, the complete package.

Snowflakes dance and twist with the grace of a ballerina, beautiful yet frighteningly impermanent. Frost creeps along every surface, marring windows into a frosty frigid embrace caked with ice.

For some people it’s their favorite time of year, the holiday season, a time for family and friends, for merriment to be had and for-

Death and loss, as nature bleeds and fades against the coldest touch.

But as her fingers grip tight against whatever soft hallowed warmth she can cling to, she also realizes it’s also the season of absence.

A thought that smolders against the dying embers of a dream, a memory and her throat clamps up, dragged over the sharp edge of jagged ice.

Pain rends true, as her teeth clench, tears claw at her eyes with an icy frost. It’s like trying to see through foggy, frozen glass as her hands reach desperately against the embers of memory.

The embers of summer, of love and life, the taste of heated tarmac on concrete as the air scorches or the embrace of cold beer as the air finally chills.

Embers of you, tangled in her embrace.

Her tears are icy trails, freezing against her skin with a frosty burn.

It was months ago.

So, why does it feel like yesterday?

Her smile is sunlit in spite of the tangled mess of her blanket, iridescent in spite of her irritated dry skin and bedhead.

She preens against the morning sunlight, clambering forward with a languid, cat-like yawn.

Her eyes remain nestled against the edge of sleep, barely brimming against the warmth. She presses her cheek against the neck of pocketed heat.

“I was thinking~” she churns with the idea of breakfast, arms snaking around with a soft gentle touch and-

You're gone. Her hands claw at sheets, desperation reeks into every motion staining her hands, as if the pain that sinks, poisons her heart can change fate or reality. A choked scream rings in her throat, hollow and pained as tears well at her eyes with a stabbing pain.

It unravels at her touch.

Her blood runs cold, even the sun is a candle that is snuffed out, replaced with the infinite cold void.

Her eyes snap open, clambering to her feet in a smoldering rush. Her own words ring with a screech.

“We can’t.”

Blood rushes to her head at the suddenness, the world spins, she stumbles, latching onto the door frame. There’s a nascent hope, primal and barely alive.

Maybe you were having a shower or making breakfast like so many lost nights before?

Silence bristles against her skin, it’s cruel in its touch, pitiless in your absence.

Her words ring through her head, dangerous like a caustic smoke. Her mind lingers on Minjeong; the reason.

A knock rings, her door lacks the warmth of summer, it’s gone, painted a pale blue; locked with cold.

It thrums again with a familiar pattern, your knuckles crest her brain and her breath hitches. She claws for her phone as she unlatches the deadbolt.

Her phone is dismissive, no response.

Like everyday since.

Her lips purse, curling into the slightest frown.

It’s been months.

Her fist clenches, fighting the urge to crumple against the floor like discarded paper.

Perhaps that is all she was, all she'll be.

A hand waves in front of her face, ringing with the clinking of keys.

“Hello, earth to stupid cheese cat.”

She’s all smiles ramshackled in a trench coat that almost looks too big on her, too bad the ginger twinge of her hair makes her look flawless.

Minjeong.

She makes a show of plastic bags filled to the brim with takeout, her eyes linger against Jimin’s, wincing when she does.

“Stupid, depressed cheese cat?” she offers a hopeful twitch of a smile.

Jimin rolls her eyes, crosses her arms. It’s always her.

Minjeong strides in without missing a beat; like she does every week. As if the sun hasn't shriveled up and the world hasn't gone dark and she's freezing in the cold.

Because she isn't, even on twisted winter nights, she's warm.

She hates the part of her that thinks about punching her in the face.

How warm is blood?

“Jeongie,” the nickname lingers like bile, corroding against her taste buds like acid. “Why are you here?”

Why do you keep coming? The words are unwritten on her tongue, too scared of the venom that would sink in. Her mouth hangs for a moment, but she can see the patient flicker in Minjeong’s eyes.

A tentative candle.

Fuck she hates I-she’s thankful a snarl never makes it’s way across her lips.

Minjeong smiles, soothing like the soft touch of winter, a drizzle of rain in a drought.

“Because,” she offers a container of takeout, chopsticks at the ready.

“You’re my best friend.”

…

Her brain coils, snapping around those words with a vice grip.

Was she… a good friend?

She snatches the container with a huff, dragging her feet to her table. Street lights slowly flicker to life outside her window, her eyes linger against foggy condensation.

Minjeong’s container clatters to the table with a tossed smile, she practically sinks into your spot.

“You know, you're not the type to get so hung up on some guy.” Her words prod and poke like her chopsticks.

It strikes a nerve.

“I never said it was a guy,” she can hear the echo of her own laughter, cast in the warmth of your company. The words trace across her lips with a ghostly touch.

This time.

“What was that?”

A frown freezes across her lips, tightening ever so slightly as she avoids Minjeong’s gaze.

There's the slightest flicker of a smile, haunted by the taste of half cold takeout. She can still remember your disapproving look as it melted, caught in the flame of an honest confession.

She grumbles, “I never said it was a guy.”

Minjeong’s hand traces the outline of Jimin’s, it’s tender and caring like fresh snowfall.

“Right, that's my bad.” Her eyes linger for a second, head clocking to the side, twisting over a thought. “What was the nickname you settle-”

“Firefly.”

It’s sudden, gripping like spontaneous combustion, caught awash in waves of memories. She hates the way it saunters with warmth, trickling through the cold, cutting air.

There's a flicker of acknowledgement, of recognition cast in the hum of phone light.

“Have you tol-'' her words are diced by another notification, caught on the hook of a surprised arch of her brow.

Your face burns into her mind. It weighs heavy against her shoulders, a lingering guilt and a hateful resentment.

The worst part is she didn't know if it was meant for her or Minjeong.

“No…” the word freezes solid in the air, choking at the rational explanation.

Lies aren't her forte, aren't her thing.

…Still, all this pretense, all this dancing around the whole thing is not technically a lie.

But it feels like a sin all the same.

To deny herself of her feelings, to pretend like she didn't fuck things up–It hurts the way, the edge of the knife cuts at her tongue, a double edged sword because what did she actually fuck up?

Her friendship with Minjeong?

She may not notice the creak of wood, but the foundation of their friendship is built on rotten wood.

… Or maybe it’s the fact, she screwed up her chance to be with you?

Even if it was only for a moment.

Her teeth clench, eyes faltering against Minjeong. She can trace the small smoky wisps of frost that puff past her lips, eyes unfocused, distracted thankfully.

Minjeong’s phone grinds against the table with a call.

She rolls her eyes, “jeez, I don't respond to a text straight away and she's already calling me.”

Her lips tighten, pursing into a fine edge. Though, Jimin can still pluck out the fragments of a smile.

“Sorry,” Minjeong whispers, holding her phone between her fingers.

She puts the receiver to her ear, a smile blooming across her lips. “Geez, Aeri give a girl a seco-”

Her eyebrows crimp together, a familiar confusion lingers in her eyes.

“Where am I?” Her eyes trace a watch she doesn't own. “I’m at Jimin’s…”

Her words putter and fade, drowned against the waves of a pained wince, she wasn't supposed to say that. One of the few conditions Jimin had laid down, to avoid questions from the rest of her friends.

Her eyes clamp shut as she takes a sharp breath, even Jimin can pick out the excited chatter on the other end.

“Did I say Jimin? I meant… Jaemin,” her gaze shifts tentatively, daring a look at Jimin.

It’s in that small bitter moment that she realises…

It’s impossible to hate Minjeong, each word is heartfelt, every lingering glance is sincere.

Perhaps that's what truly twists the knife she buried herself. It coils, catches against her skin, yet it’s the way Minjeong offers a mouthed ‘I’m sorry’, that nicks an artery.

It bleeds profusely with a tar-like hatred, it burns and seethes against the skin of her heart. It blisters and crawls with a primal disgust.

She is everything she hates.

A bad friend.

“It’s okay,” she offers, her smile tentative, small, but real.

Minjeong hushes her cell phone, cradling it in the crook of her neck. There's a plushyness to her smile, an almost cocky, yet daring coyness. An idea stands on the precipice of her tongue, yet her eyes remain, shaky and uncertain.

Should she dare?

“It’s been awhile since you've come to girl's night.”

Too caught with dates in the past, too caught up on icy bruises in the present.

It’s a statement, not a question.

A hallmark of Minjeong.

