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asset35-maya · 3 years

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Hi, uhm... 👉👈 ...I don't know if this is an odd request and if you take requests atm at all, so it's totally fine if you say no to this. I'm pretty...fascinated *coughs* by @elisa897 latest Kinktober piece "Voyeurism". Is there any chance you could write a little something based on this piece? Sincerly, a not-needy-at-all admirer of your writing :P .

VOYEURISM

Based on art by the amazingly talented @elisa897 ; NSFW under the cut

Nines was learning. Day by day. Hour to hour. Minute to minute. His sensors kept perceiving and his processors kept ticking. Calculating. Computing. Learning.

He learnt some things from humans, others from androids. Good things and bad things. Emotions and desires. Love… and most recently, lust.

Nines loved learning. Often by observation. The thirst for knowledge was his first form of motivation. And all the reason he needed for continuing to stand and listen… right outside his work partner’s door… when it was absolutely clear that whatever was going on inside… had nothing to do with work.

Gavin said he was going to bed. There had been no activity visible for days in the house they were supposed to be watching. Gavin said he’d take over the stakeout duty from Nines in the morning. Gavin said goodnight.

Nines had no reason to follow him upstairs… other than research purposes… which were very important for any freshly deviant android wishing to integrate into modern society!

He paused at the edge of the sliding door, listening intently. A rustle of fabric told him that Gavin had stripped off his sweatpants. A slight creak told him that Gavin had sat on the bed. A low rumble told him that the bedside drawer had slid open. Then there was a squirt and the click of a small bottle being shut. Followed by a squelch… and a soft moan.

Nines’ artificial breath hitched in his throat. A thousand and one things went through his mind, and arrived at exactly one conclusion.

Gavin was touching himself.

He should go. Turn around and walk back down the stairs. Sit on the chair facing the window, and peer through the crack in the curtains at the suspect’s darkened house.

That was what logic stated.

But as Nines was starting to discover, the very act of being alive often contradicted logic.

Nines stayed frozen outside Gavin’s door.

The human’s breathing grew harsher. He exhaled in short bursts that sped up in time with the sound of flesh on flesh.

Involuntarily, Nines’ thirium pump began to beat faster. A rush of blue blood went to the lower half of his body and pooled in his groin. Then his preconstruction software went into overdrive, and a series of blue outlines appeared in the frame of his vision.

Gavin splayed out regally against the pillows. Gavin sitting on the very edge of the mattress with his legs wide apart. Gavin leaning casually against the headboard with his ankles crossed and his cock in hand. Gavin Gavin Gavin.

Nines steadied himself as his processors churned out a mad set of questions. How big? How small? Cut? Uncut? Veiny shaft? Thick shaft? Shaved or trimmed? Long or short strokes? Deep or shallow thrusts?

How much would fit in my mouth? In my hands? In my ass? Would he kiss me? Would he bite me? Pull my hair then hold my hands while he fucks me?

Nines bit his lip, then threw his head back in a silent scream. An ethical debate raged in his mind while the front of his own trousers became tented. To look or not to look? To scan or not to scan?

Fuck it. If there was an android hell, he was definitely going, so might as well enjoy the ride. He turned on his electromagnetic scanners and looked right through the frosted glass door.

The sight that met him was truly one to behold.

Gavin was in the middle of the bed, one hand twisted in the sheets and the other speeding along his beautiful thick shaft. His back arched and his face contorted in ecstasy. His lips were moving too. He was whispering something… earnestly.

Nines enabled his lip reading software.

“Come on, baby boy, don’t be so stoic. Tell me that feels good. Tell me you feel real.”

Nines’ hand slipped into his pants and curled around his own length.

“You’re so good all the time… So good, so helpful… So kind, so sweet…

I want you to feel good too, baby… Hmm? Tell me that feels gooood… Tell me! You feel amazing on my cock, baby. Ohhh… Your body is gold… pure sex, baby… I want you forever…”

Nines couldn’t stop himself from reaching out with his free hand and sliding the door partially open. Gavin noticed nothing. His eyes were clamped shut and his wrist jerked faster as he approached his climax.

“You sweet thing. You feel so good. Ohhhh… oh! Hhhh… phcking hell… ssss… that feels good! Good… good boy…”

All thoughts left Nines. His eyes glazed over and his mouth hung open. He braced one hand on the wall and jerked himself off like an uncivilised brute rather than the most advanced android ever built.

“Ohh baby how you doing? Tell me you’re feeling fineeee… My slut. My treasure. My angel baby…

Nines!”

The android froze as Gavin swept his arm up and down in one lengthy, decisive stroke and came. Hard.

Thick streams spurted onto the floor and Gavin braced both hands behind him on the bed. He faced the ceiling but his eyes remained tightly shut. His ample chest heaved.

“Phck me...”

Nines tucked himself back into his pants at lightning speed and nearly managed to slide the door shut, when he heard the words repeated. Not in a whisper… but fully audible, clear syllables.

@timebird84 I’m always open to requests, especially if they’re as spicy as this one.

#g9kinktober #kinktober #reed900 #rk900 #gavin reed #dbh gavin #gavin900 #dbh rk900 #dbh nines #dbh #gavin x rk900 #gavin x nines #dbh writing #my writing #inspired by art

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mnictasbcl · 3 years

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Don’t Think

Here is my next story for @connor-sent-by-cyberlife’s #dbhghostsinthemachine challenge, prompt OCT 6: Data Missing.

Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor

Characters: Connor, Hank Anderson

Tags: Memory Loss, Partial amnesia, Swearing, Fainting, Blood and injury, self injury, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Amanda was gone, destroyed. But the Zen Garden was a vital part of his mind. Connor couldn’t expect for things to be normal once it was gone, not when the garden had been intricately linked with his core memories.

Read it on AO3! Or, read below.

Connor felt normal as he blinked back to awareness on the stage, staring out at the sea of androids. Markus was making his speech, the Jericho members standing on the other corners of the stage. The androids were free.

Yes, and he’d helped them. Had helped by deviating, helping them out of the sinking freighter, proposed the plan to go to the Cyberlife Tower—

He jolted, as if a current had been sparked in his brain, shocking him. Cyberlife Tower—

It happened again. Oh, it was unpleasant, and he didn’t feel like facing it again. Maybe it was a glitch, after all he had just destroyed a big part of his program. He’d had to avoid thinking about those words, for now.

Meanwhile there was celebrating to do. Not with the others, no, he couldn’t stand with them and act like he hadn’t almost shot their leader in the back of the head. Instead, he celebrated his newfound deviancy, freedom, by walking into the cold Detroit streets and going nowhere in particular.

Because he was free. They all were now. Free to do whatever he pleased. Free from orders, free from Amanda, free from…

What did he do before? Work, right. At the DPD—

Connor opened his eyes and found he’d fallen to his knees, clutching his head. Huh, it had happened again. His LED spun, processing the facts. Certain words caused blinding pain.

Pain. Well, he guessed that solved that question: androids didn’t feel pain, but deviants sure did. He pinched his arm and yelped.

“Fuck.” He swore, and the pain in his head tripled.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

Connor awoke lying on the cold pavement of a street in Detroit. Cold snow was beginning to seep into his trousers, uncomfortable and wet, biting at his artificial skin. He pushed himself to his knees, hand ghosting over the side of his head. His hand came away wet and slick with fresh blue thirium.

He must have fallen, then. It was the day of the Revolution- maybe he’d partied too hard?

Yeah, right. He was on his own in the middle of a street, no one in sight, the only signs of life the distant cries and cheers of the celebrating androids far, far away.

He’d probably just passed out, for no reason. Maybe he was malfunctioning.

Connor blinked, stared at his hands for a moment longer before wiping them over his suit jacket. It was a shitty jacket anyway, and goddamn waterproof.

He groaned, pain sparking back up with every swear he internalised. Why was swearing causing him so much pain? Or thinking about the DPD—

He railed his fists against the snow, over and over and over, until his hands were numb, and dents caved in his thumb. Well, that hurt. That hurt a lot.

But at least the ache in his head had subsided. He concluded that it was down to thinking. About specific things, but he didn’t know what these things were until it was too late.

Mission: Don’t think.

So, he continued again to mindlessly walk, hands hanging limp and useless at his sides, blue blood trickling down the side of his face. What a sight to see, to behold, an android in his own ruin, eyes dead ahead, the prospect of merely existing a struggle.

Evening became night. Night became early morning. At some point, the cheers died down.

The first time someone called him, he muted the ringtone of any incoming calls, before eventually blocking them all. He didn’t need to think. Couldn’t. Just had to walk and hope the glitch would fix itself.

When he stumbled over a curb, he decided it was time to take a break. An unthinking break, mind you. Simply sitting on the curb by a closed-up shop which, upon inspection, looked a whole lot—

What was it now? The place with its chicken-y name, its rusted metal door, looking at the table beside it sent him tearing out handfuls of his hair, screaming and screaming until—

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

He awoke in a different place, with different clothes and aching hands.

Connor stared up and saw a ceiling. Felt the soft plush mattress beneath him, the covers draped over his shivering body.

The sight of the room caused no pain, so he dared to sit up. He was in a house; someone had bandaged his hands and his head had stopped leaking thirium. It was mostly empty, save for the chair in the corner, some artwork, and a closed closet at the other end of the room.

Peace would not last long. Someone knocked on the door, and before long it was pushed open roughly. A dog ran into the room, big and panting and—

Errorerrrorerror

DATA MISSING

Connor clasped his hands over his head again, turning away from the dog, who whimpered sadly at his apparent rejection.

But soon the stimuli was gone, door closed shut, dog far away. He dared to peek out between his fingers, and saw—

Shaggy grey hair, stripy shirt, concerned blue eyes—

A hoarse static sound tore from his throat, error messages beginning to pile up in his vision in their dozens. Something was wrong, something upon seeing the things outside, then the dog, and then this man—this man was the culmination of all his problems. Error, error, error, data missing, data missing.

He tried to close the errors, but they multiplied infinitely over his software. So he tried to push away the missing data.

Warning.

Delete damaged data file?

Connor flicked through the file. Images of the man with the grey hair, the DPD, his dog, Chicken Feed—but they were all broken, parts of each image, each file, each dialogue received, torn apart. All clustering together in one big mess, causing any recollection to make him suffer.

Delete Hank.exe?

He paused. That… that was the man’s name? Hank. Hank. Despite the pain it caused him, he kept thinking of the word. Over and over and over until the errors were gone and, in their place, just as red and blinding read:

HANK

This file seemed at the forefront of his memory, no wonder it had been damaged if something had happened to his mind. It seemed important.

If he deleted it, he would forget this man forever.

…but if he didn’t, would it cause him to feel these horrible things every time he even thought about the man?

Connor closed his eyes. There had to be a way. When Amanda tried to control him, take over his body, he’d found an emergency exit and clawed his way out.

So that meant he didn’t have to delete this file, but he didn’t have to live with it either. If it was damaged, maybe he could fix it. The error was missing data: so he had to get back that data.

He reached out blindly, grabbing a hold of the man’s arm, who stumbled forwards at the rough contact. His skin peeled back, white chassis revealed but he couldn’t interface, couldn’t—

It was a human. Well, he supposed this human couldn’t be bad, then. He added ‘good’ to the list, hoping to repair some missing data.

Being good meant that he hadn’t tried to stop the revolution. Helped with the Revolution.

Helped with the Revolution meant friend.

Hank. Good. Helped with revolution. Friend. Friend. Friend.

Of course, he was his friend. He’d got over his hatred of androids, helped him with cases, even went so far as to risking his job so he wouldn’t lose his life. He helped him disguise to blend into Jericho, despite not agreeing with his cause, and they’d—

Connor groaned, eyes snapping open. Forcing himself to look the man in the face and take in his features one by one.

“Who are you?” He finally grit out.

The man, despite his initial shock, sat down beside Connor on the bed and patted his knee. “I’m Hank, Connor. Your, uh, partner at the DPD?”

“You don’t work at the DPD anymore, and I helped Markus with the android revolution.”

Hank laughed. “Yeah, I got suspended for a while. And I don’t know about you. But… that’s where we met.”

Connor closed his eyes, opened the memory file on their meeting. Jimmy’s bar.

“You swore at me and not long after threw me against a wall when we first met. I do not understand. If we are friends, we must have met somewhere else.”

“Nah, that’s just my dashing first impression, Con—”

“Con. What is that?”

“That’s what I call you, sometimes, when you’re not being an asshole.”

“Am I usually an asshole?”

“Depends on the day.”

“Huh. It appears my files see you as an asshole sometimes, too.”

Hank snorted. “Whatever. So… what’s exactly… uh, happening? I found you outside Chicken Feed trying to tear yourself a new haircut and…”

“My memory files about you are damaged. I am trying to piece them back together.”

“Oh. So you don’t, uh, fuckin’ remember me, then?”

“No, I have memories of you. They’re just damaged and need repair.”

“That’s what the cryptic questions are for.”

“Exactly. So… you are my friend. We are both assholes sometimes.”

“Yeah, basically. Anything else you need to know?”

He thought long and hard for a moment. “Yes. I seem to have everything apart from one vital thing… something in the middle, it is missing,” he gestured, “and until I fix it, looking at you causes great pain.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It is… I do not understand what it is to do with. I have every memory of you now, but—it is your logistics. Who you are. To me.” Connor cleared his throat awkwardly, looking down at the bedcovers. “Who are you? I thought classifying as a friend was enough. But this seems inconclusive, not complex enough for these human emotions I seem to be feeling. Relationships are not meant to be so linear, so…”

“Defined? What are you getting at, Con?”

“It’s that. Con. What you call me, this… affection. How you seemed to care, to bring me off the street when I was causing damage to myself…”

“Well, uh, yeah, I care. And we were meant to be meeting up there after you finished partying with your friends.”

“What were we going to do, exactly?”

“Uh… catch up? Maybe work out what the fuck you’re going to do now. And…” Hank looked away. “Nevermind.”

“No, there’s something else.”

He shook his head. “Asshole. Fine. It was… it was… Fuck, just let me show you, okay?”

