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ammstify · 8 days

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Welcome to part 2 of my completely self indulgent Persona AU I made for my friend and I’s silly, gay, adult men ocs because I’m obsessed with this franchise!

Why don't we begin, shall we?

(**NOTE: This is part 2 of my Persona OC AU long post! You can find part 1 on my profile, or in the links down below! Also, I will be referring to my best friend and I's characters by their first name initials, sorry!)

Also obligatory tag for my awesome mutual, @greetings-inferiors! (Btw, love what you've written so far for Persona Green, keep it up!!)

When we last left off, I discussed in full about my best friends special boy and oc, F, and his own Persona Achilles!

Today, we'll be discussing my character this time; My handsome man N! (Completely unrelated to N from Pokemon Black and White, love that depressed prince though <3)

N is a 25 (if 2002) year old, or 30-31 during Persona 3's time (2009-2010), or 39 during Persona 5's time (2016). Regardless of age though, he's a handsome Mexican lad, who despite being just a smidge shorter than his lover F, is a pretty tough and strong dude! He's a masc brunet with a love for Greaser and biker fashion, who loves reading cheap romance novels, working on cars and motorcycles, exercising in the morning, and listening to 80's rock. He is very calm, cool, suave, and a really chill guy despite his sometimes pessimistic attitude!

Though like F, he too struggles with his own trauma and demons. But, through F's love and support, as well as his high-on-life attitude, N overcomes it one day at a time, healing their scars together while living with their heads held high.

N's chosen Persona of course is the other Mythological hero of the Trojan war, and the major supporting character of Homer's Iliad, Patroclus! Or Pátroklos, depending on the version/language used!

Unlike Achilles, who takes a human-like form, Patroclus takes a more robotic shape, resembling that of a transformer of sorts. Its big yet sleek, with parts of it reminiscent of both a badass old style sports car, like a 1977 Pontiac Firebird Trans-am, and some of the sickly designed cars from Mad Max!

The torso is big and bulky, with a leather jacket-like shape forged from the black steel cover the silver-blue metal skin below, with thick spikes similar to the ones on Achilles armor. Only instead of silver, they're a gold-ish tinted bronze. Its arms are thick and bulky too, with transformed metallic parts lining it all the way down to the hands.

Within its forearms, a pair long of bronze spear-like blades lie within, which can be ejected out similar to stiletto blades, or the Mantis blades in Cyberpunk 2077! This represents the two spears Patroclus had taken while acting as Achilles, in order to fight off the oncoming Trojan's! From its stomach, up, and hanging over its shoulders lie thick pairs of silver pipes, two on each side, resembling exhausts that pump out thin wafts of silver smoke. When the Persona is engaged though, it puffs out big plumes of black exhaust, revving up as it prepares to attack!

Connecting down from these pipes, to the topmost area of its stomach, also known as the Sarpedeon's midriff, a large furnace like hatch lies there, with a large visible hole piercing through the grating, lined with that same bronze-gold. This represents the fatal wound Patroclus had received from the Hector, the Trojan prince, while disguising as Achilles!

And not only that, but the blue flame that floats within the furnace-like engine that fills the torso. Despite its appearance, the area around the flame is cold to the touch, and will instantly freeze you if touched. This represents not only Patroclus' life force, but also his still existing soul even after death, and being set free by his boy being burned upon a pyre! Not only that, but it represents the damage N has faced in his own life, with the metaphorical cover over his heart/soul damaged and scarred.

For Patroclus' legs, much like its arms, they are made up of transformed metal parts laid over bronze wire-like thigh muscles, and hefty metallic calves with two deep azure blue motors. The right motor has the name "BALIUS" printed in bold black, while the left has the name "XANTHUS" printed in bold white.

The names and motors themselves reference quite a few things actually! Firstly, the names reference the two immortal horses Balius and Xanthus, who, while not chosen to pull Patroclus' chariot, were very close to him and only allowed him to touch and care for them. During his death, it was even said in the Iliad that the two horses wept for him!

Alongside that, it also references Patroclus' own love for horses, and a slight connection to the symbolism of dice that is often associated with him. Whereas the motors themselves on the other hand connect to N's love for engineering and his connection to being a car mechanic, which happens to be a big part of his life!

Anyway, the two motors connect down to a large pair of wheels for the feet, which allow Patroclus to zip around fast! Upon its back, it probably has a place for N to grab onto and catch a ride on the Persona if needed. Lastly, for its head, it has a metal drill-like Greek olive wreath headpiece, its mask-like silver head similarly shaped to N's while partly protected by the exhaust pipes. Its eyes glow a deep blue, and its hair is shaped similar to N's, resembling a layered slickback undercut, with a pair of thin metal strips resembling twisted overhanging strands!

Similar to Achilles and F, I'm not entirely sure was Patroclus and N's Arcana would be persay? Maybe the Moon, or the Emperor? Heck, maybe even Death or the Hierophant! But I do know that much of Patroclus' skills would focus on Bufu/Ice magic, a few healing spells, and a signature physical move! Think kinda like Morgana, Yosuke, or Makoto's Persona kits!

Also, can you tell I've thought about this one a LOT in-depth?

Anyway, now we can FINALLY GET TO THE CHARACTER DETAILS FOR N!

For his SEES gear, it would be a bulky black leather jacket with a blue or white tanktop underneath, zipped up partway for protection, but also comfort! He likes to have his chest show a little :3c Ofc, he'd have the signature SEES special armband on his shoulder. N would also have a pair of off-black pants, with pair of solid leather gloves, his white Evoker holster wrapped around his right thigh, aviator goggles, and a pair of big bulky combat boots equipped with steel tips!

That's right, his weapon are boots! Unlike Chie though, whose style of fighting mimics the kung-fu and karate films she loves, N's is a combination of Kickboxing, Muay Tai, and Jeet kune do! He strikes with his fists before delivering a combination of 1-3 big, badass kicks to knock out his opponents! Think kinda like how Spike Spiegel fights in Cowboy Bebop!

Anyway, for his Phantom Thieves costume, its a lot similar to his SEES outfit and normal war, but with a twist. The main inspiration for it is none other than the outfit of the protagonist of th Mad Max film series, Max Rockatansky! More specifically, the outfit he wears within the 2015 video game. N dons a wholly leather outfit like Max, and surprisingly, Makoto! (btw can you tell she was an inspiration for this? Like a LOT?!)

Between a leather jacket, with a single leather pauldron, leather belts, leather harnesses, leather jeans, leather boots, leather gloves, how many times can I say leather? And of course his mask, which unlike F's, is an ornate metal mask like this one, but yknow with the bottom half cut for his face, giving a strangely elegant appearance to this overall tough and rough outfit!

And last but not least, N's codename.... Fury, named after the "Furies", also known as the Erinyes or Eumenides, the Greek goddesses of death and vengeance who punish the wicked and sinners!

Yes, I know N is a cisgender man, but I thought it'd be a really cool name and tie-in, given that Patroclus' death is avenged by Achilles!

"But, Ammy, wait-" I hear you say as you look down, "Why is there another part???"

Well my dear friends and readers, due to the big size of this one too (and because I'm a sneak), I'm doing a part 3 where I'm going to discuss the 2nd Evolution/Ultimate Personas of F and N, as well as some fun miscellaneous stuff! Maybe even answer some questions, so I hope you look out for it after enjoying this one!

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

#rambles #writing #my ocs #persona series #persona 3 #persona 5 #persona oc

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treesandwords · 1 year

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Sons of the Summer King Excerpt: The Prologue

I submitted this for a writing contest and it didn't even make it to the long list, so I'll put it here instead. The fun begins under the cut vvv

The boy was wrapped in a white death-shroud when he was brought to the castle, cradled in the back of a cart. Jamos Dalion bent low over the body, long fingers carefully uncovering the face, the green-stained hands. The face was not that of one of his own children, but some nameless other’s. A woodworker, a weaver. A farmer, a villager. Sewn into the brown linen of his sleeve was a hill-rowan twig, and at his throat was a strand of dark green ivy. Neither had done him any good. “Forgive me, my lord,” said the grubby man who had brought the body, “but you shouldn’t touch him. Not bare- handed.” He drove the horse and cart, and following was a stream of curious and frightened villagers, not far from the castle gates. The sky was heavy with clouds, brown oak-leaves rattling on their twigs. The moors around cradled the hill and the castle in a dusk-grey sea. “We did as we’re meant to,” said the cart-driver, twisting his own gloved hands. “He’d been good and protected, in the old ways proper. As they always are, when they hunt in there.” “The old ways mean nothing. Not here. Not with this.” Not this time of year. Not when the hunt was more a shrike-like attack. “M’lord, my family – we’re of the old blood, we know the right ways of things. We told the boy what to do, all the right things – “ “Yet still he died. As did others.” It was not a question, but the villager quelled under his lord’s glance. “They did.” A cold wind blew, hissing through the dying heather. A small crowd of children stood behind the lord, most with his red hair and unsmiling face, watching with solemn curiosity. One of the little boys, a lad of eight summers, stared intently at the rowan berries resting against the corpse’s limp hand. He had his own today, in his own sleeve, and on the coldest nights of winter his mother would smudge his cheeks with their juices. Even within the castle’s safe walls. Even if he never dared set foot in the place where the dead boy had gone. Lord Jamos took the man quietly aside, out of earshot. “There was no sign of – him?” “No sign.” There never was. “How many dead?”

“Six. Seven, including the boy.” It was quick, then. Often it took more time than this, for them to show signs – long enough that many thought they had escaped this boy’s fate. And on the barest occasion, perhaps once every ten hunts, one did.

The boy’s eyes were half open, veins in the lids green-tinged. A sickly greenish hue emerged beneath his skin all over, choking his blood. Mage-touched.

He was younger than Jamos’ eldest son. The eyes, where they were not eerily green, had been pale brown. “Burn him in the village, along with the other dead,” the lord commanded. “Give them to the flames, and to the Holly King. They deserve an honourable crossing.” “What of those not yet dead, my lord?” “How close to death are they?” A look exchanged. A knowing one. “Close, my lord. Very close.” “Burn them too.” The cart went away, the dead boy and his protections with it. The lord turned to his family, slowly. Their cheeks were thin. It had been a bad year, and with worse to come. For he was not yet gone. The bringer of green-veined death, of childhood nightmares. In that cold, whispering autumn night the funeral-pyres blazed down in the village, smoke crossing the moors like sea-fog. It swirled into the dales and hollows, brushed the hills with snakelike tendrils.

At the far edge of the moor it halted, at a wall of trees deep with shadow. The Wood. Before the trees lay wreaths of wildflowers, bare twigs twined together in the shapes of folk charms, crossed circles made of rowan wood. The smoke trailed around them, the wind leaving them feebly fluttering. In the darkness between the trees there was no sound, no movement. But the fearful eyes of the nearby village kept watch, as they watched the reeking bonfires all through the long night.

And the children of Dalion remembered; the sons and daughters who sat huddled at the castle windows high above and, too, watched. They never forgot the shadow of the Wood. They never forgot the green veins beneath pallid death-skin, creeping like a poison, like lightning, like summer vines.

Taglist: @kaatiba (ask to be added/removed)

#writing #writeblr #writing community #wip #fantasy wip #fantasy writing #wip: sotsk #sotsk #sons of the summer king #cotmw #my writing #my wips #fantasy writer #formatting ?? who is she???#tumblr why won't you let me put a read more link after a couple lines anymore #why are you making me slap it on the beginning

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l-1-z-a · 11 months

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The Sims 2 - Eurogamer - 7-17-2003

Seven expansion packs later we get the sequel!

Updated on 17 Jul 2003

Like it or not, The Sims is the biggest selling PC game of all time by some margin. It's not a success, it's a bloody phenomenon, and each and every expansion pack gets snapped up faster than chocolate drops dangled over the jaws of a slavering canine.

The Sims 2, then. An excuse to sell you the same game all over again with shinier graphics or a lovingly created sequel that'll drag in the few unbelievers that are still not convinced it's the greatest game ever? A bit of both really.

Eh, when I were a lad, it were all C64s around here

When home videogaming was a very small lad indeed, Activision released a wonderful text/icon based decision-making game called Alter Ego on Commodore 64 disk. Basically you went from the first stages of consciousness in the womb right up to (potentially premature) death, and could be as sickly sweet nice or as much of an unhinged arsehole as you wanted to be and everything in between simply by choosing your response to a series of typical scenarios. It psychologically profiled your 'individual' and really was one of the most compelling videogames experiences ever.

Just like Alter Ego, The Sims 2 lets your computer-generated creations grow from babies to children to adults and then to old age, also developing emotionally, mentally and physically. Apparently your creations will respond according to given situations depending on choices you make during your formative years. EA calls these 'Life's Big Moments' and your 'Life Score' depends on how you negotiate your way through these situations.

Included is the rather splendid 'Create-A-Sim' feature, which, shockingly, lets you customise the facial features to an almost infinite degree. On show at Camp EA were a few examples of how flexible the system is, with the ability to tweak everything, including the size, shape and colour of the eyes, width and length of the nose, hairstyle, and so on. Just to prove the point a pre-made Mr. T clone showed off the potential to tailor your avatar exactly the way you want it.

My disturbing offspring

Rather disturbingly, players can see what their offspring might look like if matched with a particular individual - and with aliens among the basic races available you can conceivably have a family of green-faced afro-sporting offspring running around. Thanks to the sure to-be-hyped-to-death DNA feature, your offspring will not only resemble the parents physically, but also pick up character traits, so if your Sims are a bunch of low life slobs, don't be surprised if the sprogs can't be arsed to tidy up either.

Another key enhancement is the much improved house building tool, which allows players to construct abodes spanning as many as four floors, with curves for the first time and various new objects to deck out your palace/slum exactly the way you want it.

Visually, The Sims 2's engine is a revelation next to the severely ageing original, with vastly improved, detailed character models sporting a pleasing array of incidental animations and individual touches that make the game a far more compelling prospect. Aside from that, the background detail and general style of artwork made even the various stills dotted around the presentation area look like renders rather than mere screenshots.

Don't hit on me!

The Camp EA demo session itself showed off a few typical Sims scenarios, with four teenage Sims (two boys, two girls) of varying levels of attractiveness and social skills. While the ladies man Bernie could charm the pants off both the ladies with his 'flirt' social skill, the slobbish Marty had no chance, hamstrung by his comparatively primitive 'hit on' skill. Similarly, the ladies don't appreciate infidelity - as evidenced by Bernie's dalliance right in front of his previous target resulting in a display of waterworks.

Upstairs in the Jacuzzi, we got to see the same foursome sharing the hot tub Big Brother style, with various examples of how the game allows players to engage in progressively complex activities the more they engage with one another. One such event was the ability to engage in some mock synchronised swimming, while later the use of a gym showed off the ability to spruce up the physical appearance of your Sim, and potentially win the heart of that shallow bint you've had your heart set on.

With the game still some six to eight months away from release, it'll be some time before we get proper hands on with the next blockbusting episode in this ridiculously large selling series [and it'll be muggins here who 'gets' to do it, I'll wager -Tom]. By then, the current relatively high minimum spec of 32MB graphics card and PIII 700 shouldn't be considered too high, especially when you acknowledge just how many expansion packs this will undoubtedly spawn.