Jimin rolls her eyes, lingering on her fridge. How was her stash holding up?

Her eyes flit back to Jimin.

“Who’s paying?”

Try as Minjeong might, even the Martians on Mars can see her barely restrained giddiness as if she’d burrow a hole through Jimin’s kitchen floor otherwise.

Her smile peeks through tightened lips, as she holds the phone to her ear.

“Jimin wants to know if you're paying.”

She can't already imagine Aeri’s Oscar worthy groan, as if she didn’t miss the company of her dear friend.

Minjeong’s smile bursts through its chains, her hand grasping against Jimin’s with a vibrant eagerness.

“This is gonna be so fun!”

…Your night is going well.

Correction, it was going well is a more apt statement.

The marr of sleep crusts your mind, calcified with echoes of brooklyn nine nine reruns.

Your phone screen burns with the time.

3am and an ignored number, texts washed away by the seasons, frozen by the frigid cold. It wails incessantly, stoking your brain.

Looks like an early night wasn’t on the table.

You think about tossing it to the wayside, along with any of the texts that always dared the edge of your mind.

You know better… it has to be important, why else would she ring?

Still you’re hesitant even as you accept the call, an awkward silence hangs in the air, choking at any response that forms.

You wonder, if you’ve even answered it in time.

Perhaps god had taken the wheel and deemed the interaction unnecessary.

But you catch the way her breath hitches, imagine the smile that must dot her lips.

No matter how long it’s been you can still taste her lips against yours, an abandoned luxury.

There’s a familiar, soft, beautiful, snowflake-like giggle. It’s fleeting in its touch to your ear, but even though it’s been so long, you know she’s drunk.

Still, you can pluck out the edge, the deep inhale, the focus. The cold bite that is simply business.

It kills the questions that dare the edge of your tongue, to ask her how she’s been, to apologize despite it all.

Even if it isn’t really your fault.

There’s a huff and you simply wish it’s something else, like she’d forgotten her phone was even on.

The silence aches.

“Your girl is drunk.”

Her fingers trace over cool sapphire hues, snow pirouettes in her somber presence. A scowl dots her lips.

It snags, coils against fresh annoyance. It isn’t like Minjeong to drink too much. To get lost in the midst of it all.

She isn’t one to talk, caught in the solace of loneliness.

A rooftop, all to herself.

Away from Aeri’s prying questions and how she was definitely better off.

If only she knew who she was talking about.

Her brain trails over the spark that started it all, just a simple phone call.

The world spins as she adjusts herself, it’s a whirlwind blur.

How the fuck was she getting home?

Did you ask the same question many months ago?

… She wouldn't dare to ask Minjeong, your incidental company would be suffocating, like drowning in a coffin.

A coffin she deserves.

“Jesus christ, you’re sloshed.”

A phone is hardly an olive branch, you know that much. But you're caught on the indulgence of it all, the way she smiles lost on the rim of a glass bottle.

At first, she doesn't even spare you a glance, lost against the sweet succor of Ambrosia.

Her eyes are hazy, drowning in the thick of it. She traces the sky like fluttering butterflies, her smile sinks, fading into the snow.

She's drunk, you were told as much.

You can't help the smile that burns across your lips as her head cocks to the side.

She's lost on the details. Your blurry silhouette cast in the limelight of it all.

She stumbles as she stands up, trudging with the uneven grace of someone who is well and truly sloshed.

It’s not until her hand claws against your shoulder - as she nearly slips - that she can strain the details. She flutters so desperately close, you can taste each hop on her breath and you nearly lose yourself in her.

But she stops you, eyebrows knotting together as she snaps away from you.

She nearly slips again, but you catch her, your arm looping around her waist.

Confusion lingers on her features with the softest smile.

Though you wouldn't exactly call it gentle, like a snowflake.

“What are you doing here?”

There’s something in the way that her voice saunters - plucked at the edges of angelic harp - that reminds you, she glows in her own way.

You smile, you try to at least. But a chuckle snags at the edges of practiced porcelain and she brims with warmth.

It’s hard to fight the way she just coils around you in the slightest ways. She preens under your gaze, dulcet and sweet.

You offer her phone.

This isn’t how you expected everything to go. There should be fire and anger, caught against the torrid slow slip of a secret.

But Minjeong isn’t here.

Though you suppose she always knew.

“You called me,” you have to fight the bark of laughter that bites at your throat. Her hands pat her pockets, clambering through rifled pockets.

“Technically, at least.”

Her eyebrow quirks as her lips quiver and twitch. The words are lost to her as her mouth hangs agape. You can hear the slightest curl of her voice as it claws across the snow dusted floor.

You see it in her brow first. It cascades to the bridge of her nose as it scrunches and her lips tighten.

There are no fireflies in winter, there is no warmth in the cold clutches of snow.

But she glows nonetheless. She burns, a magma hot red as her hand tangles against your collar.

She tugs violently, leveling a scorching glare at your soul. Her phone clatters and cracks against the concrete pavement.

You would happily ignite yourself in her sunlight.

“What about Minjeong?”

You bite back a smirk, devilish and annoying. There is no point to unnecessary evil.

Your touch is delicate, soft like fresh morning dew after frost. Your hands graze her cheeks, she's a moron.

“God, you really are a stupid cheese cat.”

There's a flare of a nostril, an arch of a brow and a flash of annoyance that sears into her features. You can't help the smile that settles on your lips; as she melts, softening ever so slightly into your touch.

Her eyes linger on you with a glassy softness and you swear you can see the hazy flicker of her thoughts. Her gaze catches against your lips for the briefest of moments.

To give into temptation on her second chance.

She takes a deep breath, refocusing. Even if it is like dragging an anchor through the desert.

She rolls her eyes, as if the insult was just spoken. Her grip tightens, tangles deeper against your collar.

She's picturesque cast in sapphire, the air that lingers between you, ripe with the taste of beer and other ill begottens.

The seasons may be different and the roles may be reversed, but did she feel as you do now?

Is that why she asked about Minjeong?

It is such a her mistake to make.

Words cut like the cold bite of the winter night air.

“We broke up nearly a year ago.”

It’s messy and torrid, you half expect the sting of pain against your cheek as her eyes flare. It crackles in her eyes like looming thunder on a humid summer night.

Her teeth clench tight, twisting into a scowl. The haze of alcohol curls through her thoughts like a murky smoke.

She explodes.

Lips spark against yours, sizzling with a frenetic, desperate edge. You’re caught in the storm of it all, her lips are messy and drunk.

She threatens to drown you as her fingers curl through your hair, to rub your lips raw with swelt.

Snow clings to you both in that moment, fluttering and fleeting; they soak into every stray crevice. There’s the slightest bite of teeth against your lower lip, awkward and unintentional.

You can’t help the smile that blisters and burns.

But she’s hungry, ravenous, daring to eat you alive like an all consuming flame. Still, she pulls away, fights against her very nature to consume you, forehead pressed against yours.

It’s cute the way she pouts, nose wrinkling ever so slightly. Though even the small flame of a candle is cute, compared to the emblazoned heat of a forest fire.

She smiles, snowflakes and stars, glisten and sparkle almost as if by her command, caught in the sea of sapphire blue light.

“We’re both stupid,” she offers.

You’d have it no other way.

#aespa x reader #karina x reader #yu jimin x reader #girl group scenarios #aespa imagines #aespa scenarios #karina imagines #karina scenarios #yu jimin imagines #yu jimin scenarios #aespa #aespa karina #kpop imagines #girl group imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop x reader

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inkykeiji · 10 months

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23 n bmb!dabi if it’s not already taken <3

prompt: blue dress series: break my bones (set during the events of part one!) warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, it’s really just dabi committing an act of public indecency and rubbing himself while looking at you, toxic relationship, one use of the word Daddy, very slight noncon words: 1.1k

You look beautiful in everything you wear—could make a fraying burlap potato sack look good if you really wanted to, Dabi’s sure—but if there’s one colour he loves you in more than anything else, it’s blue.

Blue like the sky, blue like the ocean, blue like his eyes; blue, blue, blue.

Today it’s a sky-blue dress, with a halter tie and a sweetheart neckline, that hugs all the curves and contours of your torso before it flares at the hips, just a little. It’s an unusually warm October day—not that the weather ever dictates your outfits anyway—and you had wanted to spend it outside at a park, savouring the last few wisps of summer before they die and decay into autumn.