When Connor nodded, Hank leant forwards and wrapped him into a warm embrace. He froze at the contact, words flashing across his vision, Hank, Hank, Hank, friend, friend—

Data Restored

And breathed a sigh of relief before hugging him back. Hank wasn’t friend, Hank was… Hank was warmth and comfort, bluntness with kindness tucked underneath, he was the gentle giant of his large dog, caring actions covered up with a ‘fuck you’.

He was Hank. And that was enough.

#dbhghostsinthemachine #dbh #detroit become human #connor #hank #connor and hank #fanfic #dbh fanfic

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smol-and-grumpy · 4 years

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Light My Fire - Epilogue

Pairing: CEO!Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: She always thought her boss was an ill-tempered man, but when he presents her with a proposition she can’t quite deny, she gets to know him better. It’s not bad, right? Because all she has to do is being fake married to him for six months, sounds do-able, right? Right.

Warnings: It’s so fluffy it’ll maybe rot your teeth, NSFW

WC: 1801

A/N: So, this is definitely the end of the road. I’m so happy that you’re here with me and read this story to the end. I hope it was a good one for you! Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback.

Beta’d by @deanwanddamons <3

SERIES MATSTERLIST

BECOME A PATRON ~ BUY ME A COFFEE

She had moved back on the same day, and into his bed that same night. She still kept her room but Dean was okay with that. She mostly sleeps there when he comes home late. Dean would then go in and take her back into his bed. He has perfected his techniques and now she doesn’t even stir when he scoops her up and carries her back into his bed. Their bed.

It’s true that she kept the room as hers but she had moved all her clothes into his room by the time they annulled their marriage.

It was never an option for her to stop working for him. But she stayed as his PA and they hired someone else to help with Ruby’s load of work. Their relationship had never been questioned by his staff. Dean thinks that he can count himself lucky for having great and loyal employees. He got his temper under control, too. He only fired one person in the last three months which is a huge improvement.

The marriage with Amara was a piece of cake. After Amara got wind of the existence of the tape, she was quick to agree for the annulment and Dean could even get money out of her. Serves her right, really. He used the money to give his employees a big bonus.

They have gotten over the initial pregnancy scare too. Turned out that she was indeed just stressed. He was a little disappointed, couldn’t lie about it, but she was happy so there’s that. He’d like to have kids one day, and especially with her. Dean knows that she wants kids too, but not right now. He hopes that she wants kids with him, though.

Dean really didn’t give up on asking her to be his real wife. He would drop it in the weirdest times. It’s a game he plays and he actually enjoys it. He has gotten her another ring. Doesn’t want to ask her with the same ring they already sealed their fake marriage with, it just didn’t seem right.

The first time he popped the question was after they were fake husband and wife and only girlfriend and boyfriend. She was sitting in the tub when he came back from work because he still worked longer than she did. Dean peeled himself out of his clothes to join her, “Do you wanna marry me?” He’d asked before he sits in the tub and grabs her by her arm to place her onto his lap.

“No,” She giggled and he buried his face into the crook of her neck, sucked at her skin until she moaned a yes but it’s not the answer, he knew.

The fourth time he asked her to be his wife, Y/N was lying on the couch when he walked in after a long working day. She was reading a book and she was wearing one of his shirts and only panties and that did things to him. Especially when half her ass cheeks poked out of it. He looked and smirked before he walked over to the drawer with food delivery leaflets. He held the leaflets in his hand and looked over to her before he asked, “Do you want to marry me or shall we order in food?”

Laughing, she said no, and that she wanted pizza with pineapples.

The ninth time Dean asked her was at work. He came out of a meeting and walked past her desk, dropping off his notes for her to put down on paper. She was so lost in her work that she didn’t even notice him standing next to her, so he lowered himself with one hand braced on her chair and whispered into her ear, “Do you want to marry me?”

She rolled her eyes but she kissed his cheek. It was enough fuel to get into the next meeting.

The twelfth time he asked her was when she was laying between his thighs and he had spread them for her to be able to reach his rim. He was there, held up his legs by the back of his knees and looked down. He would have loved to take a picture if his hand were free.

His balls are heavy on her nose, his dick, hard and leaking, was resting over half her face. It was a sight to behold, and in that moment his heart felt so full so he whispered, “Do you want to marry me?”

She ignored him and continued licking at his rim and sucked in his balls that made him choke on his own words.

The seventeenth time that he popped the question was while they were in a meeting together. They listened to Garth's new idea on office improvements and she was typing away on her laptop when he sent her an email, “Please be my wife?”

Y/N frowned, her lips pulled into a thin straight line before she clicked on her mouse and soon his phone vibrated. Dean took it out and thumbs over her email of Michael Scott from The Office screaming No meme.

The twenty-third time Dean had asked her, they were having dinner with Jack and he had told the waiter to put the ring in her glass. What Dean hadn’t accounted for, was that the waiter would be so dumb and mix up their glasses. So when Jack drank his champagne he had the ring in his mouth, and damn near choked on it. Y/N had stomach cramps from laughing too hard.

But hey, Jack said yes and they’re planning a spring wedding.

Jack is a great guy. Dean’s glad that he took Jack on a fishing trip back in Jamaica. Jack was so hostile towards him and Dean just knew that he had to pour his heart out to Jack to get him to understand that he was never just in it for the fake marriage. It meant so much more to him. Thinking back, it needed a lot of courage from Dean to do so. Jack didn’t speak for an agonizing long time and it was while they were on the boat and Dean had almost gotten sea sick than he started to speak the truth.

Jack smirked when he saw that the blood had drained from Dean’s face.

“Do you like fishing?” Jack had asked him.

“Yeah but from the shore.” Dean answered, trying not do fucking puke.

Jack laughed at him but apparently, the trip had helped cement their friendship.

The twenty-ninth time he asked was when he ate her out and she moaned yes yes above him. He paused and mumbled against her wet cunt, “You wanna marry me?”

She came right on the spot but not without moaning out something that sounded awfully like fuck no.

The thirty-third time Dean asked, was when they spent a weekend away at a secluded cabin in Colorado.

That’s another thing that Dean loves about her. When things get too stressful, she always made sure that he took a break and she planned trips that should take his mind off work. She feared that he’ll overwork himself, which is not entirely wrong.

So when they were roasting marshmallows over a fire, he wrapped his arm around her, and asked her if she wanted to be his wife.

She didn’t answer, instead she said, “You’re not going to give up, do you?”

He smiled down and kissed her forehead, “Nope.”

The thirty-eight time Dean popped the question was during a game night of pictionary with Sam and Ruby and her brother. Yeah that’s right, Sam never let Ruby go again. Dean swears, if they marry before him...

Dean drew a ring onto the board with a question mark and instead of answering right, she just said “Lord of the Rings?”

Even Jack grew a little annoyed at her and screamed that she should fucking say yes already.

The forty-fifth time he asked, they were at a concert and she stood before him, his hands around her waist as she leaned her head against his chest. He placed a kiss on the crown of her head, “Do you want to marry me?”

The one girl next to them gasped loudly and she pushed her boyfriend out of the way, thinking that Dean needed room to go on his knees. They had to laugh and explain that his girlfriend is not saying yes, so there’s no worry. The woman was embarrassed and Dean took Y/N’s hand to move further back.

The fifty-second time Dean asked, was when he came home from a work trip. It didn’t go very well so he was kind of down. He found her in the guest bedroom, sleeping on her side and Dean scooped her up, carried her into their bed and left to take a shower.

When he came back, she was partially awake. And it’s like she knew because she opened her arms for him to crawl in. He placed his head on her chest, letting her stroke his head.

“Please be my wife?” He’d asked, but there’s no answer. Her heart beat slow, she was already asleep.

The fifty-third time he asked, was the next day right after the fifty-second time. Dean spooned her from behind, rained kisses onto her shoulder and neck, she stirred awake, “I really wish you’d say yes.”

It was not really a question. Just a statement.

“Okay,” She said and Dean’s heart picked up speed.

“Okay?” He asked again, just to be sure.

“Yes,” She turned around in his grip and cradled his face between the palms of her hand, “I’m saying yes,”

Dean kissed her while smiled like a fucking idiot, held her tighter, “Fucking finally,” he mumbles against her lips.

They married in a small ceremony with just the closest of people and no press, because he still took her out to social events and they all thought she was his wife anyway. It’s easier that way. It feels more real.

Sam and Jack were both his best men while Ruby resumed her position as a bridesmaid.

Dean didn’t make a prenup; it's his way to piss off his parents. It’s the right decision, he thinks. Y/N never once asked him for money. She hates being dependent on him and sometimes there were petty fights when she wouldn’t allow him to buy her something. However, she let him pay for Jack’s tuition and that is progress.

Like Dean said before, he would give her the world and so much more but she’s happy as it is and that’s the most important thing actually, because he’s happy too when she’s happy. He’s less grumpy, less hot headed and, that’s not a lie nor an exaggeration, he’s the happiest he’s ever been.

#light my fire #dean winchester #dean winchdster x reader #ceo!dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fiction #nathalie writes

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crystalgirl259 · 3 years

Text

The Flame and the Dragon Chapter 23

Chapter 23: The Temptations Of Hope

Cole angrily paced around his room as the clock struck twelve. The only lights in the room were the moonlight reflecting off the untouched, white snow and the purple flame coming from the now almost completely melted red candle. His instincts warned him not to feel for Kai. Life was so much simpler before he came along, before Cole and the others dared to hope. Cole sighed tiredly as he slumped into a torn-up armchair. He had thought Kai was the one.

He didn't know why he continued to torment himself.

His eyes fell on the candle and an enraged growl bubbled in his throat. That was the symbol of his curse, and it needed to be destroyed and end these adolescent notions of love and redemption. It would end all of his pain forever. Cole growled and raised his arm to smash the weakening flame. Just as he was about to destroy it, a couple of cinders flew from the flame. Cole watched as it landed next to the gift, which Kai left for Cole next to the bed.

The prince's eyes widened in shock, recognizing the small, nice handwriting on the gift's little label.

The hybrid carefully picked up the lovely wrapped gift as if it was made of glass. He quickly ripped off the wrapping paper and was surprised to see it was a book Kai had written just for him. Without really thinking about it, Cole sat back down and started reading the story Kai had made. The incredibly detailed story inside talked about an enchanted castle and how the master seemed as cold as winter. His cries echoed through the stone wall of the castle, and though he was surrounded by servants, he was all alone.

It went on to say that thanks to that simple act of kindness, he knew someone cared.

Even though he didn't read much, even before he was cursed, Cole knew this was an amazing story. It ends it all off, Kai wrote about how that time of year was spent exchanging humble gifts, but the greatest gift that anyone received was the gift of hope. As Cole finished the book and put it down, he contemplated what the book meant by hope. Once he had hope that was hope to break the spell. But as the years passed, that hope had started to fade until it was almost nonexistent.

That is until Kai suddenly forced his way into his life and that hope burned brightly for the first time since he was first cursed.

Then Kai tried to leave the castle, despite his promise, and almost drowned in a freezing lake. It wasn't just the fact that Kai left, but also that he almost lost his life again because Cole wasn't there to protect him. Despite his anger, Cole still loved and cared deeply for Kai. He didn't want to see the teen get hurt and if that meant he had to lock Kai in a cell then so be it. It was probably the safest place for Kai since Cole was certain that he had just blown any chance with the brunette and any hope of breaking this curse.

As soon as that thought entered his mind, however, his mother's voices echoed through his very soul.

She used to say that regardless of how desperate things may seem, remember, people could always have hope. All of a sudden, Cole realized his idiocy and what he had done to Kai in his blinding anger. He promised himself there and then that he would do his best job to find the perfect way to beg for Kai's forgiveness if the begging wasn't enough in itself. He knew it was going to be hard, but he was ready for that. With that in mind, Cole stood up from his chair and bolted out of the room towards the dungeons.

He failed to see the enraged shadow made of dark magic scowling at his retreating form.

This was not part of his plan...

****************

He growled in rage as he watched the dragon prince flee to attempt to make up with Kai through his purple crystal ball. Despite all Cole had done, he knew that the brunette loved the hybrid and would forgive him. The man snarled as he ran his hand through his raven hair, pacing around as he tried to find a way to stop this from happening. He stared out of the small, empty window of his hideout in the ghost town of Kilmarnock hundreds of miles from any civilization.

What was once a wide avenue that led to Kilmarnock was unrecognizable as nature had begun reclaiming the now unused area.

The crisp and clean-looking town now looked more like a jungle as trees and gardens grew beyond their now unkempt boundaries. Many doors had collapsed as the rot was eating away their edges. The open doorways that were once perhaps very welcoming were now an eerie and unwelcoming sight. Broken cars and rusty pieces of metal littered some of the larger driveways, stripped from all but their most useless parts. Kilmarnock, once rich with life, hopes, dreams, and aspirations was now partially reclaimed by nature.

The sounds of insects, winds, and creaking wood of trees which were once drowned out by the sounds of people had returned as the dominant sounds once more.

The clock tower was somehow still rich with sounds, but it wasn't its bells and gears as those had stopped working a long time ago. It was a flock of crows that had made this once great pillar their new home. No matter how you looked at it this town was an eerie sight to behold. Lives forgotten, perhaps completely ruined and there was barely anything to show for it. But even though everything may seem like it was lost forever there was still a silver lining.

While this town was no longer home to the families that lived here, it was now home to families of wild animals.

The enchanted candle would flicker out any day now, and Kai had yet to proclaim his love for Cole. He couldn't afford for Cole to suddenly find the key to ending his curse and everyone's suffering. He saw red as he thought about what this could mean for his revenge when Kai and Cole made things up and confessed their love for each other. The prince got the one he loves and his curse would be broken, and then it was a happy ending for everyone.

The enchantment will be lifted, and that stuck-up brat and his family's suffering would fade into the background.

He refused to let them get off that easily. He used his magic to set the cauldron bubbling and boiling and opened his spellbook. He flipped through a dozen pages until he finally found exactly what he was looking for. He ran around his hovel, searching for the needed ingredients. These included red and white rose petals, pearly white swan and dove feathers, maple leaves, and a bright red apple. He threw them all into the black cauldron and the liquid inside turned a stunning crimson red.