More more more

Until then, there's another expansion pack to wade through (Makin' Magic) and, of course the more structured console sequel, Bustin' Out. As soon as we get a sniff of playable code, we'll let you know everything there is to know about The Sims 2 and its mutant offspring.

#sims 2 #ts2 #sims2 #the sims 2 #sims 2 beta #eurogamer #social skills #system requirements #rewiew #2003

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sundanceofapache · 2 years

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A chill wind blew through the otherwise bright autumn day as Baribus marched through the dense woods, his precious boy in his arms. Others said the place was cursed, that those who went in either didn't come out or came out mad. Flying fish, air that ripples, dreams made into horrors, and more. But some, some very few told him of what was there and helped him call to it.

"Shrines" of orange mushrooms fanned out at the basses of trees and logs like the bases of little fountains. From what the witches told him, these were the "wish god's" shrine and that offerings must be made to gain an audience with him. But not just anything could be offered—it had to have meaning.

Four of the wide, half-moon mushrooms were found, and on each one, a precious item was placed. A pin from his wife's hair, a woven leather bracelet made by his eldest son, a child's toy from Mathafew's cradle, and a locket with a picture and two sets of initials inside. But one more mushroom had to be found and a final sacrifice had to be made.

Exhausted, the dark-haired man grunted as he slogged through the sopping mud, the rain-sodden soil clinging to his boots. How hard could it be to find a big, orange mushroom when the first few had been spotted so easily? Hours passed and the rasping of his son's breath grew fainter. Baribus stopped, alarm bolting through him as he looked down at his struggling son.

"No, no, no, stay with me!" he said, taking a knee to hold him better. "Stay with me, we're almost there! We've almost done it!"

But the deathly pallor of his son revealed how few breaths he had left in him. Baribus fell to his knees, clutching his boy as tears ran down his cheeks and nose. Throwing his head back he let out the heartbroken cry of a desperate man,

"Oh, please! Whatever gods or specters or whatever lives in this forest, please! I'll give anything if you would just please save him!"

As he did, a shimmer caught his eye, and there, sprouting from a tiny branch, was the disk of the orange mushroom. But this one felt different as if it were filled with an intent about it—a presence.

'What do you offer me?' The presence asked, silent words pressing into the mind of the man.

Baribus looked at the mushroom and reached out a trembling hand. "My life," he whispered and rested his hand on the mushroom.

"It is accepted," said an echoing voice as the wind began to blow and the grove began to spin.

Baribus flinched but was unable to draw his hand back as the world twisted around him. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was over and brilliant sunshine shone down on him. The trees were gone. The swampy, muddy terrain was gone. Instead, he was kneeling on a vast hill at the bottom of a brilliant green valley. Mountain peaks clawed the skies, forming a natural wall to the outside world while brilliant hues of color radiated all around in the forms of streams, water lilies, fish, and birds.

But what held his eye was the gigantic golden-orange dragon hovering before him. It had a face like a koi fish, scales like a gold fish, and the body of a great ribbon that swayed like an eel in the waves. The great creature flapped its pectoral fins and fixed him with a gigantic blue eye.

"So," the fish-dragon said, "You have given me five offerings. What wish do you want in return then?"

Hearing this, the thin man shuffled on his knees and held out his son to the dragon. "Please save him, my son is dying and I can't help him. Please save him, let him live!"

The fish-dragon canted its head and eyed the sickly lad. "Hmmm, if I revive him, he'll just be killed again. Tell me, what would you do to prevent that?"

Baribus puffed his chest, his blue eyes narrowed sternly. "I would protect him with every skill I possess. No one, human, Fallen or Risen would ever touch him."

The fish looked at him shrewdly. "You would need help," the dragon mused, eyeing the pair of them. "What help would you ask of me to keep him alive?"

The young man paused and thought about it, tucking his chin against his chest. What kind of help would he ask of a dragon? Certainly nothing trivial or in need of maintaining.

"My eyes," he said at last, looking up at the dragon. "Give me the sight to see farther, clearer, and in places no one else can and I'll be able to know and hunt my targets before they ever reach me."

The dragon seemed to smile and lift its head as Baribus made up his mind. "Done," it said and gave a flick of his fins. Rippling light passed over the two like a wave of air, ruffling the father and son's hair—the dragon's gifts bestowed on them.

@leerofthevinegaroons

Mathafew had reached out to brush across his father's mind in search of the man - and found instead a jolt like electricity. It jumped between the two of them and what he had intended to be nothing more than the barest whisper drew him deep inside the man's mind. The dragon had warned him, she had side that the gift of returning the guardian's memories would come from him alone, she had said to be careful, to be standing beside the man to prevent some wrong from happening -

The young man was not there, he was in his own ship searching the skies above to find his father and so go to him. But that faint touch was all that was needed to activate the dragon's magic, to draw him out of his own body so that he fell into a heap -

He was being jostled.

Mathafew heard something rasping above him, ragged breathing. Something was encircled around his body and he was tucked against a solid form, warm. It held him close and that was what he heard. Crunching steps, whistling breath. Heat was seeping from that solid body that he was pressed against but Mathafew himself was cold and he shivered until his body had given up on ever being warm again and he stopped. He still froze, tried to move and snuggle deeper against the thing holding him but he couldn't, there just wasn't any energy for it. Nor could he find the breath to call for help or do anything at all to get the attention of whoever held him.

A hand moved the blanket that was covering him, and Mathafew then found himself looking up at his father. Deep blue eyes like the sky when it had a bit of haze settled over it stared down at him. They were glassy from lack of sleep and shimmered with unspent tears. He heard his father entreating him not to go anywhere and the quake in the man's voice broke over him, followed by a sound so heart wrenching that he thought his own would break with it. Did break with it because he was dying. He could feel it in the shallow breath, in the chill that started in his heart and had covered his entire body, in the way that he had simply given up.

Had stayed as long as he could, had fought as hard as he could with all that he had to give in order to stay with his father and it simply wasn't enough.

Somewhere in a small corner of his mind Mathafew knew that something wasn't right here. This shouldn't be happening... but he couldn't put a finger on why precisely. Something was wrong with this picture... he could feel himself dying, he could feel the desperation of his father as he bargained his own life for that of his son but... what about this whole thing was wrong? The dragon's breath rippled his hair and Mathafew stared up at his father, watched in wonder as the dragon's magic touched him and bled into his eyes. As the whites deepened and gold like dragon scales took over the iris so that they held an unnatural light to them.

He didn't feel any different though. No magic, only like something had shifted slightly and that was when it dawned on him. This was wrong because it had already happened. It had happened over a century ago. He wasn't here in Ashven's den. He was...where was he... he was dreaming. He was in a dream. Mathafew looked up at Ashven's face, the dead eyes of the koi that hovered above them. He looked also at his father, at the adoration there on the man's face mixed with the sinking knowledge of what all he had promised the beast.

Like the realization had freed him from the replay of memories Mathafew found himself able to move. He slipped out of the blanket and stood facing his father. While the man knelt they were nearly on a level to each other. He stared for a moment longer, tears welling up in his own eyes because how long had he been wanting to see an expression like that? Wanting Baribus to look at him with recognition, with knowing beyond just thinking him a friend or a curiosity, but knowing Mathafew was his son? He gulped a breath and reached up both hands to rest them on his father's shoulders, "I promised her the same thing."

Would the words mean anything to a memory? Mathafew wasn't sure. He dropped his hands and then threw them as far around the man as he could manage and buried his face against Baribus. "I just wanted to have you back again, I tried promising her all the life and years Ashven gave I'd rather give it all up-" Give up what his father had promised his own life to have granted... no wonder the other dragon had refused. It wasn't his to give. Still he couldn't believe she didn't want more for something this precious. Mathafew tried to cast his mind about to look for his father, he had to be here somewhere.

Who's dream was this...he supposed it had to be Baribus', he didn't remember anything about this day, nor for almost a week after and, now that he thought about it, now that he tried to cast his mind back - Mathafew realized he had no memories before either. Yes this had to be his father's memory. But Mathafew found he couldn't just look into the man's thoughts, they were swimming all around him like this memory was the calm eye of a raging storm of memories and thoughts from a whole lifetime, too much to try to find the small core of his father in and he screwed his eyes shut, again buried his face against the man and clung tight. "Wake up..." his whispered like the storm might hear it.

#leerofthevinegaroons #muse: mathafew #v: destiny

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pinkandgirlyblog · 3 years

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The Assassin (Thomas x reader TMR)

Thomas x reader

Set at the end of Scorch Trials after Wicked have taken Minho.

Enemies to Lovers AU

Warnings: Death and swears.

The trees still danced with the song of battle, the soil still bled with the souls of the innocent, and the birds continued their songs for the men, women and children lost. The crunch of vegetation beneath their feet reminiscent of guns firing in harmony. The haunting memory of Wicked and their oppression still cursed the minds of the soldiers. Children born during the war only know of hunger and death, and the youth old enough to remember a time of peace and serenity will forever live with a sense of foreboding.

`Minho was gone, captured by Wicked will Sonya, Aris and many others. The question of their return was left on a low. They may never see them again, and that made Thomas very angry. You could almost feel his anger radiating of him in waves, compelling the ones around him to step aside and cower in fear.

All but one. Y/N.

Y/N was with Aris at the Wicked compound but had never been in the maze. Instead, she had been trained as an assassin at the compound all her life, she did not cower in fear to a mere teenage boy the same age as her when she had killed the most dangerous enemies. It bothered her they where scared of a temper tantrum lad rather then the most dangerous assassin as of, well, ever. She always thought highly of herself but this guy made her feel insecure. It wasn’t all about her and it irradiated her to the ends of the earth.

As Thomas concluded his speech on the pathetic looking bound of mud, Y/N tried not to snicker when he told the crowd of pathetic morons he would kill Ava Paige. The very women Y/N wanted to kill in revenge for brainwashing her and taking away her freedom. Y/N had every right to her death as much as Thomas, so today, she would stand her ground.

Ava Paige was hers to kill and nobody was getting in her way.

“So, dear young lad, how do you suspect to kill the most heavily guarded women on planet earth as of right now?”

Her sarcasm and power in her tone made any good person’s worst doings rush to the front of their head. She could take hold of a room with the snap of her fingers... or the pull of a trigger.

Thomas hesitated, he always saw Y/N as someone just there, she was pretty of course, but a tyrant none the less. She ruled the room through fear which is not how somewhere should be controlled. He respected her and everything but he found her, the simplest way to put it, annoying.

“Dedication” A one word answer from a dumb man, she had thought, he probably doesn’t have many words in his small puny brain.

“Of course,” She had started eagerly, ready to embarrass her new obstacle in the way of destroying Wicked.

“Dedication to murder. What a great path” She did a quick sickly smile with a sarcastic thumbs up.

“You’d know since you did all Wicked’s dirty work” Thomas snapped infuriated.

See, it wasn’t common knowledge she was an ex-assassin and now Thomas exposed this information to the public eye, gasps and guns where drawn in Y/N’s direction.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink in surprise at the new occurrence, great, this guy really was a total klunk head.

“Raise your hands where we can see them!”

People shouted with a new kind of passion, a sense of pure easy revenge they hadn’t seen for a very long time, a taste for something so rare it will fill you with a new kind of power, a taste for murder.

“Good going genius” Y/N muttered under her breath, she shouldn’t of trusted Thomas with any sort of secret information as he would blurt it out in the most inconvenient times. However, Y/N felt inclined to tell Thomas, almost as if he mattered to her.

“Woah! Guns down guys, shes harmless” Thomas shouted in panic, he didn’t WANT her to die because deep down he knew he would be lying if he said he didn’t have any self control.

All guns slowly went down but one. Jacob Green, he had recognised the girl but now he knew from where. She had killed his family, his friends as they where against the awful organisation. Before he could be stopped, he cocked the gun and pulled the trigger.

The bullet when whizzing overhead, planting itself in Y/N’s chest, she fell to the floor as Thomas caught her head from smashing on the floor. He hushed her when she cried in agony.

She was laid on her back, head in Thomas lap as she took laboured breaths, gasping for more oxygen the world couldn’t provide. She stared with glistening eyes at his deep brown ones and started her deceleration.

“Everyone says to keep fighting but it gets hard. There are times I want to lay down my weapons, take off my armour and say, ‘Shoot me’. We both want the same things Thomas, we just wanted to do it alone. I plead, no, I beg of you to kill her, kill Ava Paige. For me. Thank you for fighting with me when nobody had the balls to, it gives me a sense of challenge, a sense of life. Ironic isn’t it, how you give me life but can take it away in seconds. Thats the thrill of it though, right? I fought and I’m proud. I’m going to die with my head held high. Thank you Thomas for the sense of challenge. Thank you for showing me the meaning of life”

As Y/N stopped talking so did her heart. She lay still of the group as Thomas wailed over her.

He finally realised maybe they where never enemies, but true soulmates at heart.

#thomas x reader #tmr #the maze runner #scorch trails #death cure #teen wolf #dylan o'brien #dylan o'brien x reader #dylan obrien #thomas tmr #newt tmr #newt #minho #minho tmr

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perfectpaperbluebirds · 3 years

Text

@sicktember Prompt # 27: Blankets

Title: Sick Day Spells

Fandom: N/A

Based on an ask box prompt. The prompt: “It’s all well and good until the cleric gets really sick.”

What does a party of adventures do when their cleric is forced to take a sick day after a battle? Featuring a Halfling Rogue, a Dwarf Fighter, an Elf Sorcerer, and a Human Cleric.

(Author’s note: Holy crap this was fun to write, and I’m thrilled with how it came out! I can’t believe it took me so long to write a D & D-based story. This is the first time I can say with confidence that you will almost certainly see these OCs again. I loved them way too much to let them go. And there's three more people here for me to whump in all ways magical and physical. So keep your eyes peeled for them again soon!)

They say pride comes before the fall, but most people like to think that applies to everyone except them. Still, perhaps the adventuring party should have kept their pride in check, or else watched more vigilantly for the possibility of falling.

The party of four were riding out of the village they had simultaneously saved and partially destroyed. True, they had fought off a school of necromancers that were terrorizing the local area and destroyed the necromancers' constructs, but the fireball they had used to wipe out the zombies had also wiped out the entire market and half of the residential district. Still, collateral damage was to be expected, and the slightly-singed foursome were in high spirits as they left the smoking town in their wake.

Their calamity came from a very unexpected source, and it started with a sneeze. The party always traveled in pairs of two, with the fighter and the sorcerer in front and the cleric and the rogue in the back. This meant that Filius and Kandry were generally surrounded by a cloud of dust while on the road, but they didn't usually mind, both being the hearty sort.

Today though, the dust began to make Filius sneeze even before they'd left the town. After two sets of three sneezes nearly back to back, Lorellyn turned, looking at him with concern.

"Are you all right, Fil? Your cold is still bothering you, isn't it?"

"I suppose. Honestly I'm so tired I barely notice it right now. I just want to get back to camp and sleep for a day or two," said the cleric, congested and hoarse, trying not to cough.