And whatever you say goes, now, apparently.

Since you’re pretty much his boss, now, apparently.

Your little blue dress is short—just an inch or so too short to be considered necessarily decent, though Dabi, pervert that he is, loves that about it, too—rippled hem swishing and swaying as you laugh and prance and twirl, skirt fanning out just enough to give him teasing little sneaks of what’s beneath, scarlet lace that clings so delicately to soft, supple flesh.

Tomura probably loves you in scarlet lace and straps and satin, but Dabi wonders how you’d look in blue.

Probably just as gorgeous, he wagers. Maybe even more so.

“Dabi!” you’re breathing, suddenly in his face, having crawled between his bent knees while he was off daydreaming. His eyes snap back into focus to find you cushioned by his spread thighs, elbows resting on his raised knees and legs tucked beneath yourself, pillowy palms cupping a sparkly stone like it’s precious. “Look at this rock I found!”

Your sudden touch makes him jump, a jolt of electricity that shocks his blood, though if you notice you do nothing to remedy it, still intently fixated on the dumb rock in your hands, eyes darting from it to his face in anticipation.

“Uh,” he begins unsurely. “Cool?”

And, oh, how your face absolutely falls at the indifference in his voice, the flatness of his words—uninterested, uncaring.

“You don’t think it’s pretty?”

“Not particularly,” Dabi shrugs, confused as to what the big deal is. “It’s just a rock.”

Your whole body slumps, melting with the last remnants of excitement in your expression—lips tugging downwards into something that threatens to grow into a pout, forehead crunched as your brows push together, a cute, discontented little noise sticking at the back of your throat.

“But it—it has these pretty pink stripes, and look!” your palms tilt one way, then the other, the rock shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. “It glitters.”

You say it as if it’s awe-inspiring, as if this discovery is something to be excited about, something significant to take note of.

“And?”

Gloom dissolves into fury, elbows slipping from his knees as you cradle the rock to your chest, ice sprouting beneath the spots of warmth you had left behind.

“You’re not fun, did you know that?”

“Last time I checked, princess, I wasn’t supposed to be fun, I was supposed to be your fucking babysitter.”

It comes out a little harsher than he intends it to, charged with something bitter and acrid, words spit like venom through his teeth. It makes you flinch, a stinging wince, as if his caustic words gnaw through your flesh, and Dabi steels himself against the barely-there pang in his chest; a small, dull ache that he shoves down, snubs out, buries deep behind his ribs and forgets about.

“Well, babysitters can still be fun,” you grumble under your breath, chin tucked into your chest, face scrunched up. “But whatever. Sit here and be no fun by yourself. I’m going to look for more rocks.”

And then you’re crawling away from him on your hands and knees, gifting him with a full, unadulterated view of your lace-clad ass, unhindered by the linen of your dress, hem having ridden up to your tailbone.

Does Tomura buy all of your clothing one size too small on purpose, or are you really just that much of a whore?

Have you no shame at all? Or are you just so used to being with Tomura that such immodesty is merely second nature to you now, unthinking and automatic, maybe even innate, or ingrained in your consciousness by your sweet Daddy.

He knows he should look away. Any respectable, dignified person would. But Dabi is neither of those.

He never has been.

It’s really cute, the way the lace molds itself to your folds, outlining your lips and clit and the dip of your hole. It’s probably even cuter when it’s soaked with your slick, sticky and shimmering and darkening the webbed lace.

His cock twitches weakly against denim, and he does nothing to hide it; you’re too absorbed in your rock hunting to notice either way, now belly-down on the grass as meticulous fingers delicately sort through each blade.

That dress barely covers your ass even when laying flat on the ground, material only just blanketing the swell, the beginnings of your cheeks peeking out from beneath the material, crimson lace bunched and riding up between them.

And, for a moment, Dabi wonders if you’re doing this on purpose, a teasing little punishment to get back at him for being such a fucking asshole to you and insulting your rock discovery. Flaunting the things he can’t have, can’t even touch; except unbeknownst to you, Dabi is more than alright with simply looking.

It’s enough to have his mind reeling with scenarios, with the thought of pushing your face into the earth—head down, ass up—and filling your mouth with dirt and your cunt with cum; enough to have him daydreaming about rucking that slutty little dress up around your waist and just grinding into your asscheeks, staining dark denim and scarlet lace with thick cream as you cry and whine and beg for him to stop, all while you drench your panties and arch your spine and rub back into him.

It’s enough to have his cock filling with blood, hot and hard and throbbing in his jeans, enough to have him inconspicuously pressing the heel of his palm into his lap to just barely rut against it, dirty and disgusting and entirely depraved.

There’s no way he’ll cum from this, the tiny action more teasing than anything else, but it’s enough to relieve a bit of the pressure, enough to make him feel as though he’s tainted something precious; a small slice of revenge against his boss for degrading him with such a position.

Later tonight, when he’s laying in bed and listening to the muffled symphony of Tomura fucking you to sleep—a harmony of sweet little mewls and breathy broken moans and high pitched whines—he’ll berate himself for being so fucking stupid, for not snapping a few photos to use at his leisure—a failsafe, a fee, for the work he does for you.

But for now, this is enough. This will be enough. It has to be.

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya smut #dabi x yn #dabi x you #omg anon this was such a blast!!!!! i miss bmb dabi like crazy #and its always so fun to explore him during the early stages in particular #but i love him at any time ofc #have a wonderful weekend and stay safe!!#inky.bb #clari gets mail #bmb universe

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koukaaa-descent · 29 days

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this one goes out to all of the bracken/masked queer platonic doomed relationship truthers out there… warnings for body horror and descriptions of rot

You are dying again. You have been dying since the day I met you. On that day, you were mere scraps of flesh, stringy with tendon and muscle. You offered yourself to me.

You offered yourself to me. It was very simple and very beautiful. You clawed yourself off of your body with dull, weak hands, ripping flesh away and burning your own body with your caustic blood. I recall that I had been so curious of the sharp, vicious scent. Death, rot, decay. Everything that you are. Dying. Dead. You had been so alive when you’d offered yourself to me, with trembling, sagging hands. The flesh had worn from your fingertips, and there was only bone.

I remember reaching out. I remember the softness of your nerves against my hands. How they had wound against me, so gentle and so loving. An easy love that you had given to me freely. Desiring to intertwine yourself with the things that created me; wrap yourself in the safety you perceived me to hold.

I carried you for the longest time, I recall. Your sleeping self. A heart, one I did not dare to set down lest it be lost to me again. How wonderful it was, existing with another at my side.

Then; a body. A body, just for you. It took only a moment to recognize me. The strength of your arms was lovely to behold as you held me. You were so alive. You were wonderful. And you have been wonderful, despite the long years and the countless corpses. I seek your death as willingly as I seek sunlight. I seek your blood as I seek water. Your presence at my side remains my greatest joy. I am willing to let you die in my arms a thousand more times. To carry your heart—your self—it is the greatest honor I have.

#lethal company #lethal company bracken #lethal company masked #queer platonic relationships between these fucking things #I’m done for #first person regarding the bracken #thinking about this for the rest of my life #kokadrafts

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 3 months

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Open When...

FEBRUARY FICLETS #1

A/N: Happy February, everyone! (Yes, it' true, January is finally over!) For me, has historically been a month of writing slumps and creative blocks. In an effort to try to fight that this year, I am choosing a few prompts from this list and writing something short for them. I have no idea how many I’ll get to, but for now here’s a little Ezra to get things started. This is part of the Angelfish universe.

Prompt: love letter

Warnings: brief mention of accident and injury

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: Long distance relationships are always tough, especially when the distance spans different planetary systems. But you still find a way to be there for Ezra without ever leaving your post on Lau.

The relentless hum and buzz of life at Bahkroma base was silenced as Ezra reached his bunk and slid the door shut.

What a day. He sighed, bringing his right hand up to the back of his neck. The smallest tilt of his head released an audible pop of tension that he felt beneath his fingers. What a Kevva-fucked day.

Though the potential for danger on the Green Moon was always high, most dig shifts went smoothly. Trek out to the site, fill the day’s aurelac quota, secure the gems and trek back to base. The terrain was rough, the chemicals used to coax the gems from the fleshy roots was caustic, and without a filter the air would kill a person in just a handful of cycles. But when protocol was followed and equipment maintained - as it always was when Ezra was leading an expedition - the job could be done with relative safety.