"I call the darkness unto me, from deepest depths of earth and sea, from ancient evils unawoken, break that what can not be broken." He chanted loudly before grabbing another set of ingredients. These included a dead raven, a red poppy, blood of a black cat, and a human skull. "To blackest night I pledge my soul I crush my heart to burning coal, to summon forth a deathly power, to see my hatred foe devoured!" He bellowed and suddenly a blast of black smoke shot out of the cauldron.

It filled the room in a matter of seconds before it shot out the window like a bolt of lighting.

He cackled loudly as he watched the dark magic travel straight to Cole's castle, standing out against the white fluffy clouds like blood on a white wedding dress. They couldn't fall in love if they were dead...

#The Flame and the Dragon #ninjago #ninjago kai #ninjago cole #lavashipping #beauty and the beast

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laserdog10 · 3 years

Text

Fading Snow in the Flames

Whitley’s entire body screeched in pain, raging fires around him licking the structure of the horrid home he grew up in with wreckage surrounding him. One of his sister’s friends trying to tend to the large wound in his abdomen caused by a large piece of shrapnel, for the life him of he barely recalled her name, Yang was it? Yes that was it, a frankly gorgeous woman of blonde hair and stunning figure in addition to her shining personality or what little he saw of it. His ringing ears managed to pick out her face amongst the white noise.

Yang: Just stay with me okay, I’m gonna get you outta here!

Whitley: Miss Xiao Long... *COUGH*

Yang: Don’t speak, save your energy! I’m gonna...try to remove this.

Doing so made the younger Schnee cry in agony, an ugly sound that had Yang’s heart lurch.

Yang: Alright, pointy metal’s staying in...!

Whitley: Probably for the best, I’d bleed out faster anyhow, heh. *cough, cough*

Yang: How can you be calm about this...

Whitley: Truth be told, I’d honestly take a near death experience over the treatment of my father any day. Seems I bargained more than I wished for.

Yang: ...

Whitley: Guess humor wasn’t meant to be my strong suit. Doesn’t matter much now if my only audience isn’t laughing.

Yang: Please stop, I’m getting out of here. *starts to pick him up*

Whitley: Miss Xiao Long-

Yang: I’m getting you help, Jaune will fix you up just fine.

Whitley: I’m-

Yang: You’re going to see your family...things will be better now that he’s gone, you and your sisters are going to talk...

Whitley: Yang-

Yang: I AM NOT LEAVING YOU BEHIND!!!

He jerked out of his fading vision from her outburst, the warmth of her tears pelting his arm.

Yang: I let too many people leave me...I’m not letting you be the fourth, dammit!

Whitley: Well aren’t you a bleeding heart? *cough* To think that’d someone who barely knows me would care this much.

Yang: *sniff* Grew up with little sister myself, y’know. I’d go to the ends of Remnant for my sister and so would yours.

Whitley: How do I-*winces*-know you aren’t trying to sugarcoat this?

Yang: Take a wild guess who sent me in here to get you.

Whitley: ....but...

All his life he felt his sisters abandoned him in their prison of a home, alone with their awful father and neglectful mother...yet they went above and beyond to do this? It seemed unbelieva-

*CRASH*

More ignited wood fell around them, signaling the brawler to get the hell out of the office and into the hallway accidentally jostling him around some. Hissing in response Whitley clutched his stomach, feeling blood color his hands while Yang caught her breath from nearly being crushed to death.

Whitley: Yang, listen to me, I need you to-*wheezing cough*- take this...*deep breath*...key. Winter told me it was for a surprise for if I were ready, or in case of an emergency. Guess we’re in the latter of it now.

Reaching for his pocket he pulled said key, a small white-blue piece of metal with the Schnee Family Symbol engraved on it. Handing it over to her she took it with curious confusion.

Yang: What’s it for!?

Whitley: Winter said a safe is behind a painting in her room by her dresser, you won’t miss it.

Yang: Okay...*deep breath* I’ll be back, just hang on!

As Whitley lay in the hallway watching the blonde sprint off, giving him time to relax and his adrenaline wearing off. The pain of his wound accompanied by the chill of his lack of blood seeping out without restraint, vision blurring until fading almost entirely.

Whitley: Good...at least now...she won’t have to...*inhale*...see me go.

---

Yang: Here!

Having tossed aside the pointing and opening the safe her eyes laid upon a katana in its sheath, engraved on it was Whitley’s initials, thinking it was for the off chance Whitley chose to become a Huntsman. “They really did care about you ya’ shrimp,” the blonde thought to herself as she snatched the sword.

Yang: Hey, I found the sword, what did you-...

Falling to her knees, all sound around Yang had ceased. The flames, roar of Grimm outside, her breathing. The only thing she could mutter was a single pitiful statement.

Yang: .....at least let me say goodbye, dammit. *sob*

---

Ruby struggled to breathe in the clutches of Salem, furiously kicking the witch in vain to be let free. Her friends pinned by a Grimm in the cold snow and badly beaten from tussling with Salem herself, the latter chuckling at the sight of the “warriors” still trying to fight back.

Salem: You did well in your attempts, girl, but I fear my dear Ozma hadn’t taught you lot much at all.

Ruby: *scoffs* You can take your stupid bragging and shove it uAAAGH!!! *throat gets squeezed harder*

Salem: Have you any inkling of the hell I endured to get this far you insolent child!? If you even think you worthless gift from the God of Light can help you now then you-!

Salem’s speech would’ve continued had it not been the rushing noise of what sounded like a ship engine coupled with the roars of a dragon, lo and behold it was a dragon. Cloaked in the golden-yellow flames of her Aura whilst raging red eyes beamed within the column of fire, a flowing mane of hair whipping in the wind and heat like a candle flame, a gray-blue sword clenched in the teeth of her maw. The snow around the enraged dragon evaporated from the searing heat midst of her warpath, as did her metal arm now replaced with one entirely constructed of a gold light tipped with a claw.

Yang: *growls*

Salem: Just who might you be?

The witch got her answer via a full force punch square in the face. A plume of fire followed Salem in her free-flight backwards into the ground, Yang leapt in the air using her one gauntlet then taking the blade and running it through Salem before she had a chance to recover. Screaming from her partially melted bloody face Salem extended the black nails on her hand and swiped the blade in half, Yang taking the chance to lunge back then immediately follow through striking the Witch of Grimm with the pommel of Whitley’s katana sending her reeling in pain.

Yang: You know, for someone who’s immortal your pain tolerance is shit...

Salem: *spits blood* I’ll flay the skin from your very body, brat!!!

Yang: Try me.

A small fleet of ships overhead signaled the cue to retreat and recuperate which made Salem scowl in fury. Calling off her beasts they disappeared into the foggy blizzard of the night leaving the teams to the frigid night, ships touching just by them as the Ace Ops and Winter dispatched on scene.

Winter: Is everyone all-*gasps*

Yang: ...

Winter: No...

Yang: I tried everything I could, he just... *clenches her fists along with the chipped sword in her Aura hand*

Weiss: Yang? Where’s Whitley!?

Her friend collapsed to her knees clutching the sword of the youngest Schnee, his sisters losing all sense of the need to speak any further.

“I’m so sorry...”

#rwby #ruby rose #weiss schnee #yang xiao long #winter schnee #whitley schnee #salem #rwby frozen dragon #angst #merry christmas everyone and have a good cry from this

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iamalivenow · 4 years

Text

“Well.” The man smiles. “Always nice to meet the meat.” He has a nice smile, Martin thinks, like an idiot. Mostly because he's about to be eaten alive by his date, partially because he went on a date with a cannibal and entirely because he can't remember a single Flesh statement in this immediate moment to save his life.

Which he might want to figure out how to do, and soon. For all of the good Beholding does for him, to him really, he's a little bitter he doesn't work for a power that can defend itself at all.

Well, Elias can defend himself, but something tells him making the nice man, Jon, his name was Jon, cry wouldn't make the day better. Actually, Martin's pretty sure that if Jon had anything to cry about, hearing it would make him gag. “Do you do this sort of thing often?” Martin asked, at the bar where they met a few hours ago. “Barely at all.” Jon had said. “Not really into your sort.” “My sort?” Archivists, he meant. It clicks for Martin now, now that Jon drags a flaying knife over a piece of leather slowly. “You're not gay?” “Not what I mean,” Jon told him and ordered Martin a drink Martin didn't really want. Yeah, obviously that's not what he meant. Jon plies him with drinks, and Martin just goes along with it, because Jon is out of his league and he hasn't touched someone or even talked to someone that wasn't associated with the Institute in years. They stumble- no- Martin stumbles back to his apartment, Jon walks with a steady hand on the back of Martin's neck with a pleasant smile. Elias is going to send someone, right? Daisy maybe? Some other secret sniper agent, or whatever it was that she did, to save him from getting eaten, right? Right? The rope on his wrists hurts, chafing and rubbing the skin raw. He could try yelling, but he doubts it's going to do him a lot of good. Think, Martin, think about what hurts the Flesh. Something has to hurt the Flesh. Stop staring that Jon's long fingers and think, for five seconds. He feels sluggish from the alcohol. He tugs on his ropes, and it goes all of nowhere. Tim was right, his bloody mother was right, he should have been working out for ages. “Do you-” Martin swallows around nothing and Jon stops sharping the knife, head twisting too smoothly to be human. “Do you kidnap a lot of men?” “We're in your home.” He says dully. “I restrained you.” “Right.” “No.” It takes Martin a second to realize what he's answering too. “Oh.” “Don't get illusions of grandeur,” Jon tells him, and again, Martin is left with listening to the knife scrape. “I've shown restraint. A lot of restraint.” Jon lifts the knife up and presses it against his finger. Martin watches it sink into the skin there and for nothing to come out. “W-When was the last time you ate?” He whispers. “What year is it?” Jon clearly isn't joking, so Martin tells him, and Jon's eyes close. “Six. Six years ago.” “Ah.” “Very restrained.” “Very,” Martin says. “Not to- not to diminish your ah- your achievements. But if you do, the Eye will-” “The only people scared of the Eye are idiots. Idiots and children.” “Elias has killed people before.” “So have I.” Martin believes him. “I imagine the process won't take too long, even if you're larger than I am.” “Right, very restrained.” He nods, and Jon nods with him. “I'm glad you're so understanding. I get migraines when people yell. Very annoying.” There's something about the tiny smile that graces Jon's features that turns Martin's stomach. He was watching his mouth earlier too, in the bar, and now he gets it, dim lighting aside. His mouth is overflowing with teeth- more then the normal row, more than even sharks seem to have. Teeth as far back as Martin can see. “Are you going to kill me-” Jon huffs a laugh. “I mean, eventually, your heart will give out, either shock or blood loss. But I'm planning on getting into as much of this.” Jon pats his leg, squeezes down on the muscle and fat there. Martin winces. “As I can while you're still kicking.” “So it's going to hurt-” He swallows again. “Meat always tastes better when it's scared. At least to me. It gets your muscles tense. Makes the meat bitter.” Makes Martin bitter, he means. “Where are you going to start?” “Mm. I'm blinded with opportunity.” He lifts the knife to his lips, just a little curved, curved enough to catch on his lower lip and show Martin more of the maw and all of the hidden white inside of it. All the way back to his throat. “Maybe start here.” Jon drags a finger along Martin's torso, a Y-section, he realizes. “Oh.” His touch is feather light and makes Martin blush. If there was ever a worse time then now for that, Martin couldn't even begin to fathom it. “Break the skin, crack the ribs open to accommodate, stuff my face with lungs. Or maybe pick something fattier- turn the meat on its side and get at it's back. Or thighs. Thighs are always nice.” “I'm right here.” “Of course you are.” He gets on top of him, straddles him, and for a few microseconds, Martin lets himself imagine a normal human named Jon who was still out of his league straddle his lap and kiss him. Grind down on his hips. Touch his face lovingly. The cold metal of the knife snaps him back to reality. “Just do it.” He mumbles, trying to defiant and probably failing. Definitely failing. He's awake for more of it then he thought he would be. Jon ends up deciding on emptying his chest cavity first. He whispers a prayer under his breath. Martin watches through tear-filled eyes as Jon cracks one of his ribs and sucks the marrow out of it. At least he looks like he's enjoying it. When he's done with the bone, he presses his fingers where he held it to his lips, and Martin watches as the bone curls like burning paper until it's something like a flower- or a parody of one. Curled petals and a thin stem made out of his rib. Jon tucks it behind Martin's ear. It feels warm. Wet.

#the magnus archives #writing #full fic #apperently the new episode has flesh flowers in it #which i did a whole year and a half ago #give me my royalities mr sims

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obviousleeanonymous · 4 years

Text

Chutes and Ladders CH 11

Summary: To climb to the top, you gotta fall down a chute or two or three or four… and break a few bones. But it’s okay, ‘cause time heals all wounds. Right?

(Because I fogot I never posted this here, fam.)

CH1 AO3

You jangled the doorknob, a loose component rattling uselessly. The door remained locked. In your backpack of things that were not yours before you shoved said not-your-things within, you had varying screwdrivers and gizmos and gadgets and kawoozits. Before you fiddled for an aforementioned screwdriver that might work as intended, you stared down the basic welcome mat. Stepping back, you used your foot to flip the stalwart foe. Lo and behold, a nondescript key was underneath! People still did that? It was like asking to be robbed.

Shrugging to no one in particular, you slid the key into the brass lock. At worst, it would simply not be the correct key, so it hardly hurt to try.

The door opened with ease, creaking profoundly—a testament to people’s inherent stupidity. Not that it much mattered anymore, you have yet to encounter another person during your—how many days?—vagabondage.

The stench of stagnacity flowed from the room, with sepulcher heaviness and choking dust, and out to the hallway like water rushing through cracks in a failing dam.

You only took a single step into the room, absorbing the still-scene before closing your eyes.

