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airas-story · 10 months

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Repercussions of Folly

“I made a mistake,” Tony said. Stephen paused, taking stock of Tony’s tone of voice. Not desperate or terrified, so whatever his mistake was, it wasn’t about to break reality or anything like that.

“What did you do?”

Tony was quiet for a moment. “I made Peter and Harley paintball guns. And because that wasn’t enough, Ned and MJ showed up.”

Stephen grimaced, that was definitely a problem. “Yes, that would be—“

“Oh, that wasn’t the mistake. That was the prelude to the mistake,” Tony interrupted.

Stephen put down his book, because Harley and Peter with paintball guns was bad enough. How was that the prelude to the mistake? The two of them had probably already made a mess of the training grounds, ambushed half the Avengers, and accidentally ingested the paint somehow.

How he didn’t know, but he also didn’t doubt it.

Tony had hopefully foreseen that though and made the paint non-toxic for just that inevitability.

Peter and Harley were absolute menaces. That wasn’t even taking into account how much worse they were when being egged on, which both Ned and MJ would do, though for different reasons. Ned because he genuinely thought it would be a good idea, MJ because she liked to court chaos.

“What did you do?” he asked again. Because things could only get worse if that wasn’t the mistake.

“Look, DUM-E was feeling left out!” Tony defended, but the defense fell short. He knew exactly what he’d done and knew Stephen wouldn’t have any sympathy for him. “I couldn’t stand it. He was moping, dragging the fire extinguisher around like a teddy bear and making those little sad beeping noises he does when I throw out the oil-tainted coffee.”

“And just like when you throw out the coffee, you need to learn to resist. You don’t drink oil-tainted coffee to make DUM-E feel better, just like you don’t give DUM-E a paintball gun he can use.”

Though Stephen was, he admitted, curious to see how Tony had managed that when DUM-E had only the one claw. But he also didn’t put it past Tony to manage it.

“But, Stephen—“

Stephen shook his head, despite the fact that Tony couldn’t see it. “No. You do not give DUM-E paintball guns.”

“U felt left out, too.”

Stephen groaned. “Let me guess, your lab is a mess.”

Tony was quiet for a minute. “Maybe the whole compound? They wanted to join Harley and Peter and the others.”

Forget half the Avengers. Stephen was suddenly quite certain that every single one of them had fallen prey.

“Why, exactly, are you calling me?” Stephen was not, under any circumstances, going to be present at the compound until all paintball guns had been confiscated.

Absolutely not.

“Well, you see… I was hoping that, as my loving husband, you would help me with the whole ‘there’s paint everywhere’ issue. I’m making everyone who participated clean the training area by hand.” As he should. “But… uh, it’s a really big compound and there’s a lot of paint.”

“And why would I do that?” Stephen asked. “The mystic arts are not a cleaning tool.”

Tony scoffed. “You say that, and yet I saw you reenacting Fantasia.”

“That was once,” Stephen defended, automatically glancing to make sure that Wong wasn’t there to give him the evil eye again. “And you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t do the same in my position.”

Tony scoffed. “Of course I would.”

“Wong explicitly told me I was an idiot for that.”

“But he didn’t say you couldn’t do it again,” Tony pointed out.

That… that was actually true. It’d been implied, but Stephen was a professional when it came to ignoring implications he didn’t want to accept. Which Wong knew. Which meant that if he hadn’t specifically said not to, then really, it was almost the same as blanket permission to.

“Plus,” Tony added. “I’m having a hard time grounding everyone. Well, everyone minus Ned and MJ who I have no authority to ground. I need you to be the disciplinarian.”

Stephen scoffed. “No. Disciplinarian duties belong to you, because you’re the one who let this happen.”

“Exactly. They’re not going to take me seriously when I… might have joined in.”

Stephen closed his eyes. Of course, of course Tony had joined in. Stephen almost felt bad for all the other Avengers stuck in that compound with Tony and the kids. …Though if he had to guess at least half of them had given into the inevitable and joined in as well.

Children, all of them.

“Fine. But the moment someone tries to get paint on me, I’m banishing them somewhere unpleasant.”

“I have confiscated all paintball guns,” Tony defended. “If anyone gets paint on you, it’s not my fault.”

Stephen scoffed. “Oh, it’s your fault. If I’m pretending to be the disciplinarian, you’re going to get a lecture with the kids.”