Of course, there were still plenty of ways that a dig could go awry.

That day, it happened to be an expired vial of chem left behind by some drifter whose body had long since been consumed by the mossy forest floor. Flesh decays, and the Green is always hungry for carrion. But inorganic material remains for far longer - roto scalpels and extraction forceps left to rust, containers of phaser becoming covered by growth, laying in wait like landmines to be struck open by a drill head or pickaxe. Unlike some of the substances used in filtration and cleaning that lost potency over time, phaser solution only became more volatile. More dangerous.

Which was why Frontier Mining Company had invested in top of the line scanning equipment that checked the ground for evidence of abandoned dig sites before crews were cleared to begin.

The scans came up clean, though. Ezra stepped away from the door and crossed the small space that somehow felt smaller since you’d left for your posting on Big Blue. Choosing what had always been your side, he sat on the edge of the bed and gripped the mattress. They were clean. We were cleared, and then-

He screwed his eyes shut against the memory of what happened next - the distinct sound of metal finding glass, the hiss and bubble of the leaked fluid reacting to the water in the plantlife it spilled onto, the stillness in the half second before the explosion, and the anguished screams that came through the comms in his helmet.

In the end, it could have been worse. No one was killed. Everyone had been knocked to the ground, a few people had been banged up a bit. But Danelo, one of the crewmen Ezra had known for as long as he’d known you, had been the unlucky bastard whose ax had hit the vial. He lost a hand to the blast. Ezra had responded quickly, grabbing a field kit and loading the foam gun to cream up the wound as best as he could until the team was able to get the injured man back to base for proper medical treatment, and that had likely saved him from the worst of the infection.

It was still a grizzly sight. He opened his eyes and they landed on the photo he kept tacked up on the wall - one of you in his arms on the covered porch of your floating apartment out on the Skiffs, the shockingly blue water shimmering in the sunlight and your smile directed at him and not the camera. The picture instantly helped to put him at ease if only just a little. I’m glad you weren’t here for that, Angelfish.

He was glad, even though his missing you ran deeper than the ocean you were stationed beneath, that you were no longer at risk of falling prey to any of the Green Moon’s hidden perils. Glad that what happened to Danelo would never happen to you. Glad that your day to day operations on The Dive were far more stable than the wild nature of Aurelac mining. Even though he ached to hold you, especially on days when just a tiny shift in circumstance could have made it impossible for him to hold you ever again, Ezra was beyond relieved that your days on the Green were through. And that my own up here are numbered.

But days like that - and several others - were exactly what you had prepared for the last time you were both on leave together. Because you think of everything, don’t you?

Reaching up to the shelf that was built into the wall above the bed, Ezra pulled down a string-wrapped bundle of letters. There were fifteen in total, each of them meant for different occasions. You’d sealed each letter with a drop of wax and labeled them with their intended purposes. Open when you score a big pull. Open when your stand is halfway through. Open when it’s your birthday. Some of them were still sealed, awaiting the right time as per your instructions. Others were already opened, their pages folded and refolded along creases made by your hands so he could read and reread them as needed. Open when you can’t sleep. Open when you need a laugh. He thumbed through the semi-wrinkled paper, fingers finding the one he was looking for and pulling it from the stack.

Open when it’s been a hard day.

That one was still crisp and unopened. Slipping the shoes from his feet, Ezra swung his legs up onto the bed and leaned back against the wall, and then he slipped his finger between the edges and tore them apart. So far, every single one of your letters had perfectly matched whatever reason he’d had for opening them. Each one was a reminder of exactly what he needed to hear, as though you were right there. And each one only proved what he’d known for years - that you loved him just as much as he loved you. Let’s see what you’ve got to say this time.

Like always, as he read he could hear the words in your voice, as close and clear as though you were there tucked against his chest.

Oh, my Ezra,

A hard day, prospector? I’m sorry, love. These are the days that I wish I was with you the most. Even if just to put my arms around you to give you a few minutes of relief. You make all my worst days more bearable and the fact that I'm so far away on one of yours is something that I would change in a heartbeat if I could. But since I can’t, this will have to do.

Do you remember that day on H4, back at the training facility, when you asked me to partner up with you for the Vezna excursion? I’m sure you do. It was our first experience on a fire planet and we were both nervous about it. What I never told you, though, was that earlier that day I was very seriously considering leaving the Frontier program altogether. I’d blown my Sector Six practice exam that morning and even though the field assessment was still a week away, I could already hear the gossip. I knew most of the other trainees didn’t want me there, didn’t think I could hack it. None of them were eager to be put on a crew with me, and I was really starting to doubt myself. Doubt my dreams. It was my hardest day of the 582 that we spent there.

But then you came along and you had that smile on your face and you said “Angelfish, there’s no one I’d rather walk through the flames with.” And even though you didn’t know it, that was exactly what I needed to hear. That you saw me as someone who was strong enough to do hard things, even things that made you nervous, too. You saw me as someone to depend on, even when I couldn’t see it for myself.

Ezra, I don’t know what happened today to make you open this letter in particular. But I do know that what you said to me that day? I feel the same. There is no one in this or any universe that I would rather walk through flames with, because I know that you can. I know that whatever struggles the day brought you won’t keep you down, because you’re stronger than anything that might try to stop you.

And do you remember what happened after the Vezna excursion? After we got back to H4 and passed Sector Six? Those ten days we spent in The Ephrate during semester break? I do. And I know you do, too.

I love you, Ezra. You’ll get through this hard time, and we’ll be together again soon. So soon.

He read your letter three times that night, running his fingers over the indentations made by your pen, tracing the lines and curves of the letters where you signed your name. You always ended each letter the same way - Your Angelfish - and each time he read those two words they filled him with a warmth he’d only ever felt when you were there beside him. You were his, and he was more yours than his own.

Flattening the letter over the center of his chest, Ezra turned his head to glance at the photo again. “You always know what to say, Angelfish.”

The reassurance that you believed in him - believed that he was capable of doing what was necessary to get through the hard days, whatever they bring - was the reason he was able to fall asleep that night.

But your mention of that long ago trip to The Ephrate? That was the reason for the things he dreamed about. And he couldn’t wait to be back on the Skiffs with you to tell you and show you that yes, he absolutely remembered those ten days.

Thank you for reading! If you would like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please feel free to let me know or you can fill out the form on my masterlist.

Tag list: @something-tofightfor @alraedesigns @valkblue @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @cannedsoupsucks @tobealostwanderer r @paracosmenthusiast @gracie7209 @dihra-vesa @marauderskeeper @novemberrain221 @littlemisspascal @mishasminion360 @stevie75 @nyctophiliiiiaaa @practicalghost @tanzthompson @harriedandharassed @woodlandmouth @thescarletfang @trickstersp8 @imtryingmybeskar @wildmoonflower @mswarriorbabe80 @theredwritingwitch @silverstarsandsuns @pedro-pedrito-pascalito @jedi-in-crocs @anoverwhelmingdin @chiyo13 @myloveistoolittle @Noisynightmarepoetry @Severin-proud

#ezra (prospect)#angelfish au #ezra x female reader #ezra (prospect) x you #pedrostories #ezra (prospect) fic #ezra x angelfish #february ficlets #pedro pascal character #prompt: love letter #open when…

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camelliagwerm · 10 months

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🎪 for leonelle :)

🎪 for a scene about travel | scenes from their childhood prompts

Leonelle looks out of the carriage window with a bored expression on her face, her cheek resting in the palm of her hand, her elbow propped up on the side of the window as she watches the Chelish countryside roll by.

"Sit up straight for Hell's sake, girl," Father says, "Montonis do not slouch."

Leonelle slowly shifts her gaze over to her father, still in his pristine black and red robes, his obsidian symbol of Asmodeus catching in fractured sunlight, and shrugs, before turning her attention back to the road. She does not adjust her posture, instead idly plucking at the delicate embroidery on her skirts.

She should be excited to be leaving Egorian, away from the yoke of her father, but it is just to another boarding school where she might be deemed 'less of an embarrassment' to him and his sons - especially after the last incident.

"But I'm not really a Montoni, am I?" she replies, causticity in her tone as she continues to watch the scenery outside. "I'm just a bastard."