The hum of cicadas became the electric sibilation of the refrigerator. Insensible jargon filtered through a small television on the countertop. A man brushed remnant crumbs of breakfast toast off the plastic laminate surface and perused a paper. A child ate cereal, secretly adding more when the adult was sufficiently distracted all the while grinning at her deft subterfuge. A teenage boy with horrible bed hair shambled groggily into the kitchen...

Was this morning routine—

You opened your eyes, suddenly grateful to be brought back to the derelict living area trapped in a state of perpetual abeyance, just waiting for someone to return to the moldy bowl on the table, pick up the fallen ceramic cup, and resume reading the long irrelevant newspaper. Coffee stains covered the the front page, obscuring the date, but you guessed it to be several months ago.

You made a home out of the bits and pieces others left behind.

After scouring the defunct abode at a listless pace—nothing to gain in haste but waste—you garnered a sizable stock of canned goods still within decent expiry and more clothing to augment your hobochic ensemble. And, of course, a magnificent, comfortable, plush, relaxing, state of the art, better than an organic mattress bean bag chair. Vintage puke chartreuse to boot!

The beds were aight tho’.

As you meandered through the modest apartment, you flicked the light switches and tested the faucets. Predictably, there was nothing in terms of basic utilities, but you spotted some change on the floor. A brilliant idea tickled and caressed the crevices of your gelatinous brain-muscle.

Hefting the prized bean bag awkwardly over your shoulder, you departed the apartment, stopping only to collect the scattering of coins. Locking the door with the key was an afterthought.

You knew every payphone, could practically smell the anachronistic booths from miles away.

You had a brilliant plan.

+_____+_____+

Payphones irrevocably meant something to you, something special, intrinsically intimate in a manner that should never logically be. Emotional lows were had within four enclosed grimy, semi-opaque walls.

But this… This felt different. Cathartic, even.

You reclined on the bean bag, shoved into the cramped booth, legs propped on the protective casing that partially housed the phone. The dense cord only barely reached far enough. Your head lolled back, blood rushing, and you gazed at the sky—buildings in Spartan hues cutting into vibrant cerulean like jagged teeth.

Though you were certifiably certain you were on hold longer than you had been speaking with the operator and subsequently a customer service rep of the Z-City Waterworks, you had a pocket full of change and nothing better to do.

The irritatingly dross hold music cut off, a voice tentatively questioning, “Hello, miss—”

“Yah. I need water in my place.”

“...And you are sure you’re a tenant of Junction Crossing?”

“Yep,” you glanced at the crude scratches on your arm, roughly resembling the building name and apartment number. Keys made poor knives and even poorer writing instruments. “Number 124C.”

A long pause.

You tried to readjust, stretching your cramping legs but your walking-limbs slipped on the glass. So you wiggled, further digging yourself into the forming contours of polystyrene beads.

“I’m terribly sorry, but no one lives there.” You could feel the tense smile surely plastered on his face—for no one could sound so artificially pleasant.

“I do. It’s why I’m callin’ ya. Yakno. Water.”

“That neighborhood is a warzone. We don’t service it but if you relocate to a safe—”

“Sweetcheeks McGee, what is the name of your biznass,” you never even gave him a chance to respond, “Z-City Waterworks! I. Am. In. Z-City. You can’t not not give me water. That’s like murder.”

“I—That—You… How is murder?”

Oh Sweetcheeks walked into that debacle. Inhaling, you bawled melodramatically, “You want me to die of thirst!”

He sighed, giving up. “Ok! Ok! I’ll put it through but it will be turned off when you don’t pay.”

“‘Kay, Sweetcheeks.”

The other line went dead and you tossed the receiver, not caring to get up just yet. Rather, contemplating the meaning of life seemed a much more topical subject—which was nothing.

You just didn’t want to recall anything other than the right now. Guilt had no place—this is your new life, a new you. All else be damned.

But then you saw him walking all casual-like, a glorious baldylocks bedecked in a boob-tastic hoodie staring blandly at a receipt with a meager bag of groceries limply dangling in his other hand.

At first, you wanted to ask how he made the world upside down, but you remembered how you were reclining as the next best thing came out of your mouth. “Ya scrub, buying shit.”

He halted, staring at you in blank volumes that resonated with your being and said a solitary, “Eh?” He was familiar, a kindred animal—though you just met him, this bald fellow did not seem like a person who tolerated bullshit.

You could dig that.

“Ya live here too, right?”

He shrugged, “Yeah.”

“There’s like a ton of abandoned stores, bruh. Mad easy to get fat like cats.”

His eyes widened marginally. “How come I never thought of that?”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to do, neighbor. Wanna go lootin’?”

He took a minute to contemplate, picking his nose with minimal zeal. “Ok, I guess.”

#fanfiction #reader insert #one punch man #dark humor #slowburn #romance #reader x zombieman #reader x amai mask #reader x sweet mask

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sunshineandfangs · 5 years

Text

Klarosummer - Quote || Abhang Samsāra

Quote: “Farmers markets aren’t just for hippies.”

@klarosummerbingo

Caroline suppressed a groan, feeling the start of a headache merrily pounding away behind her temples and brow. And she wondered what she had done in a past life to deserve this.

I’ve gone native, she thought wryly, amused despite herself, for she knew exactly what she had done in her past lives. And quite frankly she didn’t think she deserved this dudebro lingering in her space, having been attempting to flirt and talk himself up (both badly) at the same time for what had to be almost 30 minutes now.

“-thought hippies were more wild,” he sneered, apparently finally catching on that she hadn’t been paying even a lick of attention.

Caroline blinked, honestly not sure what he was even talking about or if it was somehow supposed to be an insult. She barely refrained from rubbing her forehead as she started to respond, staring him dead in the eye so he could properly appreciate just how few fucks she gave about him.

“Look, I’m not sure what logic you’re attempting here, but it sucks. First of all, farmers markets aren’t just for hippies. They’re a way for smaller producers to advertise and sell products, and they’re good for the local community.” She watched with rightful schadenfreude as his eyes started to glaze over. “Secondly, whether they do or do not attract a larger than average population of hippies has nothing to do with your success or rather lack thereof with getting a girl to hop on your tiny dick.” Caroline let herself smirk as his jaw dropped in shock, an angry and embarrassed flush creeping up his face.

He spluttered, trying to defend himself, but she just talked over him. Karma, really. “Finally, those “wild, free-spirited hippies” or however you’re stereotyping them probably have even less time for your bullshit. So, do yourself a favor and just go home before someone less tolerant than me decides to shut you up.” She waved him off, turning to the next customer, “You have a nice day now.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the boy open and close his mouth like a dying fish, outraged but too dumbstruck to know how to react. The man she had shifted to greet apparently lost his own patience as he turned to face the boy.

“Off you go,” he mocked.

And she rose an eyebrow at the docile obedience, sensing the light flare of power. A vampire? How interesting.

He pivoted back to face her with a charming grin to hide the hunting expression in his eyes.

“Quite the sharp tongue you have, love.”

She wondered what he wanted, sensing he wasn’t seeking something as basic as blood. Her ponderings were expertly masked though as she simply raised an eyebrow in response.

“Hmm, and my tolerance has already been worn down, so please buy something or leave.” Her smile was bland, even as she watched barely concealed ire enter his eyes.

---

Klaus wasn’t sure if he wanted to admire the young blonde’s audacity or choke it out of her. It had certainly been a long time since someone dared speak to him with such dismissal.

She hardly knew his identity though and he’d rather she stayed precisely where she was. So, he turned up the charm, letting his smile deepen the dimples on his face. Cocked his head just so, to draw her eyes down the smooth lines of his neck, across the open collar of his Henley.

“Of course, sweetheart, I’m sure your time is valuable.”

---

He was good.

The dimples, the accent, the seemingly innocent head tilt. Even his apparent polite concession after she had been more rude than not. Had she truly been just the 22 year old she appeared to be, he would have likely gotten her hook, line, and sinker.

Unfortunately for him, she wasn’t.

Thus, her reaction was perfectly polite, but distant as she gestured with her arm toward her collection of binned produce. “Please, take your pick then.”

---

Klaus made a show of rifling through the various baskets of fruits, subtly flirting all the while. He was both impressed and offended when she didn’t respond at all, maintaining a polite façade, but no more.

Thanks to his minions he knew she was at least partially attracted to men, probably entirely based on her dating history, so it wasn’t that. Not that he needed her to like him, but it would certainly make it less suspicious to linger. And considering everything that was at stake he was hardly going to leave such a task up to the help.

He decided to make a more blatant pass, peered up at her through his lashes, slightly bent over a crate of strawberries. Ensured his accent was a bit deeper when he spoke.

“Ah, apologies, I realize I haven’t introduced myself. Please, call me Klaus. May I have the name of my lovely, sharp-tongued vendor?”

---

Internally, Caroline marveled at her luck. Realized he must have been what drew her soul to Mystic Falls. Not every life had dramatic purpose or whatever one wanted to call it, but it was rare she would appear somewhere so obscure without the hand of destiny being at work.

And now Klaus of The Sun and Moon Curse was at her metaphorical door. Well then, she might as well catch him off guard now, while the effort to mass compel people would hopefully be more work than he wanted to exert.

“Klaus,” she repeated, rolling the syllables across her tongue, wondering how things were about to change. “If even half the rumors I’ve heard of you are true, I’m quite certain you already know it. After all someone like you wouldn’t be lingering if not for a purpose, am I right?”

---

Klaus’ expression instantly hardened, his mind racing at this unexpected reveal. None of the reports he had received indicated the girl was at all aware of the supernatural, let alone informed enough to have heard of him.

Of course, he knew about the so-called council, with their sworn duties to protect the town against vampires. But the good sheriff showed no indication she had ever told her daughter a thing. And the girl herself had seemed as ordinary as they come, a bit overachieving perhaps being on a startling number of committees, but normal. Too human even, seeing as she returned from college to take care of her sick mother.

“I must admit it’s been a long time since someone surprised me, Caroline.” As he spoke he let menace seep into his voice, hoping she wasn’t going to make him chase her.

It would be troublesome to deal with the fallout of such a spectacle, but he would if she pushed him. This chance would not slip through his fingers.

---

Caroline’s wariness spiked as she caught the look in his eyes. She’d have to be more careful. Whatever had brought him here must be more important than she thought, if it put such a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Well,” she started carefully, “I have to admit to my own surprise. I wouldn’t think a tiny town like this one would be of any interest to you.”

He chuckled darkly. “Oh, you’re quite correct about that, sweetheart. I could not care less about this place.”

It was a warning and threat all rolled into one, daring her to test his resolve. Caroline wasn’t particularly attached to this place, but she did love her mother. And she wasn’t so cruel as to go out of her way to condemn the residents to be the gruesome aftermath of an immortal’s rage.

She pursed her lips. “You’ve made your point, Klaus, I won’t make a scene. Just tell me what your want. I’m not going to indulge in some kind of sick game with you.”

“Good thing I’m not playing, sweetheart. Now, you’ll make your excuses to leave, and then you’ll come with me. If I catch even a hint of duplicity your mother will be the first to suffer my wrath.” His smirk was a monstrous thing to behold. “Obey me and I’ll permit you to visit her under my careful watch.”

She already knew she would go with him, quite assured he’d carry through with his threats, though she was also quite confused. What use was she to him? Had he learned the truth of her, wanted to use her knowledge for something?

Caroline nodded to him, hurried to excuse herself from the market and felt his gaze burning a hole in her back as she did so. When she returned to his side, a warning hand settled on the small of her back. The two of them appearing as some happy couple rather than abductor and captive.

“What do you want from me, Klaus?” She whispered as he helped her into his car. The manners seeming ridiculous considering everything.

He didn’t respond immediately, situating himself in the driver’s seat and backing out of the space. He stayed silent as he drove and she figured he wasn’t going to answer when he finally did.

“There’s a rather pesky curse I want to break, love. Several years ago I thought my chances were ruined, but as it turns out,” he glanced over at her a covetous expression on his face, “you’re my missing piece.”

Understanding flooded her. She had heard that The Sun and Moon Curse required a Doppelgänger, creatures born of Silas’ and Amara’s tampering. Her circumstances were different though, and never had she cursed her consistent appearance more. Not even when it had caused immense trouble during the times she had been born to parents that looked nothing like her.

See, despite the surface level similarities she was not a Doppelgänger. Her blood didn’t carry the magic he needed.

Caroline suppressed a ragged sigh. She was going to have to be the one to inform him of his mistake. Not something she was looking forward to. What had she done to deserve this again?

She closed her eyes, deciding to wait until they were out of a multi-ton moving vehicle to be the barer of bad news. ...Still, what did a being such as her fear of death? Innumerable millennia and innumerable lives, even Klaus was nothing in the face of that.

---

Author’s note: The title today is Hindi/Sanskrit for “Unbroken Cycle.” Admittedly it doesn’t have much connection to India beyond the utilization of the ideas of reincarnation, which while not exclusive to Hinduism and Buddhism, are obviously very prevalent. Meanwhile the word Samsāra in and of itself is quite tied to the idea of reincarnation.

#Klaroline #KlarosummerBingo #Klaroline Fanfiction #Klaroline Drabbles #Klaroline Edits #Klaroline Photosets #Klaroline Aesthetics #My Writing #My Edits

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ferrethyun · 6 years

Text

Sanguine Coven | Pt 3

{Requests are open!}

Summary | Previously | You are here | Next

(I cannot believe it took me 3 extra days just to do this--- like wow)

“Sanguine Coven?” Jimin questioned, confusion evident on his features, “Sanguinarian vampires?”

M/n couldn’t help but let an almost mocking laugh slip past his lips “Sanguinarian vampires are vampires who feed off human blood. Some vampires feed off of animal blood but I don’t find it as satisfying” He stated. Jimin’s head was reeling once again; first, his friends are alive and then he finds out they feed exclusively off of humans. How morally twisted were vampires?

“So you’re saying… All of my friends are feeding off of human blood, and I have to feed off of yours?” The mild horror seemed to creep up Jimin’s spine again, he didn’t want this. This is not what his life should be like. Before M/n could respond, an almost explosive crash came from below them. The sound earned a heaving sigh from the elder in the room as he rolled his eyes. As he made his way to the door, M/n turned to Jimin, who was still clutching at the silk sheets of the bed he was in and made a beckoning movement with his forefinger. It barely noted in Jimin’s mind what the elder vampire meant as he pulled himself out of the bed and shakily stood and followed M/n into and through several hallways.