"Well yeh certainly earned it. It seemed yeh were everywhere at once ou’ there, throwin' out healin' spells left an' right, an' destroyin' th' zombies in droves, plus flingin' necromancers here an' there with tha' mace o' yourn," Gundor said.

"He's right. We couldn't have done this without you," Lorellyn said earnestly. "You're the hero of the day."

Filius smiled tiredly, but before he could reply, a sickly green bolt of energy hit him in the back, making him spasm. He froze, then slowly his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward on his horse.

The other three jumped into action immediately. Kandry leapt off of her mount and onto the back of Filius’ with flawless acrobatics, somehow managing to prevent him from falling off of his horse and take control of the steed immediately, though she couldn't reach the stirrups.

Lorellyn whipped around, immediately shooting a firebolt from her palm, aimed at the bush from which the offensive spell had come. The dry bush caught fire immediately, causing the pair of tiny goblin mages hiding inside it to run out shrieking, heading toward the smoking village. Gundor was already off of his mount and chasing them down with rage in his eyes, ending them with his axe before they knew what hit them.

Gundor and Lorellyn were at Kandry's side as soon as the threat was eliminated. The halfling was anxiously checking Filius over for visible injuries.

"He's burning up!" she cried. "What did they hit him with?"

"It was a wimpy Ray of Sickness. I saw it out of the corner of my eye," Lorellyn said, taking over assessing the cleric. "Those mages were barely second level. I'm surprised they were able to hit him at all. There's no way this is just from that. There's something else."

"Well can't you figure it out?" Kandry snapped.

"I'm trying! But divination is Filius' specialty, not mine!" Lorellyn snapped back.

"Let's jus’ get ‘im back ta camp. We need ta get off th' road. We're too exposed, an' distracted ta boot," Gundor said, looking around worriedly. "Yeh can look ‘im over there just as well as here."

The other two quickly agreed. They hastened back to their base, with Filius slumped in the saddle in front of Lorellyn, and Gundor leading Filius' horse behind his own.

The ride was somber, the high spirits from their successful battle all but forgotten. Filius had a raging fever and was dead asleep, unable to be woken, but seemed to be in the throes of terrible nightmares, for he writhed and cried out the whole time they were moving. Whenever he would yell, it would send him into an awful coughing fit that left him panting and sweating. Lorellyn tried her best to soothe him, but she was clearly distressed, especially when it seemed to have no effect, and she had tears in her eyes most of the trip.

Arriving at their camp, they made a makeshift stretcher for him from a blanket, gently carrying the tall man to his tent and laying him down on his mat. They lingered at his side, unsure how to proceed.

"Why don't you do a healing spell on him or something?" Kandry snapped at the sorcerer. "There's got to be something we can do!"

"I don't have any spells left after that battle," Lorellyn hissed. "I need to rest my magic! And anyway, sorcerers can't do healing spells. Our magic is too chaotic. Bad things would happen if I tried. Do either of you have any healing potions?”

"I never waste time with that. They're too heavy to bother with. You all always carry them... Or Filius takes care of it," Kandry mumbled.

"I gave mine ta th’ villagers tha' got hurt in th' blast," Gundor said sheepishly. "Filius planned ta brew some more, so I wagered I wouldn't need 'em."

"Some adventurers we are," Kandry groaned. "We can't even take care of our cleric."

Lorellyn wrapped Kandry in a hug, which the halfling immediately tried to wriggle out of, but the elf was stronger.

"We'll figure something out. It will be fine," Lorellyn said bravely.

At that moment, the party heard a commotion on the highway, with many people screaming and yelling loud enough to be heard at the camp, though they were well away from the road. The three healthy members of the party gave each other worried looks. Lorellyn attuned her hearing to better assess the situation while Kandry and Gundor waited breathlessly.

"It's a green dragon," Lorellyn gasped after a moment. "Something angered it and now it's flying around, attacking randomly. It's already killed dozens of people."

"It's all well and good until the cleric gets really sick," Kandry groaned, covering her face.

They didn't have time to make any sort of plan, for immediately they heard the sound of running footsteps approaching their camp. A young man with wild-looking eyes dashed into their midst.

“Adventurers!” he gasped. “Have you heard? There’s a dragon terrorizing us! We need your aid to defeat it!”

Gundor stepped forward. “We hadn’t heard o’ this trouble. O’ course we’ll do what’s necessary in this time o’ danger.”

“So you’ll come? We must go right away!”

“Give us time ta make our necessary preparations. Leave us fer now.”

The lad nodded, hurrying away again.

Gundor, Lorellyn, and Kandry shared a look. Without a word, they quickly began to break down their camp, hastily packing their things and snuffing out the fire under cover of Lorellyn’s disillusionment cantrips, and taking full advantage of Kandry’s stealth. In minutes they had packed their belongings on their horses and were heading in the opposite direction of the main road, deeper into the forest. Through it all, Filius remained unconscious, mumbling and sweating and weak with fever.

After another hour or two’s ride, having hidden themselves deep in the forest, Kandry found a secure cave in which they could hide out. The party was in no shape to fight a dragon right now. Here, they wouldn’t be in danger, or be run out of town for not assisting with the dragon. Gundor secured the perimeter while Lorellyn attended to the sick cleric, laying him out gently on his bedroll once more and bathing his sweat-slicked face with a wet rag while Kandry saw to the rest of the camp preparations. The cool water slowly brought Filius to consciousness, with much coughing and trembling. However, wakefulness did not bring awareness with it. He looked around dully, his eyes heavy-lidded and fever-bright, but seemed to take in little of what he saw. He closed his eyes again wearily without acknowledging his companions hovering over him worriedly. Shivers wracked his body.

“ ‘m so cold,” he coughed. “Thirsty….”

Kandry rushed to get him a mug of water while Lorellyn snatched the blankets off of each of the other bedrolls and brought them over, covering him in all of them. They seemed to have no effect though, and he continued to shiver violently. Gundor built up the fire frantically, but it took a while to catch, and the smoke only made the sick human cough more. After drinking two mugs of water, Filius fell back asleep, which was somehow both a relief and a worry to his friends. His fever never changed, neither going lower nor higher.

“I’ll run ta th’ village ta get ‘im some kind o’ potion,” Gundor murmured over supper. “I can’t watch ‘im suffer like this.”

“And risk being seen, or worse attacked by a dragon?” Kandry scoffed. “After all the trouble we went to to find this place and stay hidden? Please don’t.”

“She’s right,” Lorellyn said. “That’s at least two hours' ride, and one of us will be left alone and vulnerable. At least wait until morning, when our health and spells are back up. If he’s the same or worse, then go. We’ll see how he does through the night.”

Once night fell, with nothing else to do, the party tried to sleep, rotating 6 hour shifts keeping watch, as usual. However, even when not on guard duty, the party members found they couldn’t settle, and kept lifting their heads to shoot worried glances at their cleric, or make sure he hadn’t worsened. Gundor had had the first watch, and when it came time for him to rest, he settled on his bedroll, but then tossed and turned for a long time. He was usually snoring like a bear within moments of shutting his eyes, so this had the ladies on high alert. Finally, the dwarf got up with a huff, picked up his bedroll and carried it over to Filius’ side, dropping it there. When he lay back down, he was close enough that his shoulder touched the cleric’s. The dwarf then pulled a corner of one of the blankets over himself and rolled to his side, pressing up against the human, and immediately falling asleep with a weary snore.

Lorellyn had the second watch, and she kept shooting tender, but envious looks at the sleeping men. Filius never woke, but he seemed to sleep more peacefully after Gundor had joined him. As soon as her watch was finished, she followed the dwarf’s lead, pushing her bedroll up against the other side of the sick human, sliding under the blankets, and resuming her meditation.

Kandry was not so easily swayed, and tried to ignore the thoughtless sharing of germs happening behind her as she took her turn at the watch. However, when no one was looking, she surreptitiously slid her bedroll around to the other side of the fire, placing her closer to her companions.

Had Gundor and Lorellyn been aware of their surroundings, they would have noticed that in the wee hours of the morning Filius began to sweat profusely. He had hardly moved after the other two had settled in with him to share their body heat, but he began to mutter and toss a bit once more. Finally, just as dawn was creeping over the horizon, he woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright with a hacking cough. Lorellyn and Gundor were instantly awakened as well, and Kandry was at their side in an instant. Filius tried to catch his breath, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“Where ‘m I?” he croaked. “What happened?”

Lorellyn leaned over to press the back of her hand to his forehead, then his neck. “We’re safely hidden in the forest. Are you alright? How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Filius groaned. “Sick. How long have I been asleep?” He yawned hugely.

“Almost a day,” Kandry said, pressing a mug of water into his hands. “You scared us half to death. You got hit with a Ray of Sickness and you just… passed out.”

“I did?” he said worriedly, looking confused. “I don’t remember that….”

“Yeah. Did you have some poison in your system too or something? I’ve never seen Ray of Sickness do that,” Kandry said accusingly.

“Not that I know of. Might have to do with me already being sick when it hit me. Just exacerbated everything, made it worse temporarily.” He coughed roughly into his shoulder, wincing, then downed the mug of water.

“Well your fever is much better,” Lorellyn said happily. “Let’s hope you’re on the mend now!”

“I’d be on the mend faster if I got some whiskey,” Filius sniffled, looking meaningfully at Gundor. The sleepy dwarf readily got up and shuffled to his pack. Finding what he was looking for, he returned with an amber-colored bottle and handed it to the cleric, who took several unceremonious gulps.

“Good ta have yeh back, mate,” Gundor rumbled happily, reclaiming the bottle and taking several swigs of his own.

“What are you all doing over here anyway?” Filius said after a moment, yawning again. “This cave is plenty big enough for all of us.”

“You were freezing, so we shared our blankets with you,” Lorellyn said.

“Really? You mean you slept here all night?”

“Tha’ we did. ‘Twas a mighty fine night’s rest, too,” Gundor said. “Matter o’ fact, I could use some more shuteye if it’s all th’ same ta you lot.” With that, he lay back down right where he was, pressing up against Filius once more and closing his eyes. The cleric looked surprised, though not unhappy with this development.

“Some more rest would be nice. Filius, are you able to put up some protection spells so we can all relax for another day? I hate to ask so much of you--” Lorellyn began.

“No, it’s fine,” he said, coughing chestily. “I can manage.” He grasped his talisman of Njord and closed his eyes, his brow furrowing. After a moment, an opaque barrier appeared over the cave’s entryway. No creature, magical or otherwise, would be able to pass through. Looking exhausted now, he lay back down alongside Gundor and shut his eyes, a tiny smile appearing on his face as the dwarf shifted cozily against him and Lorellyn too pressed closer.

Lorellyn was also grinning. “Come join us, Kandry.”

The halfling rolled her eyes. “I don’t cuddle.”

“I don’t either, but here we are,” Filius mumbled, almost asleep. “Just call it team bonding.”

Kandry almost declined again… but it really did look very cozy to be surrounded by blankets and pillows and teammates. With a little sigh, she shuffled over and slotted herself in, with Filius’ long legs on one side of her, and Lorellyn’s on the other.

They spent the rest of the day just like that, sleeping and eating and talking, content to take a day to simply enjoy each other’s company as they let their cleric take a sick day.

#sicktember2021 #everyone is hotter with a fever #prompt 27 #sickfic

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childish-ish · 4 years

Text

my mom wont let me get anymore monster :\

pairing: billy lenz x reader

aha, part two of that last one. also im not very good at part 2s if you can't already tell, anywas for uhhhhh @walt25 this is for u chief

also sorry again if i butchered his fucking uhh personality, its how i now write him lmfao,,, him talking in fucking..... 3rd pov hehe.

requests open....,,,, pleaase,,,,, request a slasher... ...

also michael x reader and jason x reader fics coming soon lmfao.

You had to be an absolute fucking idiot to not notice the signs.

I mean - you didn't notice it at first, because you are an absolute fucking idiot - but then you actually saw something - someone, rummaging around in the fridge.

Like any normal - sane person would, you quickly retreat to your room after seeing an unknown man in the kitchen. An actual man with frizzy untamed hair and all-black clothing, save for a dark green sweater. Did he even have shoes on? You didn't really care enough to actually stay and analyze the man.

Again, like any normal, sane person would do, you call the police. You didn't recognize the large body to be anybody of Kappa-Sig, so you immediately dialed the number of emergency - ahaha, just kidding!! You aren’t a fucking normal and sane person! What you do is actually get a camera and step out of your room.

Stepping down the stairs quietly in your socked feet - avoiding the creaky stairs.

Ah, but alas. Once you peek into the kitchen, the male was gone. You drop your camera - screeching in pain as the fucking thing lads on your goddamned foot. "FUCK!" You cried out, crouching and dropping to sit on your bottom.

The other girls were at school that day - some had free periods and doing whatever. You skipped. Knowing you would have to pay something to someone for skipping a singular day.

Later that same day - The Moaner called, shortly after you falling on your ass. You immediately crawled towards the front door and picked up the phone.

The conversation went something like this;

"what did you do to the baby, billy?"

"yeah what'd you do to the fucking baby, billy."

"where's anges, billy..?"

"ayo, wheres anges?! WHO THE FUCK IS ANGES??? you been cheating on me billy?? oh wait if you're mocking a voice of one of your parents - maybe even a babysitter or guardian. then.. anges is your sister. or friend?? dude o-m-g what im like, a detective doin' some detective work n' shit."

"y/n.. where's billy?" he asked in that wailing.. high-pitched voice.

"oh shit, you know my name? ion know bro.. wheres billy? wheres billy..?!" You repeat.

"billy knows what you did last night..." He spits into the phone. "pretty pink cunt. pretty cunt. pretty pretty pretty pretty..."

Anyways. You had called him a little bitch and he hung up. You guess if Billy really did know what you did, he would've had to be there to see it. Somewhere. LATER THAT DAY - Present time.

You had a little alone time despite being alone the entire day. you catch my drift?

You cleaned yourself up and had disposed of the towel you placed under yourself, not wanting to dirty or piss accidentally on your bed.

Soon, you were drawing on the floor, fucking around with waterpaints - when the goddamned phone rang. A string of curses fall from your lips.

As you took a single step outside your room, the ringing stopped for one moment, before starting up again.

Quickly, you step out fully and jogged down the hallway. Peering down the stairs to see a - well. That figure from earlier - from the kitchen. You take two steps down the stairs.

"AYO?" You shout, immediately putting up your defences. "you know, ive read about this somewhere." You narrow your eyes, squinting at the male.

"ayo - ayo chill." You take a stumbling step backwards as he twitched, falling onto your ass, your ankle rolling. You curse before peeking up -

"Oh FUCK - oh FUCK??" You realize, he was halfway up the stairs. Oh my fucking god, where were the goddamned other girls. School still? What time was it? Fuck you don't know.

"Billy.. Billy likes you. Billy likes pretty piggy. Pretty p - piggy cunt." He spits out the last letter.

"You know what Billy. I like you too. You're pretty chill." You let him come closer, dominate hand clenched in a fist by your side. You let him take a few steps closer. The deranged male looms over you. His peach.. sickly yellow skin. Crazy brown eyes peer into your own.

"billy knows what you're doing. billy doesn't like it."