"You are still of my blood, and I expect you to behave as such. Anything less than that is unacceptable." That meant three things: loyal to Asmodeus, loyal to Thrune, loyal to Cheliax. And with loyalty came obedience. She had little interest in obedience. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, and mutters lower: "a pity that you have such a....rebellious she-devil as your ancestress."

#fashionablyfyrdraaca #answered #*writing #oc: leonelle

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heartofspells · 2 years

Text

Masterpost

@wolfstarmicrofic

Prompt: orchid (free space day)

He feels as though he's floating, but not really. It's more like he's being dragged through heavy sludge, a polluted river, his body resisting everything and nothing at once. He feels like he doesn't exist and yet every molecule that makes up his design is twanging and vibrating with life and energy. He feels pulled apart and stitched back together, shredded to bits repeatedly, scattered through time and space, drifting in the vacuum, something sucking him in and out in one constant breath that rises and falls endlessly.

Sirius gasps as his eyes snap open, his back arching with the expansion of his lungs that he thinks shouldn't have any bearing at all because he's not real. Muscle memory, habit, his brain supplies distantly, but Sirius can't focus on it. He stares up, is met by the void of greedy black waiting to pull him back down, and he panics, flails, until the darkness shifts a little and Sirius finds himself gazing into a sea of brown.

He can't look away, the hue not one thing but millions, a sea of dazzling colors, glints of yellow, speckles of amber, a dusting of the deepest burnt orange. It's the richness of earth before the rain comes, smoky quartz that dazzles in the sunlight, the caramel gloss of milky tea. It's like staring at the edges of cymbidium orchid, the outside of a chestnut cracking under the heat of a too-hot fire, counting rings in the center of tree trunks aged so long and so beautifully mere years can't compare.

Sirius sucks in a duller breath as he becomes lost in the bursts of images, all these things of life he remembers so clearly even if he can't recall all the parts of his own. They flicker past his eyes like records being shuffled at a fast pace, a film playing at an out of order, dizzying speed. One flashes through his mind, overtaking his vision, melding every part of himself with the vision, brown eyes glittering through shadows too thick and disorienting to properly focus on, something about them spinning.

He blinks, staring up, finding more brown eyes fixed on him, surrounded by a familiar face, a smattering of dark freckles over a broad nose, cheekbones highlighted by those same marks, lips pulled into a thin, unreadable line, a crease formed between dark brows. And somehow it looks the same but different, Sirius' ceiling haloing the head instead of the bricks like he'd thought existed before.

Sirius shakes his throbbing head, still attempting to split open on him as he lays over his hard floor. The images quickly retreat until they're nearly forgotten, only a faint blip at the outer reaches of his mind. He still has the feeling of a heavy weight pressing down on his chest, but it's beginning to shift away slowly, and Sirius groans as he attempts to reorient himself, focusing in on Remus' face above him after a while. The other man doesn't speak, like he's giving Sirius time to return from the gaping emptiness he feels as though he's been trapped in for centuries.

"I'm back," says Sirius eventually, voice hoarse, the words ripping through his throat painfully. He grimaces before he can stop himself.

"Yeah, you are," concurs Remus. Sirius expects him to sound caustic or cruel, somehow deprecating, but he doesn't. Whatever hurt or anger had existed in the man upon Disapparating seems to have faded now, leaving behind a somewhat grievous expression that Sirius can't fully understand. "And I think I've figured out what controls when and how you can leave this flat."

#these days of dying #wolfstar #sirius black #remus lupin #sirius x remus #sirius/remus #wolfstarmicrofic #my writing #my microfics #holli writes

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darsynia · 1 year

Text

Trust Fall | Ch 25a

Story Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Tony/OC, ‘terrorists made us fall in love;’ IM1 timeline. In this chapter, Emory leaves for her mission (complete with a wheelchair and fake oxygen tank), and Tony helps Darsy not scream when Tumblr fucks with this chapter four times before it gets properly posted. look. LOOK.

Length: 2,901

Taglist: @starryeyes2000 @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @themaradaniels @starksbf @chickensarentcheap @tiny-anne @thorfics @chibijusstuff

Note: The word 'caustic' has a second, lesser-known meaning best described as 'the patterns light makes when refracted through a reflective surface like water or glass.' Think swimming pools or water glasses hit by sunlight!

I used 'caustic echo' (chapter title) as a reflection of something or someone familiar seen in a different light, a new way of seeing Obediah, Sharon (aka. Agent Harris), Rory, or even the scientist Emory's mission is about contacting...

Excerpt:

It’s still dark when they take the stairs down to the parking garage to find Natasha’s car in a darkened corner. Nat gets out and hands over a phone that’s the same make and model as the one left behind in the apartment.

“This has a full contact list including messages. You’ll want to go over them, especially the ones between you and Agent Harris.”

It hadn’t occurred to Emory that not having a phone might be suspicious. “I will, thank you,” she tells Natasha, holding her phone up for Clint, who is piling his gear into the trunk. “You could have warned me, ‘William Never-Tells!’”

“It’s official. That is the worst archery joke I’ve ever heard. Stark’s gonna dump you.”

Chapter Twenty-Five: Caustic Echoes

Emory’s shaken awake to a dark room.

“Hey, Em. Really hoping you’re not hung over,” Clint says.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t blow you out the window,” she groans, pulling the pillow over onto her head. He chuckles.

“You’d never do it, we’re friends now,” he teases. “I got the call. Time to move out.”

“Can I play my ‘get out of mission free’ card?”

“Nope. Get dressed, okay? Should be out the door in ten.”

With that, Clint pulls the door shut behind him but leaves the overhead light on, the bastard. Emory pushes the pillow off of her head onto the floor and winces at the brightness.

“Fuck,” she says. Forcing herself to her feet, she gets dressed in the simple black suit and blue blouse that Nat had given her. The jacket has a lot of hidden pockets, and when Natasha first handed it over, Emory had joked about whether the pockets numbered more than Agent Harris’s secrets. Black Widow’s enigmatic smile and shrug hadn’t been very comforting then, and the memory isn’t very comforting now.

“You almost ready?” Barton calls out from the hallway. Emory grabs her phone, slips on her sturdy black boots, and rushes out to follow him. “Oh. Stick that back on to charge,” Clint says, nodding to her phone. “Communications dark.”

“Even if I promise to leave it off?” Tony had given her the phone, it’s somewhat of a mental lifeline.

“Yeah. Even if that wasn’t part of the plan, I’d feel better if you did. Who knows what Stark installed on that thing?” As if that was the end of the argument, he goes over to the basket on the counter and grabs an apple. “Want one?”

“That better not be a Stark vs. Apple joke,” she warns. “Be right back.”

His laughter chases her down the hall. Right before she plugs her phone in, Emory pops the device out of its protective case and tucks that into one of the hidden pockets of her jacket. Tony had given her that, too, and it’s better than nothing.

“This has a full contact list including messages. You’ll want to go over them, especially the ones between you and Agent Harris.”

“It’s official. That is the worst archery joke I’ve ever heard. Stark’s gonna dump you.”

“If you want good jokes, don’t wake me up before 7 AM!” she snipes back. In response, Clint adjusts the arrows in his quiver to look like a held-up middle finger before hopping into the front passenger seat. “Why can’t he be the mission leader?” she groans, leaning her head onto Natasha’s upper arm.

“You’ll do great. Remember, every insecurity just makes you more credible. We’ll build you back up when it’s all over, ok?” Nat says, petting her head before stepping back.

These two agents feel like her friends, not her coworkers. Emory’s touched, but she also remembers what Tony had said about something being ‘off’ at SHIELD. Impulsively, she steps close to Natasha and lowers her voice to a whisper, even though it’s 5:20 in the morning in a deathly quiet residential parking garage.

“Tony told me the mission data for SHIELD is strange, like something’s not right,” she says. It sounds childish when spoken aloud, but Emory presses on. “Whatever it is, he’s doing more investigating, but it sounded serious. The kind of thing that a long-time employee can recognize, even if you brush it off as unrealistic unless it’s not just you that’s noticing.”

“But he didn’t try to stop you from doing this mission?”

That's a valid question, but Emory has a counter to it: “I need the serum, and maybe SHIELD’s a safer bet than some of the bad guys that are out there?”

Natasha’s face twists into a self-deprecating smile. “That’s the damned truth.” Her watch chimes some kind of an alarm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Emory says. She watches the two agents drive away with mixed feelings, but smiles at Clint’s wink. “Chaotic dad energy,” she whispers to herself.