Jimin took this opportunity to observe the small details of each hallway and its decor. In the hallway that his room was attached to, were 4 other doors evenly placed along the almost never-ending hallway. He also noted that all the hallways had similar decor and the same wallpaper; the wallpaper being a deep maroon accented by dark wooden tables and several wooden charcoal framed art pieces. Before long, the two found themselves at the top of a balcony with curved staircases ever side. With no time to take in the sight of the open-plan reception, M/n headed off down the staircase to his right giving Jimin barely any time to gather himself and follow the elder of the household. Once at the bottom of the staircase, the two headed off to their right and through an archway.

The sight that awaited them made Jimin’s body crawl with every emotion that could be considered positive.

The opposite feelings were expressed on M/ns face “What is going on here?!” He seethed through gritted teeth.

The sight in front of them was truly one to behold. The seats of the room were overturned, books were scattered everywhere leaving the bookcases bare and the TV lay on the floor partially leaning on the coffee table, luckily not broken. Things seemed to freeze once M/ns booming voice rang out; namely the six other men stood amongst the trashed room. Time slowed for Jimin and before he knew what he was doing, he was latching his arms around the nearest one of his friends which happened to be Hoseok. The mention reeled back from his frozen position, shocked by the sudden contact before he finally realised who had attached themselves to him “Jimin!” The gleeful cry left Hoseoks lips as he grinned and bear hugged the younger. As soon as Jimins name slipped the lips of his friend, everything unfroze leaving the room filled with Jimins name at varying levels of excitement.

The only one that didn’t say anything was Namjoon. He seemed to be having some kind of inner conversation with himself while everyone else went and hugged Jimin. Whatever had previously been happening had been easily forgotten by the males but something still felt off in the room. M/n turned to Namjoon and began calling out to him to try and get him out of whatever daze he was in; he could see the glaze over his eyes and easily recognised the subtle actions as a sign of hunger. Namjoon being one of the most recently turned members of the coven means he would still most likely be struggling with controlling his hunger, M/n knew the feeling very well. “Namj-“ Before the elder could even complete the others name, the latter snarled and launched himself at the former. Namjoon knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, he knew he was a much younger vampire than M/n this meaning he would be much weaker. He didn’t know what had gotten into his head.

Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t even lay a nail on M/n before he was turned and pinned to the wall by a hand around his neck. In a pitiful attempt to defend himself, Namjoon snarled and clawed at the hand around his neck but to no avail. M/n was clearly not having any of it; he snarled back at the younger, his seeming much more threatening. “Just what do you think you’re doing?!” M/n growled out, “I have half the right mind to starve you for this shit Joonie” M/n knew that the younger hated him using his nickname in such a way and it really did help him get his point across at times. At the threat of him being starved, Namjoon stopped the sounds escaping his throat and stilled his clawing hands. Everyone else had stilled as well. They couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Their smartest friend, who knew he wouldn’t win in a fight against someone stronger than him, being pinned to a wall by his neck. And the perpetrator throwing out threats like they were nothing.

“Namjoon!” Jimin called out, beginning to head over to him in a rage; only to be held back by Jin who shook his head at the younger as a silent message of “It's not worth it.” The elder of the household let out a sigh before loosening his grip on Namjoons neck, causing the mentioned drop to the floor without a care in the world. With one look at the male on the floor that read “Don’t try this shit again”, M/n headed off past the group of 6 and through another archway, disappearing from sight.

“What the fuck just happened?!” Jimin almost screeched.

Jin let out a sigh before attempting to gather an explanation in his head “Namjoon… is hungry. To put it simply.” He hesitated, “Which means it’s feeding time for all of us”

Jimin seemed to relax at the explanation before freezing up in sheer panic. His mind was racing but there seemed to be one word that stood out amongst all his thoughts:

“Fuck”

#Admin Tea #kpopwonderlandtag #(Sanguine coven)#bts x male reader #bts x reader #bts #bts scenarios #bangtan #bangtan soneyondan #min yoongi #park jimin #kim namjoon #kim taehyung #kim seokjin #jeon jungkook #jung hoseok #vampire au #bts vampire au #au

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kai-borg · 6 years

Photo

"Evil? Do I consider myself such? No, no. Tell me, do you call the rahi evil for the death they bring? The beings they consume? No, because it is their nature to do such. It is the same with me, despite my... form I am not one of you, but at the same time I am. I have my own nature, one different from yours. Perhaps it may seem cruel to those also with sentience but to me it is beauty, art, something I must complete. Now then, enough talk! I can already see the beautiful masterpiece you'll make.~"

-Cryptid to an (idiotic) matoran reporter that had managed to track him down for a review. Said matoran was later found dead, turned into another of Crypid's pieces of 'art', the recording was luckily left intact.

=============

Cryptid came into being from the first and last test of a matorans attempted recreation of the mask of creation in metru-nui, despite having only vague knowledge of its powers and creation.

Perhaps if the Matoran’d had a better understanding Cryptid may have never come into creation.

The Matoran had believed the mask to have the ability to build anything the user thought of as long as there were near enough materials, even if they weren't visible. Who knows, maybe they were correct and they just weren't strong enough to control it, perhaps they built the mask wrong. But until it is truly discovered what Artahkas mask can do, it will never be known, and either way it is much too late to fix that Matoran's mistake.

During the first, and soon after last, test of the masks abilities the Matoran had been visiting a damaged parts dump, attempted to create something small, a tool or perhaps just a small figurine, whatever it was they chose the mask chose differently. Unleashing a burst of creation-based energy, utterly draining the mask before becoming trapped within the ensuing energy storm. It was quickly ripped from the matorans face, becoming the epicentre of the storm, before beginning to form a body around itself, a twisted and broken form, and once the storm was finished, and the being dropped to the ground, it was soon recognized as a form that exuded danger when it's eyes of dark red, and dripping with an ichor like liquid turned to stare at the matoran, a twisted smile, that would stay for the eons and more of its existence, soon grown across its face.

That matoran became the first of many of Cryptid's pieces of ‘art’ as he calls them.

Not too long after the time of his creation, perhaps a year or two, he was attacked by a horde of Vahki who had finally managed to track him down from his discovered ‘art’ pieces. During the end of chase he ended up having his back injured before he fell off a large cliff, ending up on his back somewhere in the depths of Metru-Nui's outskirts, bresulting in it fully breaking. His Vahki pursuers, believing him to be dead and if not, at least removed from Metru-Nui, returned to the inner-cities, leaving Cryptid to slowly heal until he could move enough to be able to design a crude back harness.

He later replaced it with a much better and more high tech one,designed to inject certain chemicals and such to even better increase its benefits. He returned to the city, stealing a ship and leaving to find a new island to create ‘art on, of course he didn't leave before creating a few more pieces of his 'art' around the island.

His second major injury occured at a much later date, resulting in the loss of his right arm.

During a fight with one of his more powerful opponents, during his more inexperienced years, he ended up losing his right arm before he could end his oppoenents life. His opponent was a Toa of some sorts, somehow managing to set off an explosion near Cryptid after suffering a fatal injury, ripping Cryptids arm off, embedding the metal into his shoulder that he built the prosthetic into, and ending his own life.

His flesh later healed over it to enough to make it much more difficult to remove for anybody, Cryptid included.

Species: Artificial mask construct/bionicle

Gender: Male

Age: …. Yeah, I still have no clue how to figure this out when it comes to bionicle's! XD

Personality: While Cryptid is a ‘normal’ bionicle he is, in part, a sentient, and long powerless, mask and it’s shown throughout his personality, from his twisted love of creating, despite his lack of power, ‘art’, ranging from just simple, if but disturbing, statues and carvings to his preferred more ‘organic’ pieces, be they created from ‘gathered resources’ or his own, to his love of ‘artful’ dancing and posing, even despite the disturbing quality both usually retained they, along with his other art, manage to capture a sense of awe and disturbing ‘beauty’ in their designs

He's manic, gleeful at best and downright crazed at worst.He enjoys making his ‘art’, and has a tendency to burst into song, especially whilst doing so. All of which tend to scare others, or at least make them extremely nervous for fear of their lives. He's not exactly evil but he doesn't feel the same way as others, and doesn't see what he does as evil. While he has realized that most others have a different view than him, he really doesn't care, they're not him, and so what if the majority of sentient beings have differing opinions to his, why should he care? They don't control him.

Fighting style: In truth he fights with basically anything he can get his hands on, be that from stealing an opponents weapon to useing random objects scattered across the ground.

if he has nothing at hand he'll just use his own claws, strength, and flexibility, all skills that have taken down many an opponent.

Abilities and powers: Due to his 'accidental' creation, and what his body was created from, some parts of himself do not work properly, such as his nervous system.

Oh sure, it works enough for him to be able to move properly and all that but he can't feel anything, only highly dulled versions of whatever sensation he should be feeling, and pain is even more so. It allows for him to push his body to limits he never should’ve been able to reach, and to personally ‘modify’ his body and indulge in certain ‘habits’ of his at any given time.

His own body's healing ability is a very useful factor in all of this too, while it is only slightly faster than most without some healing item/mask it allows for his body to adaptively heal, continued injury forcing his body to heal in ways to attempt to avoid said injuries and due to his ‘habits’ he has greatly adapted his body to better work with him. He has managed to force nearly all of his joints, from neck to knee to rotate and turn at any ‘realistic’ angle (directions it could already move, back, forward, side-to-side, etc). Allowing for him to create even more disturbing poses, dances and movements.

But as a counter to these benefits his body suffers multiple problems from its uncontrolled creation. The two biggest problems he suffers, and has created solutions for, are certain restrictions to his healing ability and a very dangerous internal one.

If his body takes a large enough amount of damage, focused on one area, he can not fully heal it, as shown with his back.

While he can remove the harness, and move without itm he will be greatly weakened while it is removed, being forced to slow down and be more careful with his movements to keep from aggravating his injuries. He can only keep it removed for a finite amount of time before his back starts to give out again.

As for his internals, once again due to his unnatural creation, a very important internal function of his body doesn't fully work, I.e. His internal blood/protodermis flow, luckily (for him) he managed to discover and fix it in time, installing a tubing system to artificially pump his blood/protodermis throughout him. The tubes are easily his biggest weakness, while he can survive for about a week with minimally increasing detrimental effects it is still highly dangerous to do such. The tubes and mechanics themselves are difficult to replace and he is highly protective of the tubes, going out of his way to keep them from being damaged.

=============

So yeah, any of you guys ever just build something to vent some stress, not planning to really make anything, just sticking stuff together and somehow you actually make something? Yeah that's how Cryptid was made.

I mean I did have plans at that point to use his torso for a while, which I actually found partially built in a box of random parts I bought, well only the torso bit which had the chest armour, tube (without the black piece and angled technic bars), black claw and a slightly different neck connection but with the same head, but never got around to it until now and I definitely didn't plan on this! But I gotta say I do like him.

In fact, I will truthfully state Cryptid is quite literally one of my top favourite MOC’s.

No idea why, he just seems to click in a way that I just can’t help but like him for some reason

#Moc #Bionicle #Villain #Mask #Cryptid

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sunriseoverastorea · 6 years

Text

Kind Strangers

♬ Jeremy Soule - In the Forests of Tamriel

Morning dawns too early. The hard wooden floor aches against her festering burns, but she pushes herself up, breathing heavily from the effort, and blinks bleary, crusty eyes into the darkened room. The fire has gone out, completely extinguished, and the light from the windows adds little shape and form at this hour. Silence sits heavy in the cottage, weighing down the boughs of herbs hung from the ceiling, a basket heaped with clothing by the back door, her fallen apple from the night before where it sits beneath the table, forgotten, browning.

She listens for the sound of breathing. Instead, the rustle of grass answers her question.

Lurching to her feet, the shadowy room spins around her, and she nearly falls against the door as she rushes towards it, throwing it open and racing after her captives. Under normal circumstances, she could easily catch up—Maegan moves swiftly despite her hefty skirts, perhaps twenty paces away, but Tomas slows her down. She pulls him along by the hand, until she hears the bang of the front door, and then she picks the boy up and runs, feet crunching in the frosty grass.

Marea slips and slides in the dampness, pain blinding her, vision peppered with shifting splotches of black as she fights to keep up. Agonizing minutes seem to pass by, but in fact, it is only a few seconds—she flings herself at Maegan, latching onto the back of her shirt, and they both collapse to the ground, Tomas flung aside as the women grapple for dominance, briefly rolling about before Marea's prosthetics take control, forcing Maegan down by the shoulders with her steely grip.

“Thought I said I didn't wanna kill you,” Marea pants, smiling thinly, eyes wide and wild.

“You think I'm a fool? You always planned on killing us. I could see it in your face. You're a madwoman,” Maegan hisses, snarling even as she stares death in the eye. “You're a monster.”

“No news to me.” Marea shrugs slightly, shifting her right hand to Maegan's throat, and lifting her left in the air, flexing the fingers stiffly before settling them into a tight fist. “But if what you say is true, this is a whole new world, a fresh start, and I can be whatever I want to be. So thanks for nothing.”

With one swing of her left arm, Maegan's face is splattered in the dewy dawn grass.

Marea's heart leaps into her throat as a single crack of thunder rings out in the clearing. A bullet whizzes past her, flying uselessly into the distance, and she slowly raises her hands in the air, turning to face Tomas as she gets to her feet. The little boy stands ten feet away, trembling, tears glistening on his cheeks, Marea's pistol held aloft in his hands.

“Oh, c'mon. Put it down,” Marea says softly, trying to sound comforting, though her voice wavers from exhaustion. “You won't wanna live with yourself after you do that. I killed somebody when I was your age. Hard to cope with.”