You sweat under the pressure. "What the fuck - ?" You let the curse slip past by your lips as the male falls onto you. You scream in surprise as the male practically dry humps against your hips slowly.

Pushing him away, you hear the front door open.

"Y/n!" You recognize the voice as Barb. The male glares angrily into your eyes, a warning for something, then scrambled off you and quietly scuttles down the hallway. You wonder where he goes.

"Dude!" You shout out from the floor, before pushing yourself up. "Holy shit you would not believe what happened - " You pause immediately. You were sure he could hear you. You change the subject.

"Bro nevermind i’m going to sleep again don’t fucking bother me!"

"I'll tell the other girls then!" Barb called back. You see her wave lazily before she leaves your line of view.

You scrambled down the hallway, to your room.

Where this little goddamned fuck was fucking with your water paints. Once you had entered the room, his attention was solely on your figure.

"OI!" You whisper-shout. His eyebrows jump up in confusion. "Stop fucking with that!"

Billy leaps away, onto your bed. He bounces for a few moments before you drag your attention back to your paints. You immediately began to clean up.

Once finished, you turn your bitch-ass attention to little Billy.

“Billy. How’d you get in the house fool? Oh wait, if you were actually forreal rummaging through out fucking fridge then.. do you live here?”

“billy’s been here forever. billy doesn’t like sharing his house. billy likes you.”

“damn lmao. thanks chief. anyways don’t kill me or ill fucking fuck you over from the other side.”

“billy likes pretty piggy.” he said ferociously.

“cool. anyways,”

you begin to ramble on to the male, asking him questions here and there about why he was there and why the fuck didn’t he kill you, you got the same answers as before, going on and on as you lie next to the seated, criss-crossed legged male, an arm behind your head as you tell him about your favorite shit to do and such.

Soon, it was okay. Billy was chill enough to actually not kill you, he told you in broken words that he lived there like he fucking said before but you don’t listen lmfao, he had hung around you alot when you had gotten home from your classes, sometimes waking up to the male besides you when you wake - you had caught him watching you shower, and offered him a shower as well. With no hesitation, he stripped and hopped it, immediately groping your body as his tongue licked upon the skin on your neck. It was a weird - sexual yet friendly relationship. You literally had no idea where this was gonna go,

#slasher x reader #slasherslikebeetroot #billy lenz x y/n #slashers x reader #billy lenz x you #billy lenz x reader #billy the moaner x reader #billy the moaner #black christmas

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j-amespotter · 3 years

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★ epiphany – r. l.

"with you, i serve. with you, i fall down."

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Nymphadora Tonks (if you squint)

x. x.

Summary: Throughout his life, Remus fought many battles. Only once was he ever on the brink of victory.

Genre/Warnings: angst, war, death, torture, mentions of lycanthropy

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: i'm officially on summer break, so expect more writing from me!! this one actually took a lot of time and effort so please share your feedback. not a reader insert, just some canon character insight. i think about remus's last moments a lot :( let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist!

masterlist

1978 - With you, I serve.

The moon was bright but not quite full. It shone on two boys, both fresh out of school and on the precipice of becoming men. As much as they tried to deny it, there was an aura of naiveté surrounding them, one that would soon deteriorate beyond their imaginations.

“Come here,” said Remus Lupin, a tall, tired boy, tugging his companion’s sleeve. “Behind the bushes.”

“It’s child’s play, this job. What’s Dumbledore playing at?”

Remus was paired up with James Potter, who was growing more and more impatient by the second. “Prongs, we are trainees. We’re lucky to have an assignment at all.”

The two friends were seated on a small hill overlooking a large, dreary house. It belonged to the Travers family, a family notoriously pureblood, notoriously Slytherin. A family most likely in league with the greatest threat to the Wizarding World in several decades—Lord Voldemort.

The severity of the situation remained unspoken between them. If caught, James and Remus would be killed within seconds. Remus silently wished he shared James’s conviction regarding the ultimate invincibility of the right cause. But there was something inside of him that would remain unconvinced for a long time.

“There’s no way Travers isn’t a Death Eater,” said James. “I say we attack. They know we’re careful. They’ll never see it coming.”

“Perhaps,” said Remus. “Although, I doubt they are unprepared. Stealth is the only path to success.”

James snorted. “Okay, Professor Moony.” Years later, the same voice on a nearly-identical face would be addressing him in the same manner, with an amount of long-faced sincerity that would destroy him. But Remus did not know that yet.

After a while, Remus broke the comfortable silence between them simply because of a lingering curiosity manifesting within him. “Do you really think we can win this?”

James turned toward him. When he spoke, Remus thought he sounded a little scandalized. “Of course I do. And even if we don’t, there isn’t a single part of me that won’t die trying.”

Remus hummed, though he could feel the hesitation brewing inside of him, the same hesitation he found himself constantly suppressing around his friends. It was not as though he didn’t share the same sentiment; that wasn’t the case at all. It felt blasphemous to let his thoughts wander at times, but he couldn’t help himself. The truth was loud and clear. Remus was fighting this war for those who wouldn't do the same for him.

Something about the setting and the shape of the moon kept him lost in his muddled thoughts. “Why did you become an Animagus?”

James looked slightly taken aback, running a hand through his hair. “You know why.”

“Indulge me.”

“Because, Remus, we care about you. We wanted to help you,” said James. “We still want to help you.”

“You have done more than enough, James.” And it was true. James Potters didn’t exist in the real world, and that was a fact that was becoming blazingly clear the longer Remus spent in it.

There was nothing more to be said after that. James only sighed, staring out with a strangely thoughtful expression. “You know something?”

“What?”

“Think I’m going to ask Lily to marry me.”

Remus swallowed. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” said James. “I haven’t told anyone.”

Remus found that hard to believe. “Not even Sirius?”

“No, not even Sirius. Just thought of it, actually. Besides, something tells me Sirius would laugh in my face.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Remus, though it was always hard to tell with Sirius. The idea of James getting married sounded so far-fetched, and yet, made more sense to him than anything ever had in his entire life.

“So, what do you think?”

What did he think? Honestly, he felt a twinge of envy that James had someone to propose to, that he didn’t have to think twice about it, that in all likelihood, when this war ended, James would live a long, happy, healthy life with his wife and enough children to form his own Quidditch team. “I think that you definitely should.”

James’s face broke out into a wide grin, one that made Remus feel warm inside. One that told Remus that it wasn’t actually a whim, that James had been thinking about it for weeks, and that when it came to Lily, he always seemed to turn to Remus. It was a bittersweet sentiment, but one that he had come to appreciate.

“Guess I’ll need to figure out who my best man will be,” mused James.

Remus rolled his eyes. “She hasn’t even said yes yet, Prongs.”

James harrumphed. “Of course she’ll say yes to becoming Mrs. Arrogant Toerag.” He puffed out his chest dramatically, only to lose his balance and fall forward into the bushes. “Wow, we really suck at this whole ‘stealth’ thing, don’t we?”

“Shut it, will you?” whispered Remus, though if he had known how few moments he had left to share with James, he wouldn’t have reprimanded him at all.

Suddenly, a scream coming from the direction of the house interrupted them.

“What was that?” asked James. Both boys had their wands at the ready.

“They’re torturing someone,” said Remus, suppressing a shudder. He winced at the sound of another piercing scream, one that shredded his insides with every resounding decibel.

James began to rise. “We have to go in and help them.”

Instantly, Remus grabbed his arm and pulled him down. “James, we can’t. We will blow our cover, we’re likely completely outnumbered, and we were told to call reinforcements if anything got serious. We are trainees, remember?” When James begrudgingly slunk down next to him, Remus nudged him again. “Send a Patronus to the Prewetts.”

As James retreated several yards into the woods to conjure his great silvery stag, Remus turned his attention back to the house in front of them. After hearing another scream, he was beginning to lose his nerve. We can win this, Remus chanted to himself like a sacred mantra. We can win this. We can win this. We can win this.

Three years later, wizards all over Britain would celebrate their victory over the Dark Lord. But with three dead friends and one a murderous traitor, Remus Lupin would have nothing to celebrate. And he wouldn’t for a very long time, not until he stared into a pair of startlingly green eyes in a train compartment several years later.

1998 - With you, I fall down.

His heart raced as he watched the silver dome shatter around the castle. A swarm of dark, hooded figures made their way towards them. With one hand over the photograph in his pocket, Remus thought of Teddy—his vibrant, turquoise hair, his soft coos, and the sparkly eyes that looked just like his own.

We can win this. We can win this. We can win this.

It is different now, he thought to himself, I have Harry. A son. A wife. For the first time in his life, Remus Lupin had a proper family.

We can win this. We can win this. We can win this.

He was able to see his reflection on a window. Under all the worry pooling his features, Remus saw the ghost of a smile that looked so achingly familiar— the weary but indestructible smile of a new father, the one he last saw during his final moments with James many, many years ago.

He thought of Dora, who, despite his desperate pleas, followed him to Hogwarts to fight what was beginning to feel like the end. After he righteously begged her to return to safety, she scoffed teasingly. “Honestly, Remus. You should know better.”

She was right, and there was nothing more to say. She kissed him hard before they went their separate ways for the last time. Remus weaved through crowds of warriors, gaze wandering from time to time for a glimpse of either his wife or his young protege. Any sign that Dora and Harry were alright would ease his ever-growing nerves.

We can win this. We can win this. We can win this.

He thought of a late-night in his dormitory. It was the end of his seventh year. The four Marauders were sitting on each of their four-poster beds, picturing this moment, having no idea what was to come, just the confidence that it would and that they would win.

“I think it’ll be at the Ministry,” said Sirius.

“Or Diagon Alley,” said Remus thoughtfully.

“With Dumbledore leading the charge,” added James, a note of excitement in his voice. “I’d give anything to see the end of him.”

“Me too,” grumbled Sirius, struggling to hide the bitterness lacing every word. It had only struck Remus then that Sirius would be fighting his own flesh and blood on the other side. He knew better than to mention it.

“We could die,” said Peter quietly.

“We could,” affirmed James. “But I have a good feeling about it. It’ll be our moment, lads.”

Remus had only heard of Wormtail's death from Bill, who heard it from Harry. Peter, so afraid of death, so willing to do anything to avoid it, killed by his own hand. The last of his friends to go. In his wildest dreams, Remus would have never thought that he would be the last Marauder standing. Alone.

But he wasn’t alone. Not anymore. He had Dora, Teddy, and Harry. Harry, brilliant Harry, the Boy Who Lived, the boy who, unbeknownst to him, changed Remus’s life. The boy who would carry out his father's dream. The boy who would win this for them all.

We can win this. We can win this. We can win this.

Remus heaved a tired sigh. His legs felt as though they were about to give out. Despite his unique set of skills, Remus spent more time sickly than able. Especially now, nearing the age of forty. No longer did he have the agility or stamina of his youth.

He was in the center of the fighting in the courtyard. Suddenly, Remus felt a sinking, silencing feeling inside of him. Swallowing it away, he turned around, grip on his wand accidentally loosening for the quickest second.

The man in front of him was smirking, a forthcoming light blinding any identifying features. Remus's wand slipped from his fingers.

The last thing he saw was green, consuming his vision like a swarm of Dementors closing in on him. The spell hit him squarely in the chest.

He always wondered what death would feel like, often equating it with the debilitating pain of his monthly transformations. But it wasn't like that at all. Death was like falling. An eternal, endless fall into nothingness.

Moments away from victory, Remus Lupin fell down.

Mischief Managed.

Taglist: @iwritesiriusly @sheismadness @she-seeks-magic @amourtentiaa @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @queenofblacks @duckie-dunham

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foxghost · 4 years

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Joyful Reunion, Chapter 2

Translator: foxghost @foxghost tumblr/ko-fi1 Beta: meet-me-in-oblivion @meet-me-in-oblivion tumblr Original by 非天夜翔 Fei Tian Ye Xiang

Book 1, Chapter 1 (part 1)2

Spring weeds grow lush in a land now vanquished; summer palace ruins lie buried beneath mounds of dirt.3

Ever since the Emperor of Liao4 broke through Shangzi during the southern expedition, the Han has retreated past Yubiguan. Territories reaching up to three hundred miles south of Yubiguan including Hebei prefecture are now part of the Liao empire. There is a city called Runan in Hebei; it has been a distribution hub between central plain and those who lived north of the great wall since ancient times, but now that it’s become part of Liao, the Han who can flee west have fled west, ones who can move south have moved south. What used to be the most prosperous city in Hebei is now in a state of disrepair — less than thirty-thousand families remain.

The Duan family resides in the city of Runan.

The Duans are an average-sized family — not too big and not too small. It does some trading business with travelling merchants, and they own a pawn shop and an oil press. The head of the family had contracted tuberculosis before he was even thirty-five and died. The whole family now relies on Lady Duan’s management to keep things running.

It’s the eighth day of the twelfth month5, and what’s left of the sunset glitters off the road, filling the alleys of Runan with stone waves as though the edges of the paving stones are made of liquid gold. A heart-rending scream is heard from the Duan’s courtyard.

“That’s what you get for stealing Lady Duan’s things!”

“Say something, you bastard! You little animal!”

A club beats down like rain drops onto a boy’s head and body, making dull, thudding sounds. The boy is dressed in rags, his face covered in mud, his head and face black and blue with bruises. One of his eyes are swollen, and purple-black scratches scrape his arms where someone’s scratched him with their nails. He keeps trying to run towards the back of the house to escape, but he accidentally runs right into a maid and knocks over the wooden tray in her hands, and it makes the housekeeper scream again.

Right then, he dashes forward without regard for his life and throws himself at the woman, knocking her over. He aims squarely at her face and starts punching.

The boy opens his mouth and bites. The housekeeper screeches, “Murder!”

This shriek catches the attention of the aggressive-looking, muscular stable lad who rushes over with a pitchfork. The boy takes a solid hit on the back of his head. All at once his vision goes dark and he faints, then he’s soundly beaten until he awakes from the pain, until his shoulder is bloodied, whereupon he’s picked up by the collar and thrown into the wood shed. They close the door on him, and lock it.

“Get your wontons here —”

He hears an old man calling from the alleyway, through the walls. Every evening at dusk Laoqian would pass through the streets and alleys with a carrying-pole across his shoulders.

“Duan Ling!” The voices of children come from outside the courtyard.

“Duan Ling!”

Their calls wake the boy. There’s a cut on Duan Ling’s shoulder from the pitchfork, and a rivet’s punched a hole into his palm. He tries to get up, limping.

“Are you okay?” A kid outside yells.

Taking deep breaths, Duan Ling’s features are all scrunched up. He doesn’t even have the strength to stand anymore. He answers, “Yeah …” and drops heavily to a sitting position. After hearing a reply, the children hurry away.

Slowly, he slips to the ground; he curls into a fetal position in the damp, dark wood shed. Through the skylight, he stares up at the grey sky. Powdery snow floats down to him. In the mist that covers the sky and the snow drifting through the air, he thinks maybe he spots a twinkle of starlight above him, in the centre of the sky.

It grows gradually darker, and quieter, until all is silent. All over Runan, families light their warm, yellow lamps. Their roofs lie covered in a soft blanket of snow. Save for Duan Ling, who is still shivering in the wood shed, hunger making him delirious. Scene after scene appear before his eyes in a mess of images.