Without them, Emory feels terribly exposed. She looks down at the phone in her hand-- and realizes that it would probably fit in the case she’s got hidden in her jacket.

She’s barely finished messing with it when a cherry red SUV pulls into the parking garage and drives right over to the darkened area where Emory is lurking. Before it’s fully stopped, the passenger door on her side slides open and a red haired woman wearing Emory’s exact same outfit steps out. She’s a little taller, but everything else is spot on.

“Thanks, Amanda,” Agent Harris says as she gets out on the driver’s side, handing over a shopping bag and a set of car keys.

“Good luck,” the woman says. “It’ll be nice having my own hair back, anyway.” From the bag, she pulls out a baseball cap. A minute later, she’s got most of the hair twisted up underneath it, and she’s swapped her black blazer with a jean jacket from the bag. Her appearance has gone from ‘finance professional’ to ‘exhausted grad student’ in ninety seconds.

“Lay low for a few days. Stick the wig in your hope chest for Roleplay Night,” Harris says with a crooked grin. She seems like a completely different person than the cool, standoffish agent Emory knows her as.

“Sure.” Amanda rolls her eyes. “The day Richard proposes is the day I stop going undercover, so, probably never? See ya. Stay safe.”

“We’ll try.”

Emory watches the other woman walk confidently off into the depths of the parking garage before turning to look at Agent Harris. “I didn’t realize we needed a decoy,” she whispers. Behind them, a car door closes, followed by the sound of an engine starting up.

“Your boyfriend's the one who almost tossed a million-dollar wrench into my op!” Harris says. “Amanda helped us get the necessary optics in case you were otherwise occupied. Get in, we need to get moving. I have some fast talking to do with the charter company about that tank.”

Emory does as she’s told, but she wonders what happened in the last day or so to change so much of the plan-- unless this was always going to happen, and she's just out of the loop. As soon as she’s settled in, Harris shifts into drive, literally and figuratively.

“The tank has two valves. One controls the oxygen that leads to your mask. The other will release an aerosol agent that had been shown to incapacitate anyone with the DNA changes prompted by the serum we’re after,” she says, expertly navigating the city streets on the way to the airport. She looks back at Emory in the rear view and adds, “That’s why you were still unconscious when you arrived at the Triskelion.”

All Emory can do is stare at her. She wants to ask if Tony was around when they puffed experimental incapacitation dust in her face to see what it would do-- but she’s consumed by something more pressing.

“None of this was in the briefing. You left out everything important! Is this how SHIELD treats everyone, or just me?” The accusation is over the line, but if she can’t challenge this bullshit after Harris has admitted to testing untried chemicals on her, then she’ll never get the chance.

The initial silence from the driver’s seat bolsters her courage, which is good, because they’ve arrived at the airport. Every cell in her body longs to get the heck out of there, but while Emory doesn’t need the wheelchair yet, her joints hurt like hell. It’s only a matter of time.

“Thinking over the sequence of events, I’ll admit it’s not--” Agent Harris’s voice falters a little.

Emory wonders if this sudden display of conscience is studied, intended to elide responsibility. It’s a cynical view, but she feels used. At least the conversation is dampening her power generation.

“I knew I’d end up having to fight some of the clients I was assigned,” Harris starts again. Emory can see that her grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled. “Maybe I spent a little too much energy pulling back from them, and you got caught up in that. I’m sorry.”

Emory had steeled herself for cold indifference, and this vulnerability throws her. The reflex to say ‘it’s okay’ is strong, but she pushes that aside with great effort and asks the other question that has her anxious. “Speaking of fights, how are we going to get on an airplane with a weaponized oxygen cylinder?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got that covered.” Harris says, facing forward again. She slows the car to a stop and reaches over to pull something out of her purse to hold up for the security guard. “Flight plan’s already in place,” she says to him, her tone far more friendly than the one she’d just used with Emory.

“All right,” the guard says, stepping back into the booth and hitting a button. “Safe travels.”

“Travel will be the safest part,” Harris mutters once they’re moving again.

Their ride to Sokovia is a chartered jet. The story Harris tells the crew is the one they’d prepped for, that Emory is suffering from a rare condition and needs to see a specialist based in Novi Grad. Preflight and takeoff are completely uneventful, and as she looks out the window at the clouds below them, Emory realizes that if SHIELD hadn’t used experimental gas to knock her out for the flight from Afghanistan, they would have used drugs. They had followed standard operating procedure for the agency: compartmentalize the ‘Need to Know’ and isolate team members from key information on the off chance it could ruin the mission.

She drifts off to sleep in her airplane seat wondering how often not knowing key information caused the strange results that Tony noticed.

Flying back to NYC in the late evening makes it a bit too late to talk to Emory, so Tony sleeps on the plane, dreaming of various innovations he could use on her armor. Both Happy and Pepper had chosen to stay back in California. They’ll fly back with Stane in a few days. Tony’s happy to see that Pepper had called ahead for a hired car to take him home. There’s even a cup of coffee waiting for him in the cupholder, which wakes him up enough to carry his luggage into the basement lab.

Since the stairs are too much effort at 4 AM, Tony sits down at the computer and starts to sketch out what he’d seen in those dreams.

Without anyone around to hound him to take better care of himself, Tony throws himself into the design work, subsisting on smoothies and freeze-dried fruit pouches. Ten hours later he’s too caught up to worry about trivial things like a change of clothes as he drives back over to Stark Industries to use the fabricator. He sneaks in via a side door and tells the scientist working in the room he needs that he’ll fund the man’s side project for a full year if he keeps Tony’s presence in the building a secret.

As he works, Tony picks up his phone to text Emory multiple times, but she’d asked him to wait for her to send a message first on weekdays. There was always a chance that she’d be practicing power control, and as she'd put it, thinking about him is a ‘delightful distraction.’ It’s a compliment, but he misses her, damnit. He’s dozing at the desk waiting for the Bridgeport to finish up, his phone held loosely in his hand just in case, when he’s woken by someone clearing their throat behind him.

A quick glance at his watch confirms what Tony’s stomach is already telling him: it’s just past and/or almost Burger O’Clock, aka 3 PM. Tony summons his best ‘what the actual fuck are you doing’ face for reputation’s sake and swivels his chair around.

“Excuse me, sir,” the man says, undaunted. “I wanted to tell you we do have some palladium in storage.”

Tony doesn’t remember mentioning palladium, but he recognizes the guy, and most of the day is fuzzy in retrospect. “All right, let’s take a look.”

The scientist seems surprised at this response, but he recovers and takes Tony to the secure storage area. It’s enough for an insert. Tony decides to take it, signing the material out before setting up a pickup time for the piece he’s machining. He heads home to eat something and make the tab, so he can swap his current one out. The SI development lab uses a higher purity level than they bother with for weaponry, and JARVIS has warned there could be some issues with long-term palladium exposure, depending on refinement. That’s why he’d been in such a hurry to redesign the arc.

If it works out, that’ll just confirm that he needs a new supplier. Tony wants the best he can get if he’s going to have to cross an ocean to support Emory’s mission. He’ll stick the partially depleted tab into one of his armored suit’s storage caches, as a backup.

Even though they’d taken off in the early morning, the plane lands in Novi Grad after midnight. With how tired she is, Emory is grateful for the wheelchair, but her face aches from wearing the oxygen mask for so long. It’s hard not to be frustrated with Agent Harris for not warning her so she could be more used to the experience. It’s particularly galling to think that for all she knows, this discomfort and mistrust is part of the plan-- a way to keep Emory off balance and her powers at bay until they’re needed.

At the front desk of their hotel, Harris gives her name for their reservation, then pulls out a wad of cash and asks if there’s a chance they can upgrade. The clerk’s eyes gleam in excitement, and soon they’re ushered to a suite. The sweep Harris does for bugs yields nothing; if the previous room had been prepped for them, that’s just too bad. Both Emory and Harris change for bed in their respective rooms without any chit-chat. Their meeting is scheduled for the next morning, eight hours away. There’s no time to miss Tony, no time to worry about how things will work out, because every second of sleep counts.

It feels like as soon as Emory rests her head on her pillow and closes her eyes, she’s woken up by a knock at the door.

“It’s seven-thirty,” Harris tells her through the closed door. “I have some last-minute details to go over.”