The boy begins to bawl, sobbing without restraint, face screwed up in a terrible expression of desolation. Marea takes a few steps towards him, hands tentatively outstretched for the gun, when a shot rings out yet again. It dents and dings off her left arm, and she throws caution to the wind, charging forward as Tomas fires off one last bullet, which connects—it embeds itself in her thigh, and she yelps and collapses in pain, right on top of him, wrenching the gun from his hands with ease and shoving it down his throat. She pulls the trigger, and it clicks. Empty.

A quick, clear snap echoes in the clearing, like a sapling tree felled in the cold of winter. She gets to her feet, and she limps back to the cottage, windows dark and gaping. With the iron sky above her, stars faded but sun not yet risen, she feels a strange, sudden closeness around her. Similar to her connection with magic in Tyria—but certainly not the same. Only one word comes to mind, but she knows that it is just longing, for familiarity, for certainty, a longing which she has never felt before, and she knows she will soon forget.

“Grenth,” she says into the cool, lifeless air. “If you can hear me—don't let my journey be like this.”

And she opens the door to the cottage, slipping behind stone walls.

The time before sunrise is a checklist. She ventures upstairs, where the sleeping quarters are. The Ferny's had fine furniture, for peasants, and she goes through an ornate wooden wardrobe, searching for clothes that will fit her. Maegan's stockings and a long blouse with flouncy sleeves will do, then she takes a thin summer skirt and rips a slit straight up the side, making it mobile. She slips on the woman's spare boots, old and worn, a bit too big, and then she whimpers in pain as she climbs on the bed to reach the sword that hangs above it. She yanks the weapon from its fastenings on the wall, inspecting it briefly. Blade dull but highly ornamented, with swirling vines adorned by grapes, and a hefty hilt with an elegant guard. An heirloom, most likely, that could be easily sharpened into fighting shape again.

In a large chest at the foot of the bed, she finds books. She flips through the pages, covered in foreign lettering, beautiful to behold but still utter nonsense, much like the accents of the people who wrote them. She takes the smallest downstairs with her, some entertainment for the road.

She picks up her apple from beneath the table and chomps away at the mushy flesh. Out behind the cottage, she goes to the small stables and throws the gates open, setting loose goats and pigs and a couple cows, along with one strange animal that almost fills her with joy, only to steal it away so cruelly. It hobbles out last, slightly too fat and making a ridiculous honking sound. At a glance, it appears to be a small horse—a pony, she recalls, is the word—but its legs are much too stout, and its face too round and homely. It brays at her loudly, trying to rub its snout against her own, and she clumsily pivots and strides away with a groan, rolling her eyes.

“You're a fucking liar, y'know that? You're a lying—thing. Heehaw. Lying Heehaw.”

As the sunrise fills the sky with verdant amber light, turning wisps of clouds blue and making the dewy grass glitter, Marea drags two bodies back to the cottage, depositing them in the kitchen with little thought for staging their deaths. Maegan would have had to bang her face against the wall with the force of an airship to mangle it the way Marea's hand did.

And as the beginnings of blue glow upon the horizon, Marea limps through the forest, and emerges in the quiet, green clearing where she arrived. She rummages through the debris thoroughly. She digs a small hole with a piece of scrap metal, and into it goes most of what remains, which she cannot carry—a few books, charred but intact. Her kitty pistol, partially melted. A bag of jerky, just in case. Then she lodges the piece of sheet metal over them, like a protective cover, Horiz staring up at her in the dirt. And she brushes leaves over the grave.

She returns to the homestead as sun floods the fields, a fine mist rising from them and soothing her aching, tormented flesh. The Heehaw honks at her, and now she obligingly goes to it, just barely heaving herself onto its back. The bullet in her thigh pulses with pain, and as she settles into place, the weight finally off her legs, she sighs in relief.

She isn't sure how to steer the Heehaw, but it seems to know where she wants to go. It immediately starts north, and after less than an hour, it clomps onto a middling dirt road, smooth and well-traveled, though on this day, it's as empty as the stone cottage she leaves behind. A sense of peace overcomes her. The sun warm on her neck. In her backpack, a book, Gippa's notes, a handful of jerky, her eye piece, her M pistol and the bullets she rescued from her kitty gun, all sit heavily upon her burned shoulders. The Ferny family sword bumps against her hip, hung from Frank Ferny's ill-fitting belt.

And the Heehaw clops onward, into uncertain lands. She watches the trees for a while, their long arms lacing overhead. Until, after a time, she closes her eyes, and she slumps forward onto the head of her mount, arms swaying in time with its steps.

Physician Telford saw little excitement in his little town of Archet. Most of his days were spent idle in the doorway to his practice, chatting with Hosta, a fine and charming housewife who sold baked sweets in the next building over. She would lean out her window, waving her hand and asking if he wanted a slice of fresh apple pie. And of course he did, for what else was he to do? Treat the occasional spider bite? Admittedly, the spiders in the area were monstrously huge, but at least they did not rend and maim as creatures in faraway lands did.

So, Hosta would bring him a slice of pie, and they would pick over it together on his porch. She would sit upon the water barrel to be at eye level with him, and they'd have a good chat, about husbands and wives, humans and hobbits, the state of the town and the surrounding estates. And then they would part, and Telford would watch from his shopfront as the sun sank lower in the sky, and yet another day of contentment passed by him.

But today, as he goes outside and waits for Hosta to wave from her window, he turns the other way in surprise, wide-eyed, as he watches the little lady and a handful of men leading a donkey down the street, with the petite shape of a person slumped upon it.

“What is this? An injured traveler?” he exclaims, jogging down the lane to meet them.

“Yes Mr. Telford, so it seems. She's a woman, wee small thing, and in terrible shape.” Hosta reaches up and pats the woman's leg, recoiling as her hand comes away damp with blood that has soaked through the stranger's stockings. “Bill here says she's been badly burned, and her skin is all clammy. Reckon she needs your immediate attention.”

“Of course, right away!” Telford stays a step ahead of the men as they lift the woman off her donkey, and carry her through the low doorway into the physician's shop. He darts around frenetically, wringing his hands, eager to help and overwhelmed that his help is truly needed.

He watches attentively as the woman is laid on the patient bed, and then he shoos the others away with a waving of his hands. “Out, out, this requires my full attention. Hosta, however, can stay. As my assistant.”

“I certainly can,” the woman says proudly, not at all ashamed with her own morbid fascination for the unconscious body in the room. She shuffles up to the bedside, resting her elbows on the mattress as she stares at the strange woman's face.

“Looks like she's been through a lot in the past, even before this. Poor little thing, women should not be made into fighters, I always say. There's enough men to do it themselves.”

“Yes, well, some women simply want to fight,” Telford replies absently, fishing supplies from a series of cupboards along the wall, and then sweeping over to his patient, carefully shifting the fabric of her skirt, and then her stockings, until her harrowed flesh is exposed to the air. Hosta gags a bit, but doesn't look away.

“What do you think happened to her?” the halfling gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. “Did she fall into a bonfire?”

“That, and more. She seems to have some sort of puncture wound as well, and that's only the legs. No doubt there will be more to come—perhaps I should not have asked you to stay.”

“No, I can handle it. I'll keep my mouth shut, if need be.”

“Thank you,” Telford replies with a gentle smile, reaching up to the woman's neck and examining an utterly destroyed piece of black cloth that hangs there, more of a frayed, singed rag than a bandana. “Later, when this is taken care of, we can eat a whole pie. And we'll share it with the girl, too.”

Later comes after many hours. Marea opens her eyes, blurry at first. A low, wooden-beamed ceiling comes into focus, and she glances to her left, across the room, where a window, made hazy by bubbled glass, lets the festive warmth of a sunset stretch upon the floor and flow over her pillow. She distinguishes two chattering shapes sitting on stools by that window. They speak in hushed voices, one quite a familiar form, a man of average build, perhaps a tad short. He towers over the silhouette across from him, with the long curly hair of a woman, and a much stouter stature. The height of an asura, maybe, with feet like a platypus's, and a covered bundle on her lap.

Marea abruptly sits up, gritting her teeth and ignoring the flaring of pain in her shoulders and back.

“Oh no, no no no! Not so fast, my dear!” exclaims the asura-sized shape, quickly hopping down from her stool and rushing over to Marea. “Be gentle with yourself, you have been gravely injured in most unusual ways.”

Marea stares at the little woman for a long moment, incessant dotage rising and falling in the background without ever being heard. Finally, as the man comes up beside the bed and rests his hand against her forehead, Marea speaks.

“You're a dwarf.”

The woman immediately goes silent, for quite a long moment, before bursting into laughter, throwing her head back and slapping the man's knee.

“Oh, did you catch that, Telford? No brain damage there, still got her sense of humor!”

“My sense of—what?”

“Just ignore her,” Telford interjects, nudging his companion aside as he stoops down beside Marea's bed. He reaches for her wrist, before catching himself, and placing his fingers to a pulse point on her neck instead. “Hosta is a dear friend of mine. But perhaps not the best bedside manner.”

Marea blinks at him, at the warm touch of his hands on her patch of unburned skin. She looks down at herself, wrapped to the waist in clean white sheets, and the rest of her torso wrapped in bandages. Her prosthetics are out in the open, and the doctor seems not to care.

“You—understand me?” Even as she asks, she feels the round, elegant slant of the words on her tongue. Rajya always said she was a fast learner, a gift for language, when she applied herself.

Telford raises his brows, tilting his head this way and that. “More or less. You certainly sound like nothing I've ever heard before. Are you some adventurer, then? And tell me, when I knock on this side of your head, how does it feel?”

“It kinda hurts—”

“—The south! I bet you come from the south, on those fabled shores,” interjects Hosta, curls bobbing as she yammers on, “We never see anyone from that far away, all the way up here. But you look like sea-faring stock.”

“...Yeah. I'm from the south,” Marea says flatly, flinching as Telford proceeds to knock on the other side of her head. “If that's, that's what you said.”

“Perhaps you could talk a bit slower for our patient, Hosta,” Telford chides, beckoning her back to the bedside. “We must sound as odd to her as she does to us.”

“Very well, very well. Pie time?” The stout woman quickly unwraps the bundle she carries, revealing a blueberry pie, already sliced and still faintly warm from the oven. Acting without thinking, Marea immediately reaches over and grabs a handful right out of the middle, and shoves it in her mouth, smearing dark juice all around her lips. Hosta cackles with delight, though she produces a fork from the pocket of her apron and eats in a more tidy manner, while Telford gazes at the motion of Marea's prosthetics, captivated.

“Well,” the doctor starts, tearing his gaze away and sweeping up a little bite of pie with his finger, “I suppose you would like to know your condition. You arrived around noon on the back of a donkey, unconscious, and--”

“--A donkey?” Marea blurts out. “A suitably stupid name.”

“It was a donkey, yes. Anyway, we took you in and treated you for several hours, throughout the afternoon. You have severe burns all over your legs, and on your back and the back of your neck, as you most likely realized. It will take weeks, if not months, for them to fully heal, but you will be scarred for life.” He pauses, as if waiting for the waterworks, but Marea just shrugs, grabbing another handful of pie.

“Shoulda seen my old scars. Won't be that different,” she says dismissively.

“Mm, you have high spirits. A good sign. You also have a deep gash upon your forehead, which seems to have missed vital areas, but we will need to keep you awake for twenty-four hours to be sure that you remain amongst the living. I also treated several minor cuts across your person. Your final ailment, though—I've never seen anything quite like it.”

Marea stares at him, munching away noisily, waiting for the inevitable questions she must dodge.

“The puncture wound on your thigh—it was made by this small metal projectile.” He pulls the bullet from the pocket of his tunic, and holds it out for her to see. “My first thought was that it came from a slingshot, but truly, there is no way it could have buried itself so deep if that were the case. So I must ask, do you know what it is?”

Marea widens her eyes and shakes her head, a picture of perfect innocence. “Not a clue. I had something in my leg? I had no idea, I thought I was just crispy and tender.”

Hosta chuckles and shakes her head, popping a bite of pie in her small mouth. “Crispy and tender, oh good grief. You sound funny and you make funny, too.”

Telford sighs, placing the bullet in his pocket and patting it for safekeeping. “As I feared. You know, Hosta, the bard did bring tales of strange things along the North-South Road. What do you think? Do you recall any metal projectiles?”

Hosta shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “No, only strange hooded things, screeching in the night, the stuff that spooks children. That old man is always full of nonsense. It's not fair that all we get is a washed-up harpist, while my cousins in Hobbiton get regular visits from the wizard with the fireworks.”

“Wizard?” Marea cuts in, her face lighting up as she licks the last bit of crumbly pie from her fingers. “Like, a guy who does magic?”

“Of course, what else would a wizard be? He has a very long beard, I've heard, so you know he's legitimate.”

Telford shakes his head, tut-tutting under his breath. “I say he can keep his fireworks. We live in a modern age, an age of science, Hosta. Better to keep such whimsy and superstition at arms length. Leave it to the elves, who we rarely have to see.”

Marea mouths the word silently, elves.

“Anyway,” Telford begins again, rising to his feet. “I imagine you must be tired, Miss—forgive me, all this time, I did not think to ask your name.”

“Marea,” she says, opening her mouth to add Sleekfur, but she holds it back. Uncertain how it might be perceived.

“Marea. Quite a lovely name. You must be tired, but since you cannot sleep yet, I will send Hosta on her way, and keep you awake myself.”

“Ohhh, Telford!” the little woman whines dramatically, though she smiles broadly, already shuffling to the door. “I will be by in the morning to check on you, little one,” she chimes to Marea, waving as she slips out into the street.

“Little one,” Marea murmurs, shoulders slumping.

“She likes to call humans that,” Telford explains, pulling his stool over to the bedside, and perching upon it. “Now, what would you like to discuss, to keep you awake?”

Marea taps her chin slowly, licking her chapped lips, the remnants of blueberry flavor making her mouth water. “I'd rather just listen, actually. I have a book. Can you read it to me? Good practice, for the accent, thing,” she adds, pulling on her earlobes.

“It would be my pleasure,” the doctor replies, a warm, genuine smile crinkling his face. A face that could belong to any man, anywhere, yet somehow, in this one, she senses true kindness.