Sometimes it’s his late mother’s hands, sometimes Lady Duan’s embroidered gown, sometimes the housekeeper’s contorted face.

“Come get — your wontons —”

I didn’t steal anything, Duan Ling thinks to himself. He squeezes the two coppers in his palms tighter, his vision filled with nothing but darkness.

Will I die? Duan Ling’s consciousness is blurring. Death has always seemed like such a far away concept to him.

Three days ago, he saw a dead beggar, frozen beneath the green bridge, and all around him was a crowd of people. They ended up putting him on a flatbed cart, rolling him outside the city, and burying him in a mass grave.

That day he joined the crowd and followed them out of the city next to some other children. He watched as they wrapped his body in a grass mat and buried the beggar in a hole. Next to the hole was another, smaller hole. Now that he thinks about it, maybe after he dies he will be buried next to a beggar he’s never even met …

The night grows deeper; Duan Ling is nearly frozen from head to toe. The last breath he breathes out becomes a white fog that rises before him; snowflakes drift to and fro through the fog. His mind wanders and he wonders when the snow is ever going to stop. The sun appears before his eyes, like countless summer mornings at the cusp of dawn when the sky starts to brighten.

The sun turns into a lamp, and as the door to the woodshed is pushed open with a long squeal, lamplight falls onto his face.

“Come out!” The stable lad says gruffly.

“Is he Duan Ling?” A man’s voice comes from the side.

Duan Ling lies on his side on the ground, twitching near imperceptibly, facing the door. His limbs and his body are frozen stiff. With difficulty, he tries to sit up. The man comes in, kneels before him, and carefully examines his features.

“Are you sick?” The man says.

Duan Ling’s head feels muddled, nothing but phantoms and hallucinations before his eyes.

The man has a pill between his fingers. He puts the pill in Duan Ling’s mouth, and picks Duan Ling up into his arms.

Half conscious, he can vaguely smell the scent on that man, and with each gentle jolt of his steps the path seems to warm up gradually.

There’s a hole in Duan Ling’s old coat. The reed catkins sewn into the lining clings to the man all over.

It’s a dark, desolate night; lamplight flickering.

With Duan Ling in his arms he passes through a hallway filled half with shadows and half with lamplight, a trail of fluttering reed flowers behind him.

On both sides of the corridor, the sound of girls’ unbridled laughter passes over them through walls of warm rooms, mixing with the powdery hush of snowfall and the high, drawn out pitches of someone singing an opera. The world starts getting warmer and warmer, and there’s light.

They walk from winter to spring, from night to day.

The world is an inn for all living, time is a traveller since time’s existence.6

Duan Ling slowly regains consciousness, his breathing becoming rough and heavy.

They’re in a brilliantly lit reception hall. Lady Duan has draped herself over the front of the daybed, and she stares at a piece of scenery-embroidered satin in her hand, seemingly lost in thought.

“Lady Duan,” the man’s voice says.

Lady Duan’s words have a hint of a smile to them. “You know this boy?”

“I do not,” the man is still holding Duan Ling.

Duan Ling can feel the medicine fed to him earlier melting away in his throat, warmth returning to his belly, and his strength appears to be coming back. He leans against the man’s chest facing Lady Duan but he’s too scared to look up at her. All he can see is a little corner of a resplendent, brocade covered bed.

“His birth certificate is right here,” Lady Duan speaks again.

The housekeeper brings forth the birth certificate and passes it to the man.

Duan Ling is short, underfed, sickly and jaundiced. From where he’s nestled against the man’s chest he struggles a bit fearfully, and so the man sets him down onto the floor. Duan Ling leans against him, finds his footing, and looks at the man. He’s dressed in a black gown; a patch of his fighter’s boots has gotten damp, and a jade ornament hangs from his belt.

The man says, “Please name your price.”

“Well, we weren’t ever going to take in this child to begin with.” Lady Duan says smilingly, “When his mother came home pregnant with him, it was so cold, and it’s not like she had anywhere else to go. Well, they do say providence cherishes life and all that, but once he started staying here there seemed no end to it.”

The man says nothing at all. He stares into Lady Duan’s eyes, waiting for her to continue.

“Let’s put it this way,” Lady Duan says, heaving a drawn out sigh, “at the very least, his mother was the one who entrusted him to me. I still have the letter. Here, my lord. Perhaps you’d like to take a look?”

The housekeeper hands him another sheet of paper. The man doesn’t even bother looking at it. He puts it away.

“But see now, I don’t even know what your name is. If I hand him over without knowing anything just like that, what am I supposed to tell Duan Xiaowan when I die? Don’t you think so?”

The man remains silent.

Lady Duan stretches out a hand, spreads out her sleeve, and charmingly she says to him, “The whole thing with Duan Xiaowan is a bit of a mess in the first place. Well, I thought since she’s gone, the past is simply written off. Now let’s say you collect the boy today — what if someday, someone else comes and says his dad sent them, what am I supposed to tell them? Don’t you think so?”

The man still doesn’t say anything.

Lady Duan smiles at him, then she turns her attention to Duan Ling’s face and waves at him. Duan Ling subconsciously takes a step backwards, hiding behind the man, gripping the corner of his gown tight between his fingers.

“Hey,” Lady Duan says, “my Lord, you ought to at least give me some kind of explanation.”

“I have no explanation.” The man finally opens his mouth. “Only money. Name your price.”

Lady Duan doesn’t know what to say.

The man sinks into silence once more. Judging by what she sees, Lady Duan realises this man clearly only has plans to give her a lump sum and settle the child-rearing debt. He’s not going to tell her who he is, and he doesn’t care what happens afterwards, leaving any consequences that come for the Duans to bear.

Some time passes. Lady Duan tries to figure out what the man’s thinking, but he’s already reaching into his lapel, producing a number of multicoloured banknotes.

“Four hundred taels.” Lady Duan finally names a price.

The man holds a single banknote between his fingers and hands it to Lady Duan.

Duan Ling can’t seem to breathe. He doesn’t know what this man wants, but he once heard from the maids that someone always comes down from the mountains on winter nights to buy children. They’d bring the children back up to the mountain and offer them to monsters to eat. Instinctively, a sense of fear grips him.

“I won’t go!” Duan Ling says, “Don’t! Don’t!”

Duan Ling turns and starts running. He only manages one step before a maid grabs him by the ear, and he’s dragged backwards in searing pain.

“Let him go.” The man says in a deep voice, then he presses a hand on Duan Ling’s shoulder.

That hand feels like it weighs more than three thousand catties.7 Right then, Duan Ling finds himself unable to move a smidgen.

The housekeeper takes the banknote and hands it to Lady Duan. There’s a slight furrow between her brows. The man says, “Keep the change. Let’s go.”

Duan Ling yells, “I won’t go! I won’t go!”

Lady Duan smiles. “It’s pitch dark outside. Where are you going to go? Why don’t you stay here for the night?”

Duan Ling screams himself hoarse, but the man merely looks down at him.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, his brows tightly knit.

“I don’t want to be fed to monsters! Don’t sell me! Don’t —” Duan Ling tries to hide under the table, but the man is faster. He grabs onto Duan Ling, curls a long finger towards his palm and flicks at a spot at Duan Ling’s waist, and Duan Ling falls right over.

He picks up Duan Ling, and carries him out the door under Lady Duan’s suspicious gaze.

“Don’t be afraid.” The man carries Duan Ling under one arm and his deep voice answers, “I won’t feed you to a monster.”

The moment they leave the estate, a blast of cold air whips at his face like a knife, sweeping up the snow. Duan Ling feels as though qi8 is running backwards in his throat, blocking it. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out.

“My name is Lang Junxia.” The man’s voice says, “Remember it now: Lang Junxia.”

“Get your wontons here — hey.” An old man says, steady and slow.

Duan Ling’s stomach grumbles. He stares at the wonton stand. The man named Lang Junxia halts, quietly thinks to himself for a moment, and sets Duan Ling down. He takes out a few coppers and throws them into a bamboo tube in front of the wonton stand. The coins make a metallic sound hitting the bottom.

Duan Ling calms down somewhat. He wonders, who is this man? Why did he take me out of that place?

A yellow lamp in front of the wonton stand casts its light through the falling snow. Lang Junxia presses a few spots on Duan Ling’s back, undoing the seal on his acupuncture points. Duan Ling’s about to call for help again when Lang Junxia says, “Shh,” and the old man brings Duan Ling a bowl of piping hot wontons.

“You eat,” Lang Junxia says.

Duan Ling can’t worry about anything else anymore. He takes the bowl and starts eating right away, not minding at all that it may scald his throat. They’re minced pork wontons, fat and full of filling, with a sprinkling of sesame and crushed peanuts. A small chunk of lard is melted into the soup; its fragrance assails the senses. There’s poached mustard greens sitting at the bottom of the bowl.

Duan Ling sets off to wolf down his food. Hunger is overcoming his fear, and as he eats and the soup gets all over his face, a fox fur coat is draped across his back, then it’s wrapped around him.

He pours the rest of the soup into his mouth, sets down the chopsticks, and breathes out. Only then does he turn to look at Lang Junxia.

Like someone out of a painting, he has fair skin, a tall nose, and deep set eyes. His pupils reflect the alley’s lamplight and the ever present snow.

His clothes set off his tall figure; there are fierce-looking monsters embroidered on his outer garment, and his fingers are long and beautiful. There’s even a sword hanging at his waist, a shiny thing that Duan Ling has only ever seen on a stage.

Sometimes when those who’ve made their fortune come home from the capital, they’d pass through the streets on big, tall horses, and Duan Ling would squeeze into the crowd to watch them. He’d see these young men flushed with success from court or business, dressed in satin and brocade.

But none of them are as good-looking as him. As for what is so good-looking about him, Duan Ling can’t rightly tell you.

He’s terribly afraid; he’s scared that this man named Lang Junxia is actually a monster in human form, and in the very next second he’s going to show his fangs and swallow Duan Ling down to fill his belly. But Lang Junxia just stares at him without looking away.

“Are you full?” Lang Junxia asks, “Anything else you’d like to eat?”

Duan Ling doesn’t dare answer. He’s scheming up ways to get away from him.

“If you’re full then let’s go.” Lang Junxia says, and holds out a hand for Duan Ling to hold. Duan Ling shrinks back from him, tossing pleading glances at Laoqian like a cry for help, but Lang Junxia simply turns his hand over and takes Duan Ling’s hand. Not daring to struggle, Duan Ling obediently leaves with Lang Junxia.

“Madam,” a servant returns to report. “That man is with the bastard in the alley eating wontons.”

Lady Duan pulls her coat around herself, blinking uneasily. She calls for the housekeeper. “Get someone to follow him. Find out where he’s taking the bastard.”

Light shines from every window in Runan. Duan Ling’s face is all red from the cold. Lang Junxia takes Duan Ling through the damp, snowy streets on bare feet. When they get to a restaurant in the city called the Jade Drop, he finally notices that Duan Ling doesn’t have shoes, and picks him up. He turns to the building, whistles, and as soon as he does, a horse trots out to them.

“Wait here for me. There’s something I have to do.” Lang Junxia wraps Duan Ling in a fur coat and helps him onto the back of the horse.

Duan Ling bows his head to look at him. Lang Junxia has handsome features, his eyes and eyebrows sharp and distinct like they’re carved out of jade; there’s reed flowers clinging to his hair. Lang Junxia tells him to wait before he turns and disappears into the night like a tercel spreading its wings.

Duan Ling’s imagination runs wild. Who is this person? Should he run now? But the back of a horse is too far off from the ground, and he daren’t jump down for fear of breaking a leg, and more so, for fear that the horse may kick him. He ponders this and ponders that; should he hand his fate to this stranger or should he leave it to himself? The key question is, where can he run? And just as he finally makes up his mind to leave the matter of his life and death to the heavens, a silhouette once again flashes into being at the mouth of the alley. Lang Junxia puts his foot in the stirrup and gets on the horse.

“Gup!”

The great big horse stamps onto the flagstone road, making a string of clip-clopping sounds. It gallops its way out of the alley, and in a night without a soul in sight, they leave the city of Runan behind.

Duan Ling sits in front of Lang Junxia. He sniffles and the scent of his damp clothes wafts up to his nose. What’s unexpected is how dry Lang Junxia’s clothes feel, as though they’ve just been dried in front of a fire. It smells good, like just-cooked shaobing9. His hands are holding the reins and there’s a burnt patch on his sleeve.

Duan Ling takes note that it wasn’t burnt before. What did he go to do earlier?

Duan Ling is reminded of a story — they say that in the Valley of Heishan10 outside the city, there are people from the underground societies killed during conflicts in previous dynasties. They’ve been buried in the mountains, rotting away for more than a century, waiting for children to come so they can steal their bodies. They would first turn into humans, each handsome beyond compare with outstanding martial arts skills, and once they find a child they’d bring them to the grave, show their rotting faces and take the child’s qi essence.

Those children whose bodies are stolen would lie in these graves ever after, but these ghouls would have their skin, and be able to strut their way into the mortal world and live a good life.

Duan Ling can’t stop trembling. He thinks about jumping off the horse and running many times, but the horse is too tall. He’ll probably break his legs if he jumps.

Is Lang Junxia a ghoul? Duan Ling’s imagination gets ahead of him. What if the ghoul wants to consume his qi? Should he maybe take the ghoul to someone else? No no … he mustn’t hurt anyone.

Someone is waiting under the city gates to open them for Lang Junxia. The horse keeps going south, galloping through the blizzard along the highway. They don’t go to the mass grave, and they don’t go into the Valley of Heishan either. Duan Ling starts to feel more at ease, and he grows sleepier and sleepier as they bump along the road. He slowly falls asleep surrounded by the clean dry scent on Lang Junxia.

In his dreams, two unending lines of mountains and valleys skim by like a picture on canvas in a shadow play.

Snow floats down like goose down gathering into a blanket; the pale green tops of the mountain peaks look ink-drawn, a single stroke on a white scroll. It is in the middle of this ink-brush painting that their horse speeds away.

I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you read this anywhere else other than tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎

The traditional Chinese version of this book has REALLY LONG chapters (11k) so I try to break them up based on wherever the jjwxc version breaks off chapters, which is a bit more manageable, but that means the parts will vary in length from 2-6k. ↩︎

Poem by Li Bai. ↩︎

This story uses historical names and places, but not in a historically accurate fashion. There was a Liao empire, also known as the Khitan empire. The Yuan was Mongolian, and Southern Chen (fictional, a stand-in for Southern Song) here is Han. ↩︎

All dates are lunar calendar dates, so instead of solar names for months they’re just numbered. Just remember that the Chinese new year usually falls between Jan 21st and Feb 20th. Twelfth month is usually the coldest month, also known as the ‘preservation’ month. ↩︎

Prose by Li Bai, original slightly paraphrased. ↩︎

A catty is a unit of weight, varying from dynasty to dynasty. ↩︎

Qi. If you’re not familiar with the concept you can think of it as the Force, like in Star Wars. ↩︎

Shaobing. ↩︎

黑山谷. Valley of Heishan, literally “black mountain valley”. ↩︎

#相見歡 #fei tian ye xiang #joyful reunion #xiang jian huan #fox translates things

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johnnys-green-pen · 3 years

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Random E! Thoughts: S3E18 - How Green Was My Thumb?