“You can come in while I get dressed,” Emory offers, stretching. Harris comes in and walks over to face the window to give her some privacy.

“Do you remember the keywords?”

“I mention the cave or Afghanistan to confirm I’m feeling safe, and I speak about D.C. or ‘home’ if I’m not,” Emory confirms, gathering up the suit jacket and pants she’ll put back on for today.

“Right. Any mention of Rory Fall by either one of us is a signal to be ready to fight. Try to avoid using her name if it comes up for some reason.”

“I can’t imagine that being a problem.”

She doesn’t tell Harris that her former friend and boss would have long-since collapsed into hysterics or given away the entire game by now, probably on national television. For the first time in her life, Emory takes this as a compliment on her own behalf instead of an indication that she'd failed her friend. The words Nick Fury had thrown in her face all those weeks ago have served their purpose, though she couldn’t have known that at the time. Emory has responded to a medical and moral imperative, but as much as possible, she’s done so on her own terms.

If that looks like obedience to SHIELD, well. That’s their own fault, is it not?

In her rush, Emory drops her small travel bag when she pulls out the blue blouse she’ll wear today. She sees the other agent turn to see if she’s okay, and hurriedly pulls the shirt on.

“Red bra, huh? Wouldn’t have expected that,” Harris remarks.

“Tony likes it,” Emory says, lifting her chin even as she feels her face flush as red as the bra. She likes the color too, but after a few months in the strange culture that is the apprenticeship program at SHIELD, she’d picked up a few things. Who you know is important, more so than who you are, and Tony Stark is rich, smart, and unpredictable.

She settles into the wheelchair after putting her shoes on, dons the mask, and pops a thumbs up for Harris. Whatever’s about to happen, she’s as ready for it as she’ll ever be.

Next chapter, Tony figures out why he can't get in touch with Emory, and Emory finally meets the scientist whose serum has given and taken away so much from her.

#tony stark x oc #tony stark fanfiction #tony stark x original character #tony stark imagine #iron man fanfiction #iron man #iron man x oc #iron man x original character #mcu #mcu fanfiction #mcu fanfic #marvel #marvel fanfic #tony stark #series: autonomy #ocfairygodmother #fyeahsuperverseocs

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digitalsatyr23 · 9 months

Text

Dark Sparks - Dark Souls Bug AU

Okay, I have no idea if this has already been done (and I mean Hollow Knight is basically this anyway) but I just felt inspired by seeing artists and writers come up with AUs for some of their favorite IPs. With that little disclaimer out of the way, here’s my idea.

A long time ago in a distant forest, there lived great and powerful lizards. These lizards were masters of the forest, and lived so long that many believed they were immortal. If the insect denizens of the forest ever stepped out of line, the lizards were quick to eat them. Because of this, most of the insects lived beneath the forest. Then one day while burrowing tunnels, some of the insects discovered the First Flame deep below the world’s crust. Great sparks from the fire brought with it power and wisdom, raising the tiny insects up from what they once were. These insects were known as the Beetles.

Lord Gwyn (Firefly): Also known as the Lord of Sunlight, he was a king of the underground and had many loyal beetles under his rule, including his army of stag beetle knights. The power of his Lord Spark gave him the ability to manipulate light, as well as channel bolts of lightning he would later use to smite the lizards.

The Witch of Izalith (Bombardier Beetle): She and her sisters gained power over a burning caustic substance similar to the First Flame with their shared Lord Spark. Joining the war against the lizards, they weaved great firestorms to strike down the lizards and burn their homes. When the First Flame began to falter, the Witch of Izalith tried to make a new flame using her Lord Spark, but something went wrong, and she birthed the Arachnids of Chaos into the world. It is said that these arachnids still haunt the old tunnels beneath the trees.

Nito (Carrion Beetle): Once an ordinary beetle, he gained power over death and decomposition with his Lord Spark. His miasma proved to be the killing blow on the lizards, and after the war, he and the rest of the dead found a gigantic corpse of unknown origin which they buried and hollowed out. This corpse would later become known as the Tomb of the Giants.

Seath the Scaleless (Bearded Dragon): An outcast among lizard-kind, Seath was born without scales and envied his brethren. When he heard of the newly empowered beetles, he betrayed his people and told Lord Gwyn of his kind’s weakness to lightning. For aiding in the war, Lord Gwyn granted Seath a piece of his Lord Spark and made him a duke. Seath would later become a scholar and become increasingly isolated in his library...

The Furtive Weevil: This lowly beetle nurtured his Lord Spark while the others fought the lizards. He would later split his Lord Spark into countless pieces, raising up countless other insects that would collectively become known as the Swarm. Despite being a type of beetle, weevils would later be considered separate from other beetles (and thus not part of the ruling class) due to the Furtive Weevil’s lack of participation in the war.

After defeating the lizards, Lord Gwyn ushered in the Age of Fire. The beetles left their underground homes and climbed up the trees of the forest where they built great kingdoms under the sun. Ages past them by and before long the First Flame began to dwindle once more, so Lord Gwyn sacrificed himself to the flame to prolong the end of his era. It was clear, however, that this too would not last forever, so a plan was hatched to push other insects towards the First Flame as a source of fuel in order to keep the Age of Fire from ending. A primordial serpent (blind skinks) by the name of Kingseeker Frampt would aid this plan while another serpent named Darkstalker Frampt who act behind the scenes, doing what he could to usher in the Age of Dark. Meanwhile, a strange curse began to arise amongst the other insects where if one were to die, they would simply get back up later. However the more they died, the more a strange fungus-like growth would take over their body, eventually turning them into mindless undead insects. This process would become known as going hollow, for at the end stage of the curse, it seemed as if the insect were nothing but a hollow corpse that the curse fungus controlled. No one knows where the curse or the fungus came from, but as the First Flame grew weaker, the curse grew stronger. Slowly but surely, this brought the world the beetles and other insects knew to ruin.

A lone insect with signs of the curse was trapped within a great prison known as the Insect Asylum, along with other hollow insects. Freed from their cell by another insect, they would later escape the asylum with the aid of a raven and pursue a prophecy that would require them to ring two bells and ascend to a kingdom under the sun. Would the Age of Fire continue, or would the flame finally die out, ushering in the Age of Dark? Only the Chosen Insect would know for certain.

The World

The AU takes place in a vast forest where insect people have built cities made of rocks, sticks, silk, and other natural materials, all along the branches of trees. Anor Londo is a famous city that was built on the very top of one of the trees - or so they say. Beetles are considered among the ruling class, and they’ve even enslaved non-insect creatures that they’ve used for labor, warriors, and other roles. The characters and enemies you encounter are primarily different types of insects, but just about any creature you could find living in tree tops could be encountered. Demons, unsurprisingly, are themed after different types of arachnids, such as spiders and scorpions. I’d like to imagine the Centipede Demon in this case would be an arachnid creature that has somehow fused with centipede people to become a truly abhorrent abomination.

Bonfires are scattered all throughout the world, like normal. Resting at one is said to stave off the effects of the curse. You can kindle them with what I’ll call a swarm shard, which is a wisp of inky darkness that looks like it’s comprised of countless tiny insects. Rather than look like a beef jerky zombie after you die, your body gradually looks like it’s being taken over by a strange fungus which is worming its way through you from within. Using a swarm shard at a bonfire somehow burns away this fungus, effectively curing you of your infection until you die again and the infection has the chance to spread once more. Rather than collect souls, you collect sparks, which are warm wisps of physical light that all insect-kind covet. Lord Sparks, in this case, are especially powerful sparks that came from the First Flame and empowered insects such as Gwyn, making those who possess them effectively deities compared to other insects.

Overall, the world, mechanics, and characters are similar to Dark Souls, with the main part of the AU being about bug people, fungal insect zombies, and a strange tree top world with a similar vibe to Lordran but scaled down. Humanity translate to swarmlings, which are various types of insects separate from the beetles (with weevils being considered swarmlings for lore reasons mentioned above). The bug people are vaguely anthropomorphic but no obvious human features could be seen on characters. They’re still just as intelligent and capable of speech, though (as all animals would be in this setting). I’d also like to imagine that in a world like this, metal generally isn’t a thing so stuff like weapons and armor are made out of other natural materials such as wood, stone, chitin, animal bone, and stuff like that. Because characters are various types of insects, I feel like that should extend to the MC, so a “chosen insect” could a moth, ant, weevil, bee, or things like that.