#rp post #marea the silent #chasing arcadia #schmoozing with dem locals #totally didn't just murder an entire family #I need to remember to write about poor Pen in the next one #also do not judge me for using the same soundtrack!!#it is perfect for the occasion

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anangelicday-mrwolf · 3 years

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Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 37 – Yuigi’s Mystery

“Sir, we have a situation!”

Sangin and Yeonsu bolted into the room, their motion so forceful that they might as well have demolished the door.

“We just had an explosion in sector 32.”

“Sector 32? That must be...”

“That’s where we have a facility that belongs to the ex-chairman.”

Of all the places.

Taesik, the director of KSA, minced a biteful of his lips, grasping his desk tightly by its either sides.

“Do we know the cause?”

“We dispatched the agents who happened to be nearby. They testified that the topmost structure of the building – which is in the ex-chairman’s possession – was utterly destroyed. Luckily we have zero casualty so far, due to the time and location of the explosion. Not to mention it was built in an area not dense in transient or residential populations.”

“...That is good to hear.”

“I am terribly sorry to say this, but it is too soon to call off the alarm. We have yet to find the one to blame.”

“...Did you notify them?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Takio said he’s on his way right now.”

“Very well. You two look into the exact number of casualty and magnitude of damage. We must get ready for the aftermaths, including the media broadcast.”

Sangin and Yeonsu nodded in understanding.

They remained silent, but they knew what used to stand at the scene of trouble. They also knew who was lodging there.

Which was why they mentally mumbled in synchronization: Did she finally do it?

*****

Yuigi was running.

She had been stranger to a chase for such a long time.

However, unlike her previous experiences, she was the one on the run.

“Where do you think you’re going? I just put up a fight and gave you an invitation – don’t you turn down the party!”

The man croaked behind her, sounding much more like a toad with his voice raised.

Currently, Yuigi was luring him.

She could not say for sure if she could muster even one-sixteenth of her original power, but she remembered how she could make a colossal building crumble to the very bottom with a mere punch, as if breaking a toothpick.

She knew herself too well; she could not dare engage in a brawl where the safehouse once maintained itself.

‘There’s no reason for me to reserve myself a lecture from those three, given that I can make it back alive.’

She ultimately reached the area where 6th, 7th, and 8th Elders were lost, still under KSA’s management – a thoroughly vacant space, impeccable for a clash-slash-clamor.

‘No, it won’t be a clash. Clash applies to a case in which the involved parties engage in a mutual combat. What I’ll soon get to encounter here would be a one-sided beating.’

Yuigi directed her eyes, slightly hazy with bitterness, towards her choker, somehow feeling heavier than usual.

“Like I said, you have no idea how elated I am, Yuigi! For at last I have found a chance!”

The modified human smirked, making it so very blatant that he was in ecstasy.

‘Duh, of course I have no idea. I was too busy trying to recover my well-bombarded eardrums.’

That was when Yuigi got curious of what he had said to her upon entrance.

She was aware of the fact that bad guys who talk a lot have so much to offer.

Though verbal manipulation is far from her usual style of battle, Yuigi warmed up her lips in preparation.

“Oh, so that’s what you jabbered about when you crashed through the door? Thanks for filling me in.”

That moment the man’s face was crumpled in displeasure.

“I happened to be busy in thoughts. Damn, speaking of which, I didn’t even get to enjoy my late-night snack. I’ve been waiting to savor it since last night; I wonder if I can get it later. Then again, since the entire building is gone, I should start cleaning the mess. And figure out who to send the bills to pay for the loss.”

Yuigi peeked at him, making herself appear as unconcerned as possible.

Just as she had wished, his face was plastered with doubt concerning his own hearing capability, soon to be marred with question regarding her words.

“That was the prelude of my glorious history of spotlight. You were supposed to be my witness for the moment...! And you didn’t hear anything I spoke?”

“Nope. To me, getting a treat as scheduled is more important than that stupid speech of yours.”

“Why, you...! Stick this to your head – the codename’s Kornel. The new hope and star of the surviving Union! And as I get my revenge for my dear friend Mark, I...”

Kornel flinched and held his tongue, in the course of his frenzied monologue of screech and spit.

And he smiled as if telling Yuigi that it was a nice try.

“You were planning to pry out info from me. Sorry, but I’m not falling for it. I’m not that hopeless.”

Well, you just spilled the codename of your closest comrade. That counts as a lethal mistake in my point of view.

Yuigi did not dispense her opinion, for Kornel did have a point: she could no longer collect intelligence from him.

And she had neither the plan nor time to give it another try. Kornel flexed his fingers and closed the distance between them.

“Since you were keeping yourself hidden in such a place, I assume your skills have turned unworthy of flaunting. It’s a shame that I can’t pummel you while you are in best condition and fully furnished, but I hope you’d understand. When will I ever get to beat a Cerberus? Oh, and allow me to thank you in advance – thank you for serving as my stepping stone to the higher ground!”

With a pregnant thud, Kornel flung himself forward.

Instinctively Yuigi’s senses were whetted to the extremity, and she fixed her eyes upon his fists and correspondingly maneuvered herself in the air.

Kornel launched the kickoff of their game with light punches, their pressure and power nevertheless not even close to the definition of kickoff, and darted towards the red-haired woman. As she ducked and turned in evasion, she could run a self-diagnosis.

‘Reflexes. Speed. Rate of reaction. They’re not so different from what they used to be. My powers may have been only partially retrieved since I was freed from Crombel’s lab, now chained by this choker. But this isn’t so bad; I can handle this, I think.’

And Yuigi got to pay for speaking too soon.

“So this is piece of cake for you, huh? You do live up to the name of the Cerberus.”

So here goes the real deal.

Yuigi had a feeling that was what Kornel’s grin was implying.

Swoosh!

Pow!

“Urgh!”

Kornel’s body faded as Yuigi kept her gaze on him, and right after an impact equivalent to that of a tank’s missile bored through her side.

Despite the painful delusion that half of her form was shattered into dust, Yuigi lifted her body to find out what just occurred to her.

Thus she came to behold Kornel lifting his enormous fist, about to powder her for good.

Bam!

Yuigi gave a kick to her legs at full force, to be gravely astonished by how Kornel had already caught up to her.

‘He looks like a toad, but how come he’s so fast?!’

As far as she was concerned, he was just a bit slower than Takio, based on her memories from the day he exhibited his nimbleness with a glass of water when she first opened her eyes in the safehouse.

Therefore, she had no choice but to altogether pledge herself to dodging.

She was not completely cornered, to her gratitude.

‘No energy manipulation or body transformation. Looks like he’s the type that deals with physical melee based on superhuman speed and strength.’

The moment her analysis met its end, out of habit she attempted to counterattack.

As she had commonly done so, Yuigi concentrated the energy within to eject it in the shape of a beam.

Just then, an unexpected pain yanked her neck, rendering her whole body numb.

It was thanks to the choker, molded by Tao and assigned by Takio.

Simultaneously, she could feel the energy that sparked across her palm withdrawing itself, like fire dumped with water.

Kornel did not hesitate to throw himself towards her, and after a series of despair and helplessness came a thought: Should I just give up?

Yuigi did not even wipe the blood off her throat, a mark left by the slash of wind that very nearly beheaded her. She was captured by the idea that even if she makes it out of here, she still has no life.

‘And I don’t want to stay as a nuisance to him.’

Takio may have thought she was blind to the fact, but she knew.

She knew that M-21, as much as he tried to make it invisible, was not happy at all with her presence.

Although Lunark’s visit set a guideline for her future behaviors, she knew that Takio was on a rather away-from-good terms with his teammates for her sake.

And just then she could see no reason why she should keep on with her current status, void of a purpose but surely a hindrance to her savior.

‘Let’s just give up.’

Her body stopped struggling, as if it were waiting for her statement.

She could feel all of her cells drained of vitality, as if her biological clock has been broken.

Meanwhile, Kornel did not halt his attack; he was right onto her face, which was a sign for Yuigi that this was it.

However, the air enveloping her heaved with a swoosh, and Kornel’s movement went past her.

No, she went past it.

‘What the...?’

She was ready to die. She did not mean to move whatsoever.

Nonetheless, her body scrambled as Kornel lunged towards her once again.

And her body began to move on its own.

‘What the heck...? What is going on?!’

She could not control any of her appendages.

It was as if her mind was cut off from her flesh, trapped in a shell in humanoid configuration.

On the other hand, her steps and actions had turned much more precise.

Apparently Kornel realized the change; his face was muddled with confusion.

But not long after, he snickered, seemingly onto something in his mind.

“A puppet within the Union, and a puppet outside, I see.”

What are you talking about?

Yuigi’s words were mute, her voice box incompliant.

“In the past, I could pick up a couple things about you by pure chance. Including what Yuri did to your body via Crombell’s order, when you were made his test subject. And what you had gone through when you found yourself at the Union for very first time.”

Yuigi did not like the way he was bickering.

For some reason, she felt like he knew something that could devastate her entire world once she learns.

What are you trying to say?

What is it that you know?

Tell me. Say it now.

No, don’t. Don’t say it.

Please let me stay ignorant.

A myriad of thoughts summoned within her soundless lightning, vortex, and squall.

“Did you know that you’ve been serving your archenemy?”

Kornel’s declaration turned Yuigi’s inner lightning into thunderstorm.

“How very pitiful. You haven’t realized who gave you your misfortune.”

Her vortex within transformed into a tornado.

“You’ve considered Union your everything, haven’t you? Well, guess what? It’s the Union that took everything from you.”

Her squall recast itself as a hurricane.

And the said hurricane struck her from head to toe, igniting every nerve of her physique.

What is that...

“...Supposed to mean?!!”

The phrase that was to be left as a thought erupted through her lips.

She could feel control back in her grip; Kornel stiffened upon her shift.

He soon repositioned himself to continue his assault, but he had to hold onto the idea.

“Miss Raciela!!”

Bang! Bang!

With a sheer cry, bullets unusually amplified in power directly landed on where Kornel was locating himself.

Kornel hurriedly took steps back, as Takio secured himself before him.

The Union agent winced upon recognizing him.

A purple-haired gunner. A gray-haired werewolf shifter. And an electric whipper with locks of white hair. In whatever circumstances, don’t you ever face off against them. Or so help me......

‘Damn it,’ muttered Kornel in his head, as he composed himself and gritted his teeth.

“Looks like fortune favors you. But don’t you think this is the end of it. Now that I know you are here, you have just provided us with an additional weapon. You’d better mark my words!”

Contrary to his you-can’t-do-anything-about-us stance, Kornel did not waste a second in running for his life.

Takio kept his gun poised and ready to fire until Kornel was made perfectly scarce, to finally turn to Yuigi, who remained immobile until then.

Her reply to his question of her safety was nothing like what he was anticipating.

“Tao.”

“...Sorry?”

“The guy who used to be in DA-5 with you. The one who is still on your team. I need to talk to him.”

(next chapter)

Yes, Kornel belonged to the assassin team under Crombell’s ownership, along with Mark. The fact that he was Mark’s closest friend is my creation for this fic, so I hope there would be no confusion on this matter!

Now this fic is slowly reaching its highlight chapters. I’ll do my best to bring a good finale for my series! :D

#korean webcomic #korean webtoon #fanfic #noblesse #frankenstein #lunark #frankensteinxlunark #wolfsbane

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gloriapace1993 · 4 years

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thejakeformerlyknownasprince · 7 years

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Number 17, The Underground...Aaaaaaand GO!

Short opinion: My hat is off to K.A. Applegate for being maybe the only author on the planet capable of taking a story about teenage superheroes fighting aliens with the power of oatmeal… and making it into a surprisingly serious debate about the morality of chemical warfare.

Long opinion:

As I’ve mentioned before, a lot of what I love about this book is the fact that it refuses to be simple comedy even though it has a nearly-perfect comedy setup. The idea of super-powerful aliens being taken down by otherwise harmless Earth substances is oftentimes played for laughs in other works of sci fi, and the fact that these are teenagers debating about oatmeal adds a whole other layer of ridiculousness to it… But although Applegate acknowledges the humor of the premise in several moments (Jake bemoaning the fact that this battle was destined to end in silliness, Rachel repeating “it’s oatmeal!” six or seven times in a row, etc.) the implications of the premise are distinctly not funny for large parts of this book.

Because this is one of those moments where the Animorphs have a crystal-clear decision between two choices, one of which is probably the right thing to do and the other of which is definitely the easy thing to do. The easy decision would be simply to dump oatmeal in their town’s water main or otherwise ensure that most of the humans would end up eating it, and then pick the partially-freed controllers from the people who just had some weird-tasting water and start getting information from them. Easy would be starting out by poisoning Tom with the oatmeal (since Jake has access to his food supply) and then using whatever advice he can give them to figure out how to poison as many other controllers as possible. Probably the right thing but honestly we’re not sure is spending A FREAKING WEEK tunneling slowly down to the yeerk pool in order to try and poison the yeerks directly, and even then only doing it as a last resort. Probably the right thing is doing everything in the Animorphs’ power to avoid harming the hosts, even when doing so nearly gets them killed. Probably the right thing means continuing to fight back with a minimal possible number of casualties.

Part of what’s so great about the way that the Animorphs reach the decision to go through the huge pain in the butt (and screaming terror, for that matter) of delivering the oatmeal to the yeerk pool in person is the understanding that, no matter how many times Rachel repeats “It’s just oatmeal,” it’s not just oatmeal (#17). According to Marco, “We have green kryptonite here… They’re yeerks. They’re the enemy.” and therefore the oatmeal is destined to be their super-weapon. The way Tobias sees it, “A drug is in the eye of the beholder… If you get addicted to the oatmeal and it messes you up…” and they’d be taking away the autonomy of the yeerks through fighting dirty with chemical warfare. Ax, meanwhile, asks my favorite question: “What about the hosts?”

This debate has a very existential kind of cynicism to it, asking multiple times: if we take oatmeal out of its original context, what does it actually mean? If we choose to interpret it as a chemical weapon (the way Marco and Ax clearly do) then does that make our decision to use it immoral by default? If we choose to see it as a drug (the way Tobias does) then what does that make us if we force people to become addicted? If it is just oatmeal, the way Rachel wants to see it, then does that make using it automatically okay?