Fun fact: The Behind The Scenes book actually lists the title as just Green Thumb, and “How Green Was My Thumb?” as the working title. I’m following Wikipedia here because that’s what I’ve always gone by, but the more you know, I guess.

Also, said book is usually a very good source of info, a lot of which was collected from people involved and thus very hard to come by otherwise, but they do list plant lady as “an old widow”, which... no, she’s neither of those things.

Leave it to E! to turn a guy choking on his dentures into one of the more suspenseful scenes on the show.

Also, Hank Stanley helping out with the paramedic-ing is always fun to see. That guy has a habit of showing up wherever he’s needed and doing whatever’s necessary, and I love that.

Johnny should know by now that when Dix brings up a woman in his proximity, especially in that wink-wink-nudge-nudge kinda way she does in this episode, he really Should check her out.

Johnny being confused by flowers that don’t smell when Roy picks up the lil’ potted plant for the Plant Lady.

Johnny utterly failing to chat up that nurse, and her having none of it. Also, “Roy My Partner DeSoto”. Nice middle name, buddy x’D

I love how Roy actually remembered most of the plants’ names at the Plant Lady’s place, and seems charmed by the idea of it, if anything. That’s super sweet.

Also, Johnny claiming the whole thing is utterly ridiculous and Roy’s on his own, but A) it takes him about ten seconds to start talking to the plants and B) he’s the one who realizes that one of them isn’t doing well, and this is also the specific plant he notices first. Takes some skill to find the one sickly plant in that jungle.

Actually, I just realized that Johnny seems to shift from vague interest to “nope! None of my business!” once Roy implies taking some sort of responsibility for the well-being of that one sick plant. Not wanting to get invested in case it dies, eh?

Which is to say, I think somebody should get Johnny a potted plant; he’d probably do really well with it. (Question of the day: Which indoor-friendly plant would suit Johnny best?)

Also, how the hell are they watering a patient’s plants on duty? What exactly are they logging that as? Did Cap go “sure, you can take the squad to drive to some lady’s house and water her homegrown jungle”? I really want to know how THAT conversation went.

Also, the lads surrounded by a tangle of plants and flowers is surprisingly pretty. Johnny looks good among dark greens and flowery reds. (#JustArtistThings)

Cap’s whole “you’re an expert at watering”-crack will never not get a chuckle from me.

Props to whoever made the music choice for the winery fire scene; that tense little bit of BGM adds about a dozen levels of suspense.

I’m usually the last person who notices stuff like that and I actually think I remarked upon that before, which makes me noticing it again a veritable miracle, but Johnny looks pretty great in shiny, clingy pants. Man’s got legs...

Somebody explain to me how Johnny apparently found a new pair of trousers and a new jacket but no shirt, and also why exactly his jacket has to be half-open. I mean, I know the reason is “because fanservice”, but in-universe it’s a lot more funny than it has any right to be.

Johnny sexily leaning against elevator walls, lol

Roy very earnestly telling the plant lady about the way he’s been treating the sick plant. If I hadn’t liked the guy before, now I definitely would.

If Johnny calls one more woman “incredible”, I will hit him with a thesaurus. Come on, man, apply some creativity here.

Johnny giggling at Chet’s attempt at humor.

The Grenade Rescue is tense as hell.

Going by that little “whew”, it seems that Johnny agrees.

That little moment after the bomb squad guy asks for one of them to go with him and Roy volunteers to stay with the victim, possibly-exploding grenade and all, and Johnny just gives him that little "well if you’re sure”-kinda look.

Brackett’s near-complete calm in the face of potential sudden death. Mike’s, too, for that matter.

Also, that whole rescue had a baffling amount of gore by usual E! standards.

#e!analysis #emergency!#s3e18

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thelordofdarkreunion · 3 years

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Magnificent Scoundrels- Similarities

So, I found that the British marching song “Over the Hills and Far Away” is in several of these universes. What a coincidence. Therefore, I decided to write a shorter, more heartwarming story. At least I hope that is the reaction, but you shall be the judge of that. As usual, I own no one except Drake. Enjoy the story.

The stars were out that night. Not the sort of stars that one saw amongst city pollution or in areas that had been civilized for far too long, but the type of stars one saw in the wild and untamed regions. They formed a massive sparkling curtain over everything, and those on the ground could clearly see the length and breadth of the entire galaxy laid bare before them, framed by the pitch black midnight sky.

The night itself was cold. Not the type of cold that cuts through clothing to the very bone itself, leaving one gasping for breath, and not the type that perpetuates throughout the air, leaving one to huddle within the great masses of a coat for warmth, but the type of crisp cold that seems to invigorate the body and mind, leaving a happier and more lifelike person in its midst.

Throughout a wide valley, the sickly green grass shadowed in the dark, sat encamped the various forces of the Scoundrels. It had been decided that they should stay on the small planet they had recently defended against a slave raid, and so they were all camped in the rolling plains, a fair sized town within sight, and more importantly, within range.

Fires studded the night, with the various forces of their respective commanders camped around them. The smells of cooking wafted through the air around the fires, but not to where the solitary rock, far from all else, where Thomas Drake sat in his dark coat. Three figures walked towards him, their footsteps soft in the grass. Unborthered, he continued to stare peacefully at the night sky.

“Drake. We want to know. Why did you want to kill the prisoners?” Without turning, Drake smiled.

“Ah, yes. Kirk, Vir, and Shepard. My three most moral companions. Everything has more than one meaning, and my actions had several. First, they are murdering, torturing, slavers, and thus deserve no pity or remorse, and secondly, I wanted to see what you would do. You did not crack. You stood by what you believed in. I like that.”

“So you killed someone over a test?”

“Correct.” The three frowned at each other in the darkness.

“And was it a test for Cain, too?” This elicited a low chuckle from Drake, who had still yet to turn around.

“The reasons remain the same.”

“But you knew he would do it,” snapped Kirk.

“No. I did not. That’s why I did it in the first place,” replied Drake placidly.

“They treat all of us with disgust. I read your damn briefing, Drake, and one of the mottos of their precious Imperium is “suffer not the xeno to live”. That is ridiculous. We can’t serve along people who on a fundamental level want to kill us all,” said Shepard.

“They’re getting better. They’re getting better,” said Drake. “The thing is, though, your three realities are somewhat similar. A galactic government of all species, dedicated to the concept of peace.” He stood slowly and gestured to the stars with a gloved hand. “Now look up. Tell me what you see.”

“That one’s Polaris, that’s Sirius, Vega, Antares...that wasn’t what you were looking for, was it?” replied Vir, slightly sheepishly.

“Not quite. But I appreciate the astronomy lesson. I suppose...what do all those stars, what does that infinite black mean to you?”

“Freedom.” The response was instantaneous. Shepard and Vir looked approvingly at Kirk.

“Good answer. Couldn’t think of a better one.” Drake chuckled again.

“Yes, I rather thought so. You are all in agreement. But to them,” he gestured in the direction of the Imperial camp, “Where they come from, that infinite void means nothing but existential terror.” He smiled in an odd, knowing fashion. “Their universe is quite different.” It seemed as if someone was going to say something, to interrupt, but suddenly Drake held up a hand for silence. “Listen,” he commanded.

A sound wafted through the air, the wavering singing of a single sentry from the Imperial camp.

“When duty calls me I must go,

To stand and purge another foe,

But part of me will always stay,

Through the Warp and far away.

Through the Warp, to near and far,

To Tallarn, Krieg and Ultramar,

The Emperor points and we obey,

Through the Warp and far away.”

It was not particularly good, but it had a feeling of loneliness, of homeliness, of nostalgia to it. Then, something quite strange, and quite wonderful happened. Another voice, this time from Drake’s camp, replied in kind.

“Over the hills and o’er the main,

To Flanders Portugal and Spain,

Queen Anne commands and we’ll obey

Over the hills and far away

All gentlemen who have a mind,

To serve the queen both good and kind

Come list and enter into pay

Then over the hills and far away.”

Drake smiled in the darkness.

“Recognize that song?” he asked the three men standing near him. In response, Shepard’s voice, slightly hoarse in the night air, sang through the night.

“40 shillings on the drum,

For those who volunteer to come,

With shirts and clothes and pleasant pay,

Over the hills and far away.”

He smiled. “Not much of a singer, I’m afraid. But, yeah. I know the song.” Kirk pursed his lips.

“I’ve never heard it before. You?” Vir shook his head negatively.

“No. Never.”

“It’s an old, old, British marching song. The Imperials apparently picked it up from somewhere. The other version is from the War of Spanish Succession,” said Drake.

“When was the War of Spanish Succession?” asked Vir.

“You know the names of all those stars but you don’t know when the War of Spanish Succession was?” replied Drake.

“Hey, well, it’s-” “Relax. I’m teasing you.” They all turned around as an unidentified voice shouted into the night.

“Hey! Give us another verse!” A reply came almost instantly from the Imperial encampment, with several more voices joining the unidentified guard.

“If I should fall and rise no more,

As many guardsmen did before,

Then ask the pipes and drums to play,

Through the Warp and far away.

Through the Warp, to near and far,

To Tallarn, Krieg and Ultramar,

The Emperor points and we obey,

Through the Warp and far away.”

And in response, Drake sang back.

“Then fall in lads behind the drum,

With colors blazing like the sun,

Along the road and come what may,

Over the hills and far away.

Over the hills and o’er the main,

Through Flanders Portugal and Spain,

King George commands and we’ll obey,

Over the hills and far away.”

He smiled. “And that version is the one from the Peninsular War.” He had a beautiful tenor voice that carried clearly through the crisp night air.

“Pretty good.”

“Thank you.” This was accompanied by a small theatrical bow. There was a small rustle, and a dark shape appeared.

“So. What’s happening? We having a sing-along up here or something?” asked Peter Quill.

“I would not be adverse to such an idea,” replied Drake.

“Alright. What should we sing?” asked Vir.

“Hmm. I have noticed that human history remains the same in all of our universes until roughly the year 2000. So, should we want to sing something that all of us know, it would have to be either an insane coincidence or something from before that year.” He frowned. “Exactly how well versed in really goddamn old music are all of you?”

“Know it all,” said Quill.

“That’s kind of my specialty,” grinned Vir.

“Pretty well,” said Kirk.

“Yeah,” replied Shepard.

“Well. What a coincidence,” drawled Drake. “What song then?”

And so, the various crew members and soldiers in the different camps were regaled with song. It lasted ridiculously long as shouts for more echoed through the still air. Beautiful harmonies, surprisingly well executed, simples songs, several loud, long, and rowdy songs, everything they could think of, and several other requests. It was, interestingly, rather good, and even a few villagers from the nearby town gathered to listen despite the late night.

Under the sharp blanket of stars, in altogether different and isolated positions, sat Cooper and John-117, and though they did not join in, they both heard.

Cain and Solo had both gone to bed. When later told of what had happened, they both shrugged indifferently and moved on.

And, in three separate spots in three different encampments, three different individuals shook their heads.

“Humans,” muttered Kril, Mordin Solus, and Spock at the same time as they heard their commanders singing.

If you have any questions, comments, concerns, criticisms, or request, please, feel free to ask.

#magnificent scoundrels #crossover #story #writing #fanfic

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snarkymonkeyprime · 4 years

Text

@magic-ramen, I managed to dredge up the beginnings of that constantine!destiel!au. I PRESENT IT TO YOU NOW. :D

Castiel wasn't quite clear on what he was doing any longer. Since meeting Desmond, he'd been wandering in a haze, following along after the man like an obedient dog. All that felt real was the man's voice, all silken softness. It curled inside him, pulling him one way and then another. Back at his home, he sighed, fingers nerveless as Desmond licked his neck. It felt . . . odd. Not sensual. Not erotic. Dark and foul. He tried to rouse but the heaviness only doubled, his vision wavering. Had he really drunk that much?

He tried to recall but the night’s events were a blank. He didn’t even remember how he’d met Desmond. Or where. All he knew was Desmond.

"What's this?" Desmond asked, tapping the notepad opened on Castiel's desk.

Head moving like an automaton, it took Castiel a moment to ponder what he asked. His dream journal. A silly idea he'd kept with since high school. "Dream," he murmured. He wanted more of Desmond's touch. Not the questions. Right? That didn't sound correct but he couldn't parse why.

"Dreams?" Desmond licked his neck again, dragging sharp teeth along hot skin. Something wet dribbled down Castiel’s neck. "What dreams, little Castiel?"

Castiel's fingers fell from Desmond and he sagged, feeling an arm cold as iron around his back. "A man," he rasped. "And light. It calls to me."

Why couldn't he see any longer? His den was well lit, wasn't it? Why did nothing but shadow come back? "I . . . it calls me. He calls me."

Desmond's fingers pierced his arm, hot like pokers. He might have screamed, if his mouth worked. Maybe he did scream.

"Who is he?" Desmond demanded. His voice no longer warmed Castiel with passion. It stung like ice, harsh and vile.

"Dunno," he admitted, slurring. The only consistency had been the man’s appearance. Tall, brown hair, green eyes. A shroud of nightmares around him even while he shone like the sun. And then the light of blue that reached for him. Cut through the man and tugged at Castiel. The dreams had begun to plague him following his thirtieth birthday two months prior. Hadn't stopped since. Could almost hear the voice during the day.

A hiss of sound. A laugh? "Oh, pretty thing. You tried so hard this time, didn't you?" Desmond's tongue burned as it scraped down Castiel's cheek. "Don't worry, little bird. I'll make sure you can't feel it when I rip your intestines out."

Desmond’s hand drove into Castiel’s stomach, tearing skin. Castiel grunted, even as blood fell in runnels down his groin and thighs. Desmond’s hand clenched inside him and only then did he cry out, though it erupted broken and weak.

“At least this time they sent a pretty weapon.”

Castiel sank into shadow, his body leaden, head swollen with darkness. His head cracked against his desk. He knew he should fight. Wanted to fight. But the will to do so bled out of him like oil, heavy and slick. And like the clarion call of a hawk, green shattered the shadows.

His body shook in echo of the violent noise that erupted. Screaming. Someone screaming, though it gurgled and bubbled. Something warm and wet spilled down his cheek and he groaned, struggling out from the poisonous weight that pulled at him. Vision tilted, he saw Desmond; or, rather, what was left of him.

The lower half of Desmond's face hung crazily, teeth shattered and bone split. But Desmond, rather than fall, only narrowed vile red eyes. Though his jaw was nearly gone, Desmond's voice boomed in the bright room.

"You dare?!"

"Yeah, I have that problem sometimes," came a new voice. The sound of a gun's hammer drawn back. "You look a little uneven. Think I should fix that?" Another blast, shivering through Castiel's very bones. To his bleary horror, Desmond's ruined jaw lay on Castiel's chest and had he the ability, he would have retched violently. Instead, he groaned and rolled, falling from the desk Desmond had pinned him to. Sprawled on the wood floor of his den, he squinted, trying to see the newcomer.