Example Characters

Crestfallen Warrior: A lowly wheat weevil that has given up hope. Offers good advice but mocks your journey. Despite appearing quite ordinary, this weevil seems to know a great deal about the world and certain insects, so it proves worthwhile to visit him every so often, and he becomes much friendlier after you give him a gift of grain.

Petrus of Thorolund: A cleric awaiting other members of his church, the Way of White. Members of this church are primarily ants and are considered followers of Lord Gwyn, and Petrus introduces you to this covenant and can even teach you miracles. However, you can’t help but feel something is off about him. After discovering he betrayed Reah of Thorolund (an ant priestess), you learn Petrus isn’t an ant at all, but rather an ant-mimicking fly (Sepsisoma).

Solaire of Astora: A friendly eastern tent caterpillar man who wears a sun emblem over his armor. He seems fascinated with the sun and can often be found in brightly lit areas basking in its rays, though he can also be found in silk tents taking a break from questing. If you save him later and help him complete his quest, he cocoons himself and emerges as a beautiful moth.

Lautrec of Karim: A wasp man wearing unusual but brilliant golden armor that matches his black and yellow carapace. Found in a lonely prison cell along your path to the first bell, he seems standoffish, but still offers you aid against certain bosses. He can typically be found sitting across Anastacia of Astora, a strangely quiet cicada woman who appears to have had her wings plucked. One day you find him missing and Anastacia dead, prompting you to seek him out...

#Dark Souls #Dark Souls AU #Dark Sparks AU #Dark Souls Bug AU #Insect People #dark fantasy #my writing #fanfiction

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boricuacherry-blog · 9 months

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Her dark honey hair hung ragged over her eyes, and the wooden floorboards clapped underneath her feet. Thunder crackled and hissed and popped like firecrackers against the blank stare of the windowpane. Her laconic tongue was at times caustic and alternately saccharine. It held the power of life and death. Her eyes were absinthe almonds that narrowed in the sunlight, two windows into the world haloed by that honey hair, and she had a heart that made you want to drive a stake in it and at the same time cradle the cold jewel close to your chest and let its siren song call you to beyond the veil.

#writing

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leam1983 · 1 year

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Thoughts on Sunken Cities

It's too late to really dig into Surviving the Abyss or Aquatico, but I like the dichotomy between both design conceits.

The first one understands that if you're going, well, abyssal, then it'll get mighty fucking dark real fucking quick. It'll get cold, too, so you need light, heating and enough material to survive the holy-shit numbers of metric tons of water pushing down on you without getting pancaked. It even posits that nobody would get down there and live there without some really illicit reasons. This isn't so much a Goldfinger send-off as it's a fanwank on the concept of government black sites. As in, it gets grim if you don't really manage stuff competently enough.

Then there's Aquatico, that barely leverages its own post-apoc setting and that very quickly goes for something that's notably more chipper. It's less about building where there's maybe the occasional weirdo octopus and transparent fish and more about building something that goes well with the nice widdle coral reefs and the pretty shallow-water fishies. This one's extremely light on the mechanics and has one or two odd choices that kind of bug me, somehow.

Take your living arrangements, for instance. Everything related to maintenance or production is built on the seabed proper, while everything related to housing goes in an elevated dome that couldn't possibly hold together atop its widdle spire if it wasn't buried under several hundred meters of seawater. Not thousands, seeing as the color palette and visual design both work real hard to suggest that sunlight does get through to you - I hope you like those caustics - and the meta seems more concerned with showering you with abundance even on its hardest setting than it is with getting you to micro-manage a settlement.

On the plus side, Aquatico lets you name your cities. If you don't go for something trite and obvious like New Atlantis or R'lyeh, you're made of sterner stuff than I am.

A common con of both games, though: both of them really want to nail the whole "underwater" aspect of the sound design. The problem is that everything is kind of muffled and you get a constant subtone that sounds like your ears getting clogged. On a long enough timeline (20 minutes for me) that leads to massive tinnitus flare-ups.

So... Ow.

#thoughts #surviving the abyss #aquatico #not reviews #games

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usagimen · 5 months

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@achroanimus : ❛ you don’t have to be afraid of who you are. ❜ // from fox bestie with a hug <3

In pouring sunlight, the wisp of a shadow curls tightly, knees to chest && heavy breathing. Echoes, she can hear the restless voices among those who gossip softly; though she makes little sense of their nonsensical ramblings. Every wound has been meticulously cared for, the ache that spreads within the chest, it does not subside. She wonders, when will it end? Pulsing hot, like a white flame && penetrating into the confines of her sternum, wrought iron that twists as if to evescrate the still beating heart. It never served her well to begin with, what is the point? He towers over her, perfect in ivory, albeit slightly marred. Every aunt fawns upon him, cooing && awning in spectacular glory, meanwhile, the depth of emerald hues latch onto gold. “A-ah, you don’t need to check on me so frequently” she hates the fretting, the constant remarks or cries that shriek in a shrill voice, the beloved moon could have vanished. Always a jagged thing, too sharp to love, too cold to possess, even when her love stood shattered into shards - she could never admit it. Lovingly, a set of bandages sits upon a lacquered tray, scissors to cut && the binding begins once more. Arguments break out more than usual, the viper’s shoulders remain heavy, order she urges - order in the midst of tremendous loss, their world will remain unscathed while the rest shall plunge itself into the abyss.

What is the point of containing a God? Those who challenge utter despair, if the heavenly being is now encumbered, there was no point for an old regime that never served them, never blessed them, they should cut their losses from this vile realm && remain hidden amongst the weeping wisteria. “It’s so unbelievably noisy, for once I should have taken refuge with the Zen’ins, the lot can give less than a damn we’ve lost the Honored One” a clever lie, she wishes to seep into the confines of the underworld, escaping in the midst of an endless winter that felt like home, ice that runs thick within the blood. Shikomi’s with their bland visages, monochrome in colors all speak in timid voices, the question is irritating - will the God Hand recover swiftly? How dare they view her as salvation, an answer to their misguided prayers, holy.

“You’re quite brazen, showing your face when the objective failed, we know our enemy yet the cost was significant” her tongue lashes out not in ire or boundless fury, grief, overwhelming mourning that cannot be contained && must be spun into a torrent of gritted teeth. He always had an uncanny ability, the most empathetic being she has ever crossed, the cruelest being to ever flash their teeth && peel away bit by bit all she kept secret. Does he know she keeps shattered glass to her chest? Laced in crimson, the wiring has all but been distorted && the memory remains the same; gentle souls cannot thrive in this world, but she was monstrous, even in youth her melancholy laugh echoed, I will be the blade - you will never know suffering while I stand. Dreams of sapphire waters, sea salt brining her lungs, come quickly && vanishing just as fast. She wishes to grab him, unleash a caustic poison, maybe then the eloquently numb sensation would trickle back into the marrow. Instead, her petite form unravels, “I am not afraid, I am lost. Even in girlhood, the notion of delicateness was foreign, but I would not become another idle beauty that ensnared her prey. Instead, I would grow to be steel, sharp as the knife to be held by those who I love” a futile mistake, one she would regret. “They refused && for that, I should have cursed them” scornful, she could never be such a thing, even if she feebly tried to convince him it was possible, her morality would not allow it.

“The fox survives, fleeing from ruination, yet I am heavy with the knowledge this shall not be the last we know of strife” a few stray tears, they slip down the smoothness where bone should protrude. Bruised hands, battered fingers, thousands of times broken && each one, put back together. They reached for him, fear kept her moving, fear was the only thing that held the thin veil of vice && virtue. “You are always too kind, too warm, would you stay with me?” swallowing the pit within her throat, she laughs softly.

“You who is the sun, indulge the moon just this once, the lonesome sky for which I dwell is all too much”

#––– ❛ answered ask 【 running from wolves. 】#achroanimus #// makishima being the one of few to see sayuri without her binds #// how even when she's grieving she still reaches for his hand #// the tenderness in how she views him as a comforting light #// though instead of resigning herself to the darkness she reaches for the day in him ;A;#// it's the only variation of the sun and moon together since they are platonic soulmates #// though she is an emotional mess she still speaks to him truthfully / vulnerably / and sincerely #// crying deep she doesn't know how to convey: if only I was more selfish / if only I could speak without a second too late #// and it's her love for him that makes her vulnerable heLP I AM EMO

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