Largely unrelated aside: it also fascinates me how much Jake and Cassie aren’t involved in this book. They both largely abstain from the debate about how and whether to use the oatmeal, which Rachel notes is uncharacteristic for them both, and although everyone respects Jake’s right to make the final call on Tom, the issue of whether to use the oatmeal at all gets made largely without his input. We also know why they both seem to be largely along for the ride in this book, because #17 repeatedly harkens back to the events of #16. When they’re all running around as roaches nearly getting squashed after they break out of their banana crate, Jake freaks out more than anyone else and also brings up having been squashed as a fly and mostly-killed in #16. During the earlier debate about how to get into the mental hospital, they discuss the fact that this should be a piece of cake compared to the disastrophe at Joe Bob Finestre’s house (#16), and they only see poor George Edelman try to kill himself because everyone convinces Jake that after last mission they really really need a vacation. Cassie pretty much explicitly says that the reason she’s abstaining from the oatmeal-morality discussion is that she’s really not sure what’s right or wrong anymore, given that she not only tried to commit murder in (relatively) cold blood last book, but also tried to use Jake as her means of doing so. We can see the impact that this war is having on the kids, because both Jake and Cassie have this attitude of not even knowing who they are anymore, much less being able to trust themselves.

Speaking of the impact of war on identity, one of the more fascinating motifs in this story is just how much time Rachel spends interrogating her own roles. She’s not really one for self-reflection, at least not compared to Tobias or Jake, and so it’s striking that she does stop and take a moment to reflect on her place within her team and within her family at several points in this book. Just before they’re about to go into the yeerk pool, she thinks “Everyone in a group has a role to play. At least that’s how it always works out. My role was to say, ‘Let’s do it. Let’s go. That’s what we came here for.’ But I was tired. And I’d had a really, really bad few days digging down to this stupid cave… So I said, «Let’s do it. That’s what we came here for.»” Rachel understands that in many ways the team needs her to be brave and gung-ho, because she’s the force dragging them forward, toward danger and also toward victory. When none of them want to be the first to tunnel down as moles, she volunteers without (outward) hesitation. When they reach the cave filled with bats and end up forced to demorph down there, she emphasizes that this is a good thing. When everyone is exhausted and cornered in the yeerk pool, she becomes the one to get them off their butts and toward an exit plan. When everyone else is too wiped out and traumatized from the battle to worry about tying up loose ends, she becomes the one to go make sure George Edelman’s still going to be okay.

Because it’s what she does. Because she’s Xena. Because she has to be, even though this book opens up with her looking down at Lucy Lawless and realizing that they’re both just acting as Xena, because there’s no such thing as Xena, because when people look at her and see Xena they’re inevitably projecting something that’s not real. However, as Rachel says, “sometimes it’s hard to get out of a role once you’ve started playing the part” (#17). She’s genuinely not sure who she is, if not Xena.

Although that’s not the only role she plays. This book also has several moments with Rachel at home, where we see her in a different role entirely. Rachel is not, perhaps, doing as well as Marco or Jake at playing the role of an ordinary civilian. It’s not often that we see PTSD come out in the form of hypervigilance or impulsivity in fiction, but we do see it a lot in this particular series with Rachel. She yells at Jordan for throwing out her rotting leftovers, snaps at her mom for expecting her to be an ordinary teenager, and generally behaves as though she doesn’t have time for her family at all. We as the reader understand why Rachel’s on such a hair-trigger, given the kind of week (month, year) she’s had at the time, but Naomi still has every right to be worried and Jordan still has every right to be annoyed. They’re not seeing Rachel’s internal justification for her willingness to blow up at anyone who so much as looks at her wrong; they’re just seeing the explosions. And Rachel understands on some level that she’s failing in the role of sister-and-daughter. That she should have priorities outside of the war, but that she’s dropping the ball on most of them.

The series seems to have another mini-motif in this cycle of books, given how much role interrogation the other four do in the surrounding novels. If the early 30’s are all about the Animorphs alone, the late teens are about role-reflection and the realization that the role of Child Whom Parents Care For is now officially out of reach. #16, as I mentioned, is all about Jake trying to figure out who a leader is, what a leader does, and how he can play the part of The Great Man From History while also being a good friend; the entire book goes back and forth between that idea and the domestic scenes where his family treats him like the baby (since he is) as he comes to the realization that, not only can they not protect him anymore, but he might not be able to protect them. Before that, #15 gets into Marco’s conflict between being a good son to his dad and being a good son to his mom, which (thanks to Visser One) are mutually oppositional roles and leave him with the conclusion that if he can only save one it’ll have to be his dad. #18 once again shows an Animorph fleeing into the arms of home and family, only to realize that those aren’t sources of comfort or safety anymore, only in this case it’s Ax coming to realize that he won’t just be going home and rejoining the andalites anytime soon, so he might as well get used to looking to Jake as his prince. Although #19 ends up focusing on Cassie alone in the woods with Karen and Aftran, a lot of what drives her out there is the scene where she looks at her parents and does the math that she is older and more hardened than they will ever be, and that she has already infected their innocence and goodness with her darkness.

This book and its surrounding fellows are a lot about settling into the war for the long haul. And that leads to (and from) the question: What are we really doing in this war? How are we going to fight it? What compromises are we willing to make, and what ones are we unwilling to touch? If it’s not “just oatmeal,” then what are we going to do about it?

#animorphs reviews #xena: warrior princess #rachel berenson #17 #the underground #animorphs #ptsd #oatmeal

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notafraidofstopping876 · 7 years

Text

So for my senior acting recital I’m closing with “Watch What Happens” from Newsies and the scene leading into it.

Part of my homework for it is creating a character bio, and this is what I wrote for Katherine. (It’s my personal interpretation, with as much ties to the real Pulitzer family that I could tie in).

Enjoy!

Who am I?

My name is Katherine Ethel Pulitzer, and I am seventeen years old. I was born to Joseph and Katherine Pulitzer in 1882.

My father runs New York City newspaper The New York World, and holds monopoly on most major printing presses in New York City, making him one of its most powerful men.

As such, I come from great wealth and luxury. I was raised in a house hold full of servants, and never wanted for anything. However, I was never like my sisters, or the daughters of my father’s wealthy friends in the newspaper business. I always gravitated towards wanting to play with their sons, and wanting to run around outside and be active instead of cooped up inside with needlework or dolls. To this day I’m still friends with several of them, such as Darcy whose father owns the Tribune, and Bill, the son of William Randolph Hearst.

My parents tolerated my “unladylike” behavior when I was small, but the older I get the more they try to mold me into what their idea of a proper young lady is, grooming me to marry well. But no matter how hard I tried to please them, I just couldn’t dampen my sense of adventure and even now I have a growing urge to rebel against them, my father especially.

But despite how much I sometimes resent him for all those years of “Sweetie don’t get your dress dirty” and “Why can’t you be more like your sisters?” I did learn many valuable lessons from him, such as the power of the press. I watched him control the entire city not only with his wealth, but with what was printed in his papers. In recent years my eyes were opened to how he would abuse this power, overworking and underpaying his employees, having people spy on and take down anyone who might threaten his position, and swaying his readership by controlling everything printed in The New York World.

Two years ago, however, a reporter named Nellie Bly made her way into my father’s newspaper, and shocked everyone with her undercover work for a story for the Woman’s Lunatic Asylum on Black Island. It wasn’t long before even my father started taking her seriously as a reporter despite her gender. I finally had the chance to meet her and she became a mentor to me, encouraging me to do my own writing and helping me improve over the last two years.

Earlier this year, I finally decided to follow in her footsteps and try to make it as a reporter myself. While my father wasn’t thrilled with the idea, he didn’t outright forbid me either. I refused to work for his newspaper where everyone knew me as the boss’s daughter. I didn’t want anybody else to look on me any differently because of the family name either, so I took up the pen name Katherine Plummer. Nellie wrote me a letter of recommendation, which helped me land a position at the New York Sun.

So far however, I have yet to write any hard news. I’ve been confined to the social pages, reviewing flower shows and vaudeville performances. It’s very frustrating not getting to write about the issues and topics that really matter, but even Nellie Bly had to write about entertainment and the like until she got her big break, so I’m doing my best to persevere and pay my dues.

It was actually while I was on the job covering a show that I may have stumbled upon my big opportunity. I was at the Bowery Stage, when a scrappy newsboy came into my box. I had bumped into him earlier, strolling with Darcy on my way to work that morning. He and one of his newsie buddies tried to make a pass at me, but I quickly shut him down. Yet somehow we ended up at the same variety show, and he found his way into my private box, and insisted on trying to flirt with me despite my protestations.

He said his name was Jack Kelly, and that he worked for the New York World as a paper boy. I failed to mention that my father owned that paper, as I’ve been trying to keep my anonymity, and because it really wasn’t his business anyway. He eventually left, but not before leaving behind a piece of newspaper he was carrying. Upon picking it up I realized that it was a drawing of me that he had drawn right there. I don’t know what I was expecting him to leave but that certainly wasn’t it. I was stunned that such an exquisite drawing came from this scruffy, cocky and annoying boy. At this point I had very mixed feelings about this Jack Kelly, but didn’t think I’d run into him again, but I would be proven wrong.

I had dropped by my father’s office earlier today, where low and behold I spotted him AGAIN trying to get in to speak with my father. This time he was accompanied by two other newsies, one his age and the other much younger, couldn’t have been any older than ten. One of my father’s security men forcibly threw them out through the front doors, barking at them to stay out. That made my blood boil, partially because as much as I hated to admit it I found myself fascinated by this Jack Kelly, but it especially angered me that they did this to the little boy.

I confronted the guard about it, who insisted he was just doing his job, and that some “ragamuffin boys mumbling about a strike was not worthy of Mr. Pulitzer’s time”. The word strike immediately caught my attention and I sought out Mr. Wiesel, the man hired to distribute and sell the papers to the newsies every morning. As it turns out, my father had made the decision to raise the prices of the newsies’ papers, from fifty cents per hundred to sixty cents. Not only that, they had decided to go on strike, and Jack was leading it.

My gut reaction was one of outrage at my father. I knew his paper sales had been down ever since the Spanish-American war ended, but that was true for all the papers across town, and it certainly wasn’t any skin off of his back in the long run. What business of it was his to make life difficult for those boys? But then I realized just how massive the situation really was. A group of Davids were readying to take on Goliath, the biggest paper in New York City no less, and I was one of the first reporters to know about it. It was then that I knew I had to pick up this story

After deciding that the newsboys’ strike could be my big chance I’ve been waiting for, I spent the afternoon trying to convince my boss to let me run with the story. He wasn’t keen on the idea. He eventually gave me permission to write my story, but that I would have to really impress him for the story to actually run.

Overjoyed and slightly overwhelmed from the pressure I raced back to The World to try to put together the pieces of the story. Wiesel told me I could find the boys at Jacobi’s Deli, the off-hours meeting place for the newsies.

What time is it?

It’s a little after four P.M.., July 21st, 1899.

Where am I?

I am outside of Jacobi’s Deli in Lower Manhattan, the watering hole so to speak for the newsies. From there I leave for my office at the New York Sun.

What surrounds me?

In front of Jacobi’s Deli the streets are about as quiet as New York City ever is, with much of the city still at work. The occasional pedestrian walks by. The roughly paved stone streets sit beneath my shoes. The air is laid with the smell of deli meats from inside as Mister Jacobi gets ready for the dinner shift.

In my office is my typewriter at my small desk where I write all my stories. On the wall is hanging Nellie Bly’s undercover story on the women’s asylum that she did for the New York World. For the most part however my office is simply functional, supplies for my work, such as ink, typewriter ink, a wastebasket, and film for my camera and the like. I purposely don’t keep many personal items at the office, trying not to reveal too much about my wealth or my family name to any of my coworkers, especially my boss.

What is my fourth wall?

At Jacobi’s is a rundown street in need of repaving, and the summer sun still high in the sky.

At my office is the framed story from Nellie Bly in front of the faded wallpaper. I was given one of the smallest dingiest offices as I am still not considered a serious reporter by anyone at The New York Sun.

What are my given circumstances?

Hot on the story, I found Jack Kelly and the rest of the newsies at Jacobi’s Deli. When I came in several of the boys were taken aback by my presence and wouldn’t take me seriously at first, Jack included. Finally I admitted that yes, I was just busting out of the social pages, and finally broke through to them that I was there to help them. Jack has agreed to an interview and given me instruction to be at The World first thing in the morning to photograph the strike.

What is my relationship?

I have only met Jack Kelly yesterday. At first I thought he was just a cheeky imp, and so far the handful of interactions I’ve had with him have proven that true. But beneath that, he is a talented artist and is brave enough to take on a powerful man such as my father for what he believes is right, which I have to commend him for. He has expressed definite interest in me romantically, but I’m not sure how I feel about him in that regard. He is definitely handsome and there are qualities in him I admire, but I have to remain objective so I can do my job.

What do I want?

I want to interview Jack Kelly and then write my story on the Newsboys’ Strike, both to further myself as a journalist and to help them out with their cause that I sympathize with.

What is in my way?

Jack is not taking my questions seriously and keeps trying to flirt with me. Also, this is the biggest story I’ve ever written and there’s a lot of pressure on me, to help the boys and to finally prove myself to everyone in my work.

What do I do to get what I want?

Encourage Jack to open up to me, shut down his attempts to be frisky, maintain my professional composure, keep my identify as his boss’s daughter hidden, give my support for his cause off the record, remind myself why I took on this story, give myself a pep talk for motivation, and quickly sort through the emotions racking my mind.

What do I expect?

I expect that if I really apply myself and chase after the story, Jack Kelly will eventually come around and I’ll get my story published.

#newsies #newsies forever #katherine plumber #katherine plummer #katherine pulitzer #watch what happens #joseph pulitzer #the newsboys strike of 1899 #les jacobs #davey jacobs #jack kelly #kara lindsay #stephanie styles #liana hunt #morgan keene #nellie bly

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