The familiarity cut through his stupor. Tall. Brown hair. Green eyes. It couldn't be. Could it? "It's . . . you," he rasped, his voice little more than a whisper. Green eyes swung to him, brighter than the lights above.

"Juliet," he called, wariness leaving it sharp, "guard."

A shadow darker than night shifted into Castiel's line of sight. It reeked of sulfur and stone. Heat poured off like the burn of smoldering coals. Twin red eyes, shining like hellfire. Castiel reached up, touching shadow, feeling a tongue that burned like acid. He tried to see the man who'd saved him. To thank him. But the shadows had returned, softer this time as they crowded around him.

Castiel swallowed, trying to call out, even as he heard Desmond scream in rage. The sound of a violent struggle. All too soon, though, Castiel could hear nothing but a thunderous heartbeat out of the darkness.

~~*~~

When Castiel woke, his gut burned. He gasped, eyes snapping open only to shut immediately. Bright, sterile lights. Glaring walls. Not his den. Not his home.

"Mr. Novak?"

An unfamiliar but kind voice. Castiel tried again, squinting at the speaker. Tall, brown hair. Dressed in a suit and overcoat. The man held out a dark wallet with a badge and shield. Not the green-eyed man. He didn’t recognize this one.

"Mr. Novak, I'm Agent Sam Winchester." He retrieved his badge and tucked it into his overcoat. Pointing to another man, this one slim and blond, he continued. "This is my partner, Agent Balthazar Elgin."

Castiel frowned and rasped, "Police?"

Agent Winchester smiled sourly. "FBI, actually. Your coworker, Anna, called your attack in. She apparently stopped by your home this morning when you didn't come to work."

Licking his lips, Castiel continued to furrow his brow. "Why . . . is the FBI interested . . . in what happened to me?"

Agent Winchester took a deep breath. "The man who attacked you? Desmond Reynolds? He's a wanted serial killer. You're the first to survive." He pulled out a small notepad. "Can you tell me what you remember?"

Shadows. Fire. Dreams. He lifted a hand, dismayed to see an IV rammed into the too-pale skin. He vaguely remembered being stabbed. Shot? He shuddered. No, this Desmond, had thrust his hand into Castiel's stomach. His fingers crawled across the clean white sheets. He could feel thick padding beneath it. How had he survived?

"Mr. Novak? Desmond was long gone by the time we got there. He apparently believed you dead." He cleared his throat. "Actually, we're lucky Anna found you when she did."

No, that wasn't right. Someone had been there. Someone had saved him. He mumbled as much to the agent.

The man smiled patiently. "We only found evidence of you and Desmond; and, well, Anna. No one else was in the home." He glanced past his partner to the uniformed office that stood in the doorway. "We have witnesses that saw Desmond intercept your glass at the bar. We think he drugged you in order to make you his next victim."

It hadn't been that. Desmond had simply touched him and he'd slipped into a sickly fog. While in the throes of it he couldn’t recall what had happened, but now, away from the man, he recounted everything. He’d stopped at a bar for dinner. Had only stepped inside when Desmond came up to him and touched his hand. After that, it was as though he watched all that happened from hundreds of miles away. He could recall with eerie detachment how Desmond had gored him. He'd fallen against his desk, legs gone. Blood warm and slick around him.

Castiel opened his mouth to say as much but stopped at the sharp look of warning in the agent's eyes. He swallowed and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he husked. "I can't really remember much."

"Well, I'd say it's a simple case of our lad getting sloppy," Agent Elgin commented. He smiled at Castiel. "Lucky for you, you took quite a wound but, not that deep.” He folded his arms. “All the same, we do ask you stay in touch, hm?”

Castiel nodded, confused. “But . . . it wasn’t a knife.”

Balthazar’s eyes sharpened, as though in caution. “Not a tiny one, no. Rather large, by my judge.”

What? Castiel didn’t protest, however, given the expression on the agent’s face. “Oh,” he replied, sagging in his bed.

“Dramatic git, I’ll give him that.” He patted Agent Winchester on the shoulder. "I'll speak with our darling locals, Sam." With a flip of the fingers, he slid out the door, taking the officer with him.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Agent Winchester tucked his notepad away and shoved his too-long hair off his forehead. He looked at Castiel gravely. “What did he use?”

Castiel shivered, still seeing his own insides in the man’s hands. “His . . . hand.”

Sam winced. “Shit. I was afraid of that.”

“How?”

The agent pursed his lips before walking to the door and checking that it remained secure. He ignored Castiels question and asked one of his own. “You saw him, didn't you?"

"Who?" Startled by the sudden change, he clenched his fingers atop the blanket.

"Dean. My brother."

"Your . . ?"

The agent took a seat at Castiel's bedside and rubbed his face. "Brother," he mumbled. "Dean. Tall, like me. Brown hair. Green eyes?" He snorted. "Smartass loudmouth?"

That definitely rang familiar. The eyes stuck out for him the most. He nodded. Lifting a hand, he waved it around his chin. "Desmond's jaw . . . was . . . it was gone."

"But he still spoke, didn't he?"

Shivering, Castiel nodded. "What was he?"

"I don't know what they're called; Dean calls them every name in the book but what they actually are.” He sighed. “Balthazar and I were sure Desmond would be one of them; I’m just sorry you had to witness it, too.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

Sam jerked a thumb to the closed door. “It’s Dean who usually gives us a head’s up on these things; even though he stays away for the most part." He leaned back, his fingers laced over his stomach. "He’ll leave a clue of some kind, though, when it's not a normal crime."

That didn’t answer anything. Why did this agent appear to know what Desmond was? Why did both of them? And just what was Dean and the shadow that followed him? "What did he want with me?"

"You'd have to ask Dean that," Agent Winchester squinted at Castiel. "Come to think of it, I'm surprised he hasn't shown his face yet. He's kind of arrogant. He'd want you to know he saved your ass." The agent said it with warm amusement, however.

But, Castiel should have been dead. What had this Dean done to save him? He remembered, vaguely, dark smoke and brilliant red eyes. A heavy weight that surrounded him. The name Juliet. He rubbed his forehead, trembling again. "It wasn't human, was it?"

Agent Winchester's humor faded. He shook his head. "Maybe at one point?" He winced. "Like I said, Dean knows more. Bal and I do what we can on this end but, he’s not always up front on what these things are. The most I get is some odd message now and again so that I know he's still kicking."

"Is your brother human?"

Agent Winchester's open countenance immediately closed. "I think that's enough for today. I'll check in with you again tomorrow, Mr. Novak." The man stood and waved a hand. "We'll have a guard stationed until you're released. In the meantime, rest."

Castiel watched him go, all the more unsettled.

#strange bedfellows #destiel #constantine!destiel!au #horror #graphic depictions of violence #body horror

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alirhi · 3 years

Text

chapter 10

Title: Winter's Frost Chapter: 10/? Fandom: MCU Rating: R to be on the safe side Pairing: Loki/Bucky Summary: Loki never told anyone the real reason he became so obsessed with Midgard. Much better to let them think he wanted to hurt his brother than draw their attention to the one thing in the universe that makes the God of Mischief truly vulnerable. WARNINGS: not much, really. References to torture, but nothing explicit Notes: as usual, this fic relies heavily on you having seen the Marvel movies (or at least CA:TFA, CA:CW, Thor, and The Avengers, so far) but like... why would you be reading MCU fanfic if you hadn't seen the MCU? XD

He never would have broken; he just hoped Thanos and his idiot henchmen didn't realize that. The torture he endured probably would have broken Thor in about half the time they'd been at it, but Loki was far stronger than anyone had ever given him credit for. If not for Eira, alone on an alien planet with a complete stranger, Loki probably would have held out indefinitely, just to piss them off. As usual, though, he didn't have time to mess with them or test his own endurance. He had to get to Midgard, collect his daughter and her father regardless of Bucky's feelings on the subject, and disappear.

So he pretended to break. He held out for a while for show, and then folded like a poorly constructed house of cards. Thanos – not a very trusting lad, that one – insisted on worming into Loki's mind with that damned scepter, and he had to let him, to convince him that the God of Mischief was truly under his thumb.

It was the most unpleasant sensation, having the energy of that thing wiggling through his brain. He did his best to keep it at bay, only letting the stone in the scepter into the very edge of his mind, but it still felt like a swarm of beetles crawling around under his skull. It, and the energy required to keep it from taking over or to keep himself from shaking it off entirely, left him exhausted and disoriented.

You will have your moment of glory, Thanos had told him with a smirk as he handed Loki the scepter. Just serve your purpose and bring me what's mine.

"I am Loki of Asgard," he announced to the humans between him and that damned cube, "and I am burdened with glorious purpose." They didn't catch the bitter sarcasm in his tone, but that was alright. He hadn't expected them to.

"Loki?" Why did this old man look so familiar? "Brother of Thor?"

Loki just barely stopped himself from gagging, and scoffed instead. Of course. This was one of Thor's little human friends. Well, at least he could have a bit of fun while he was here; he touched the tip of the scepter to Selveig's chest and watched the sickly blue light seep into his irises. See how Thor felt when he learned that Loki had made one of his precious human friends his little dancing puppet! It also helped that Selveig was some sort of scientist; he had some working knowledge of the Tesseract, and that would likely come in handy.

He really didn't give a damn about the Tesseract or Thanos' mad mission; still, it was best to keep up appearances until he could find a way to wiggle free of him once and for all. As long as he could feel the scepter's energy slithering around his brain, he knew there was a chance that Thanos, or his creepy underling The Other, could track what he was doing. The only thing worse than playing the obedient servant would be leading them straight back to Bucky and Eira. His best bet was a 'poorly executed' plan to distract Thor and his little band of human misfits.

Pity he had to fight them. He rather liked Banner and Stark. There was one silver lining to all this insanity, though: The redhead. That bloody slag, Natasha. The moment he looked into Barton's mind and saw her, that woman who'd dared put her hands on his Sergeant, he couldn't wait to make her suffer.

Damn. Jealousy truly was the ugliest, most uncomfortable emotion.

It caught him off guard when they sent her in first. As he gleefully informed her, he'd expected some sort of torture first, and then the woman would be sent in as a 'friend', a balm, and he'd be expected to fold and cooperate. None of them knew the depth of his hatred for this woman, so he was sure they didn't expect him to easily resist her 'charms.'

He taunted her for a bit, reveling in the increasing look of horror in her eyes, the way they filled with tears she fought valiantly not to shed, the way she trembled...

"You're a monster!" she whispered as she turned her back to him, still visibly shaking.

Loki chuckled, the insidious little devil in his heart placated by Natasha's apparent distress. "Oh, no," he gloated, at this point just making shit up as he went along. "You brought the monster." Honestly, what did that even mean?

Suddenly steady and clear-eyed, she turned and looked him right in the eye. "So, Banner. That's your play."

"What?" Oh, right. Barton had told him she had a knack for wrangling the beast within Banner; likely, she'd been the one sent to recruit him. Well, that worked out, didn't it?

He pretended to be shocked by her deductive skills until she was out of sight, and then rolled his eyes. Let them give him credit when Banner lost control of the beast in the fray about to come; it hadn't actually been his plan, but he knew it would certainly happen. These misfits were nothing if not predictable.

Maybe he'd luck out and find her mangled corpse somewhere at the end of all this. Surely Bucky wouldn't care, right? They'd only had a chance encounter... Perhaps Loki just wouldn't tell him. Really, was there any reason for him to know this random woman he'd slept with while brainwashed was dead? No, darling, I have no idea what happened to Agent Romanov! None at all. She's a spy, isn't she? Perhaps she disappeared on her own...

Oh, bugger. He was going to have to make sure she survived this, wasn't he? Even as he mocked Thor and tricked him into the glass cage, he was thinking about that bloody redhead. If the Sergeant remembered her, likely Bucky would, as well. Loki had never lied to him before; he certainly wasn't about to start now. Ugh. Guilt was an even worse feeling than jealousy!

Brother safely sequestered from the fight for the time being, Loki set about retrieving the scepter and the Tesseract, and making sure the vessel the fragile humans were on remained intact long enough for Stark and Rogers to get it at least partially functioning again. It was exhausting, trying to keep up the appearance of attempting to kill these people while simultaneously trying to keep them safe.

He could feel the scepter's hold on his mind weakening, thank Frigga, but he didn't dare even think of going to Siberia yet. Until he was free of it completely, without pushing it away himself and alerting Thanos, he didn't dare go anywhere near Bucky. At least he had command of the Chitauri, once he could bring them to Midgard. They would make a delightful distraction for all parties involved, and if he timed things just right, he could even send a few of them to SHIELD headquarters to turn HYDRA into nothing but a lake of blood and bone fragments.

Oh, Stark had made it home. Secretly pleased to see that he was well, Loki smirked – trying desperately to hide his giddy grin – and met him inside. "Please tell me you're going to appeal to my 'humanity,'" he teased, eager for banter with a mind as sharp as his own for the first time since... Well, since before Bucky had been captured and reported killed in action.

"Uh, actually I'm planning to threaten you."

"You should've left your armor on for that." This man was adorable. Once all was said and done and they were safe, he wondered if it would be strange to invite Stark over for dinner.

"Yeah." Stark's tone was endearingly dismissive. "It's seen a bit of mileage, and you've got the glowstick of destiny."

Trying not to laugh, Loki glanced down at the scepter. I am never calling it anything else again.

"Would you like a drink?"

He couldn't contain his laughter completely; he really liked Stark. Disguising it as mocking and arrogance, he hastily told him, "Stalling me won't change anything."

"No no no, threatening!" Stark gestured to the impressively stocked bar. "No drink, you sure? I'm having one."

One more second, and he was going to break and crack up. Or hug the man. Either way, it wouldn't look good. Hoping to buy a moment to collect himself, he spun on his heel and moved over to the glass wall overlooking the city.

"The Chitauri are coming. Nothing will change that." I wish you, Banner, and Thor would just get as far away as possible before they arrive. He turned back to face the other man, hoping the tremor he could hear in his own voice wasn't audible from across the room. "What have I to fear?"

"The Avengers." Loki must have looked as confused as he felt; Stark rolled his eyes and clarified, "That's what we call ourselves; sorta like a team. Earth's mightiest heroes type thing."

"Yes." Loki smirked. "I've me them."

Picking up the mocking in his tone, Stark chuckled. "Yeah, takes us a while to gain any traction, I'll give you that one. But... Let's do a headcount, here. Your brother, the demi-God-"

Adoptive brother, he wanted to snap as he scoffed and turned away, and barely that!

"A super soldier, a living legend who kinda lives up to the legend... A man with breathtaking anger management issues..."

Loki couldn't help grinning at that description. He liked Banner quite a bit, and the mindless green beast was an endless source of entertainment.

"A couple of master assassins," Stark continued, pointing at the pacing Trickster, "and you, big fella, you've managed to piss off every single one of them."

"That was the plan."

"Not a great plan."

That's because you don't know what the plan was for. He grinned, but his mirth was short-lived as Stark calmly made his way around the bar and approached him.

"When they come, and they will, they'll come for you."

He'd thought of that, but still hadn't thought his way out of it quite yet. "I have an army," was all he could think to say.

"We have a Hulk."

"Oh, I thought the beast had wandered off." He'd likely return, of course, but hopefully in time only to slow the Chitauri, not to capture Loki.

He didn't want to, but as the conversation went on he realized he didn't have much of a choice. Hoping it wouldn't do any lasting damage to that beautiful brain of his, he touched the scepter to Stark's chest... and nothing happened. Confused, he tried again. Still nothing, and now Stark's witty retorts were just grating on him. Spotting the cuffs he hadn't been wearing before and assuming they were some sort of tech, he decided to just vent his frustrations the old fashioned way. With a growl, he lifted Stark by the throat and threw him out a window.

Sure enough, something shot out the hole in the glass after him, and within seconds, Stark appeared in a new suit. Good. At least Loki had managed to vent a little anger without actually harming one of the few humans he respected.

The knock to the head he received when he was blasted back a few seconds later was enough to finally dislodge the energy of the scepter fully. He'd have heaved a sigh of relief if the Tesseract hadn't chosen that exact moment to finally tear open the space above the tower and let the Chitauri through. Unleashing Hell on an unsuspecting city miles from even the closest of his actual targets had never exactly been his favorite plan, but it seemed that was the only one that was actually going to play out.

As usual, even his hated backup plan didn't end the way he'd hoped. By the end of the afternoon, two things were quite clear to Loki: One, he was going to have to take a breather and then find a way to disappear once he was healed.

And two, he didn't much like Banner anymore.

_____________________________________________________

Next Masterlist

#fanfic #loki #mcu #avengers #captain america #bucky barnes #tony stark #iron man #m/m #loki/bucky #reference to buckynat #tom hiddleston #sebastian stan #winter's frost

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shireness-says · 4 years

Text

You’re Always 16 Hours Ahead

Summary: Killian Jones never expected to hit it big, but the opportunity of a lifetime pulls him away from home and the woman he pines for. Can a friendship that just might be more survive a concert world tour?

(With wide eyes and faith

That life could never pull us apart if we were ok

But distance kills the best of intentions…)

(~2.6K. Rated T for language. Also on AO3)

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A/N: I’m so excited to share my contribution to the @csconcertseries! This is an idea I’ve had for a long time, and I’m excited to finally bring it to life. This is inspired by “Jet Lag” by Frank Turner, and also includes references to “Polaroid Picture,” “Get Better,” and “Plain Sailing Weather.” I’ve definitely been blasting his stuff all month long and dragging other people with me (looking at you, @thejollyroger-writer). Super thanks, as always, to @snidgetsafan for her beta talents.

Without further ado: Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

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POP PRINCESS ANNOUNCES WORLD TOUR

Great news, Fairy Fans: Wildly popular pop music star Tink is planning a world tour. The international exhibition will be undertaken to promote her latest album, “Neverland No More”. Tink will be joined on her tour by recent up-and-comer Killian Jones, who will serve as her opening act. Jones has captured the world’s ear with his recent hit single, “Green Eyes,” which continues to climb the pop charts. A full schedule of planned concerts can be found at…

September 17th

Dear Emma,

I know it’s only been a few days, but I already miss you and Henry. Los Angeles is loud, and congested, and so much unlike Storybrooke that it scares me a little. But when that happens, I try to remember our bench on the docks, and it helps ground me. I’ve got a picture of us out there taped to the inside of my guitar case, just as a reminder that even if everything changes, I’ve always got something to come home to.

You didn’t think I was kidding when I said I’d write, did you? Mark my words, I intend to write you from every stop. To hell with blocking or setup or rehearsals or whatever, I’ll be sitting on an amp backstage writing you.

You must tell me everything, Swan - don’t you dare get skimpy with the details in your next email! I know it’s been less than a week, but I’m sure there’s something from the gossip mill. Has Liam secured a new Friday act yet? I’m sure he won’t find anyone nearly as talented (or handsome!) as yours truly, but I can’t imagine he and Robin are leaving that slot open in my honor. Tell me, how much do you think he’ll groan if I send back a signed world tour poster?

I’ve got to go - something about the lights. Such is the life of a rock star, isn’t it?

Your own personal celebrity (and best friend),

-Killian

September 19th

Liam -

Brother, you’ve got to stop calling every few hours. I know you’re bored and your life is empty without me, but this is getting ridiculous. Half the road crew thinks you’re my father. Do you intend to run up your phone bill when the tour crosses the ocean? I love you, but please don’t go broke on my behalf. Now is the time to wean yourself off me.

All teasing aside, I do appreciate the calls, not to mention everything else. If you hadn’t insisted on making those demo tapes and forcing me to Boston and any venue or bar that would take me, I wouldn’t be here today.

You’d have been so proud to see me - I must have been sweating gallons, but I got up on stage in front of that massive crowd and I did it, sang my pieces. The noise of all those people practically shakes your bones, Liam - and that wasn’t even half the noise that Tink elicited! I don’t know how she does it. I suppose I’ll find out, though, won’t I? After all, this is my big break, as long as I don’t screw it up too badly.

I’m sure I’ll talk to you later - in the meantime, say hello to the lads for me.

-Killian.

P.S. Keep an eye on Emma and Henry for me, would you? I know you’ve already promised, but I worry. I owe you one, brother.

October 2nd

Emma -

Hello from Seattle! It is just as rainy as promised, and I’ve lost count of the coffee shops. Part of that might be the Starbucks, though. I swear, they’re like a plague, popping up all over the place.

The tour is still going well. I might even get used to this tour bus life! I miss you all, of course - my love especially to Henry - but it’s exhilarating, getting up on stage every night in front of so many people. The crowds are huge, Swan, larger than I ever could have imagined. I know they’re mostly here for Tink, but there’s always applause and a handful of people singing along to my songs, and it’s the best kind of adrenaline. Leaves me with an itch in my fingers and a new song stuck in my head. I’ll work it out later.

I’m so happy to hear that Henry is doing so well in kindergarten; he’s always been a little social butterfly. I’ll bet that he makes tons of friends; I’m glad he loves it so far. I’ll call soon, I promise.

Yours,

-Killian

October 20th

Swan -

Happy Birthday, darling! Technically, I’m mailing this a few days early, but I hope it’ll reach you just in time. I’m sorry to be missing the festivities this year - just know that I’ll be thinking of you all day, wishing I was there to celebrate with you. Keep an eye out for a package or two - and before you even try to protest that I don’t need to, they’re just little things, love. Stuff that made me think of you. Tokens of my affection, if you will. It’s your birthday, anyways - live a little! Let us spoil you for once.

Texas is… less than impressive. Large? Yes, in a way that feels almost performative. It’s missing some kind of charm, at least to me. Then again, I’ve never been much for cowboy hats; maybe that’s the real problem, here. Regardless, I’d gladly take the northeast fall colors any day.

Make a good wish, alright? I hope the year to come is as wonderful as you are.

Yours,

-Killian

November 26th

Dear Henry -

Happy Thanksgiving! Did you have a good holiday? Did Granny make enough macaroni and cheese for you to eat your fill? I know that’s your favorite.

Thank you for watching the parade! I was really excited to be in it too. Sadly, the powers that be wouldn’t let me take home the Snoopy balloon for you, but I did manage to get a couple of handfuls of confetti for you. It should be inside this envelope. You would have loved it, Henry - the confetti was flying everywhere and I saw so many really cool floats up close and personal. We’ll maybe have to go together in a couple of years, aye? We’ll ask your mum.

Draw lots and lots of turkeys for me, little mate - I know you’re really good at that. And give your mum and Liam a great big hug for me!

Love,

-Killian

CELEBRITY FILE EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH EVERYONE’S NEW FAVORITE HEARTTHROB - KILLIAN JONES

… In researching this piece, I heard over and over about how personal Jones’ lyrics were, how well they captured every feeling and variation of being in love. Every fan out there seems to feel like his words are written just for them, like a window into their soul. So when I finally met with the man himself, I couldn’t help but ask: Was there anyone who inspired such lyrical devotion? Some woman - or man! - in his own life who inspired such moving words?

“You know, the thing I’ve always liked in listening to music on my own is being able to recognize a little bit of myself in someone else’s words,” Jones told me in response to the question. “It always made me feel a little less alone - a little more connected to other people, I guess, to hear that they experienced or saw things the same way I do. It’s very rewarding to hear that people feel the same way about my music. I’m of the opinion that music should be a universal experience, and when I write, I write words that I hope other people can see a bit of themselves in.”

Something about that blush and the nervous scratch behind his ear that fans know so well tells me he’s holding out on us…

December 11th

Dearest Swan -

The holidays have crept right up on us, haven’t they? Do us both the favor of imagining me singing that sickly-sweet “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” nonsense, because it’s true. December 20th. Mark your calendar, and don’t blame me if I fall asleep on the car ride home from the airport. It’s all this travel, you see - takes it right out of you. You can’t blame a man for that, love.

(Also, please ignore that I’ll be flying in from Chicago. I still plan to claim jet lag. That one hour difference, love, it’s a real killer.)

Is there anything in particular that Henry especially wants this year? I’ve done my best to pick up things for you and Liam and everyone else, but I know the lad’s tastes change practically hour to hour, and he’s probably got a whole list stashed somewhere. I want to get him something he’ll really like instead of just wandering through the toy store in a panic, if at all possible.

Counting the hours until I see you again,

-Killian

January 8th

Emma -

I don’t even know where to start. How can I properly apologize for what happened at New Year’s? I struggle, because I can’t truthfully say that I regret it. I don’t think I’ve made it a secret all these years that I’m helplessly enthralled by you and everything you are. There are words - big words, three words - that rattle around in my heart every day, but I know you’re not willing to hear them yet. I’ll be here, love, whenever you’re ready.

I know you’re scared, Emma, but I’m begging you - just talk to me. We can forget all about this, if that’s what you want, but you’ve got to talk to me. Every day I don’t hear from you is just a little bit harder. I’ll follow your lead, whatever you say.

You’ll always be my best friend, Swan - no matter what else happens.

-Killian

January 20th

I kissed her, Liam.

I’m sorry; that’s not much of a way to start a letter is it? How are you? Everything going well?

But I’m sorry, I’ve got to talk about this and get it off my chest. Because I kissed her, Liam. Emma. I kissed Emma. And then it kind of… all went to shit. I guess that’s just like me, isn’t it? Give me one fine day of plain sailing weather, and I can turn it to stormy seas.

And I know where she’s coming from, really - I know better than almost anyone about how she’s been left behind too many times. As much as it hurts to have this sudden radio silence, I know she’s just trying to protect herself. But I love her, Liam. I’ve loved her forever. This isn’t just “distance makes the heart grow fonder,” or something stupid like that. I should have acted a long time ago. I should have done a thousand different things, but here we are.

If you have any ideas of how to fix this, please, let me know. I hope you’re having a happier new year than I so far.

-Killian

February 2nd

Dear Emma -

I can’t tell you how good it was to hear from you the other day. You may think that there’s nothing interesting about all the goings-on in the bar, but that particular kind of nothing is soothing. It’s like a little piece of home in every email. Besides, I know that the bar is never quite as boring as we always joked. And I’d welcome any word from you anyways, after how much I’ve missed you.

We’re in Paris right now. It’s gorgeous, truly - I’ll have to bring you and the lad back sometime. I know you’d call me a nerd, but I’ve been hitting museums - the Louvre, the Musee d’Orsay, the Rodin museum, etc. I made sure to do the Eiffel Tower too, just for you, even though the crowds were utterly terrible. Stuffed my face with pastries too, all on your behalf.

(Okay, you caught me, Swan - the pastries are for me too. The croissants, Swan! The bread! I surely won’t fit in my trousers if we’re here any longer, but I can’t regret it. I swear, I’d ship some back to you if I thought they’d survive the trip.)

We’ll have to schedule time for a call home soon - I find myself so often longing for your voice. I love your emails, but there’s something to a phone call that can’t be replaced.

Yours,

-Killian

March 11th

Dear Henry -

Thank you for sending me that drawing! I love it. It’s taped to the inside of my guitar case now, where I can look at it every day. I especially like the yellow you used for your mum’s hair. You’ll have to thank her for scanning that for us on my behalf. That’s good form, you know.

I’m in Amsterdam right now. Your mum or Liam can show you where that is on a map; it’s in Western Europe. I went someplace I think you’d love today; it’s called Madurodam. It’s this entire miniature city, with little airplanes and zoo animals and everything. I had a lot of fun exploring it, and I think you would too.

A graduation, you say? From kindergarten? I wouldn’t miss it for the world, lad. I’ll be home, no matter what.

I miss you, Henry, and your mother too. It always brightens my day to see an email from you.

Sealed with a great big hug,

-Killian

April 21st

Emma -

London is rainy and cold. I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything different, but here I am, surprised all the same. It’s hard to convince myself to go do any of the tourist-y things when the weather is like this, so I’m stuck inside, writing to you. Not that that’s ever a hardship...

You’d hardly recognize me with this get-up I’ve found myself in for the show tonight - the heavy eyeliner especially. Gone are the days of some beat-up tee - though I think you might like the vest. Getting dressed feels like slipping into some other persona. I worry a lot of the time about whether I’ve changed beyond recognition, or if I’m still the same person you know. That’s the man I want to be, you know - someone you can be proud of, but somehow still that same poor bastard in the bar, just trying to write words that mean something. I hope I am. But you know how it goes - distance kills the best of intentions.

I miss you terribly, Swan, and Henry too. Hell, even Liam. These letters are all that ground me some days, I fear. On the loneliest nights, I reread your emails and imagine you’re talking to me instead. It’s always just a too-brief daydream, unfortunately.

I’ve grown rather maudlin, haven’t I? That won’t do at all. I blame it on the rain. Here’s a happier note for us both: I’ll be home late next month. Perhaps I’ll have to make one of those paper chains Henry’s so fond of; if I do, I’ll include a picture with my next letter.

Counting the days. Until then -

Love, Killian

May 17th

My Swan -

By the time you get this, I’ll be home with you and the lad again, and hopefully have already told you in person everything I want to say now:

I love you, Emma. Every word of every song is for you. I’ve loved you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, and no time or distance or groupie is ever going to change that. I’m yours, love, body and soul. And I have faith that life can never tear us apart as long as that’s true.

I’m coming home, love. And my home is you.

Yours (in every sense),

-Killian

BREAKING NEWS: KILLIAN JONES’ SECRET LOVER?

Bad news for all the fangirls and Killy-Tink shippers out there: Bad boy popstar Killian Jones appears to be off the market. The singer, 27, was spotted locking lips with an unidentified blonde at the Storybrooke Memorial Gardens, just outside of Boston, where Jones calls home. Sources have long speculated that Jones has a secret girlfriend back home, and this just might be confirmation. Check back as this story continues to develop. StarWatchOnline remains YOUR #1 celebrity news site…

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Tagging: @snowbellewells, @profdanglaisstuff, @kmomof4, @winterbaby89, @teamhook, @ohmightydevviepuu, @optomisticgirl, @spartanguard, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @scientificapricot, @searchingwardrobes

#cs ff #captain swan ff #cs concert series #Captain Swan #You're Always 16 Hours Ahead #epistolary fic #rockstar!Killian

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