“Fair enough,” Tony admitted. “Now come save me from the repercussions of my own folly.”

#ironstrange #fic #tony stark #stephen strange #this one got a little longer than expected #whoops

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whatdoesshedotothem · 2 years

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[KISS] Friday 11 August 1837

7 35

12 40

[KISS] last night she had pain in her stomach gave her a tablespoonful of sheer brandy she turned to me and had a goodish kiss I heard her crying afterwards I feigned sleep and talked said distinctly ‘the receipt you see is of no use to him’ (Mr. William Priestley against her aunt) this caught her attention and I think helped to stop the hysteric tears and she fell asleep – fine but dullish morning and F59° now at 8 ½ - out about (A- off to Cliff hill rode to the top of the turnpike hill and George walked by the side) till breakfast with Mr. Gray at 9 ¼ in about ¾ hour – proposed his publishing – he mentioned Hogarth’s print illustrating false perspective and said he had some sketches of his shewing the common faults in composition – E.G. a sundial – a lady sitting – a little dove-cote set on a pillar – so placed that looking from a window the lady sitting with her feet on the sundial, and the dove-cote to be resting on the ladys’ shoulders! a few spirited sketches of this sort with a well-written humorous text nicely got up in 4to. would take, and pay? out with G- at 10 – busy planning terrace tower stair – 19ft. 7in. of descent – want an ou-vouz-savez and a small garden tool house opening upon this little staircase then planning about the troughs in the carriage court – the larger set this afternoon – the little field trough brought down this evening and left ready for setting tomorrow and G- and I after Hainsworth busy ordering about stone (one long one) to form the archey architrave of the pillars to support the carriage court rain water cistern – Mr.Hainsworth came at 9 this morning but with Booth till who checked and signed his bill for stones for Shibden hall the garden etc – settled with Hainsworth – paid him in full for the wheel-race ashler 47.15.11+ £130 paid in a/c = £177.15.11 and paid his bill from 30 April to 4th instant for stones =£56.9.0 ½ - his last ½ years’ upper Place quarry rent = £28.2.6 – then sat talking politics – H- all for my association system – he himself can influence – can count upon – (he made?) 20 votes – Mr. Holroyde the attorney their present active secretary to the conservative association of which Mr. John Edwards Dyson is chairman – all application to be made to, and information given to Mr. Holroyde – but Hainsworth himself could give a great deal of information – he and Messrs. JE.D- and Mr. Holroyde would be glad to come here, and talk things over – said I should be glad to see them – Mrs. Prescott (Hainsworth’s landlady) would lay nothing out – for £40 might have made another vote and H- would have paid her £3 a year more rent – no! but he had laid the money out himself on a condition in the lease to be paid or take the buildings away on his leaving the farm (Folly) – lastly mentioned the cattle market (Hainsworth knew of 12 masters who would act with him in politics if not afraid – if sure of being borne out) – I saw H- was not much for it – knew nothing about it – the town had a field for the purpose in Pellon lane – but owned at last that people would not take their cattle there, so cold and out of the way – I said I was indifferent about the market being in my ground – why not be in Mr. Pollards on the other side of North parade – but if the market did not extend below a certain limit, I could make it derange my plans so little that I should make no objection if the town and I could agreed as to terms – I could only let them have about 6300 yards – but the horses might be shewn, in the north parade road which would give about 1000 yards more room = 7300 yards but they wanted 3D.W. or 9000+ yards – in a fortnight or 3 weeks should have a birds’ eye view of my idea of laying out the ground – mentioned my idea of an exchange that might be if wanted – (a circle of 20 yards diameter) and if not a circle of small shops – but something must pay – H- asked if I had many applications for the hotel or if it was let I forget which – I said I thought I had let it sometime ago but that it was not yet exactly settled – I thought however it would not stand long empty after it was finished – but it was so planned that it would easily turn into shops and private dwellings – something must pay – said I had began my platform and hoped to have my colliery complete in 2 years – should loose 112 acres of coal of my own – did not .:. want to buy any – and when the 112 acres were got I had a still further loose, and all was arranged accordingly – H- here from 11 to 2 – then out again at 2 20 all the afternoon till came in at 7 25 ((vid. line 14 of last p.) in the carriage court and about – at six went with G- to the Lodge. Mawsons’ 6 men just going away – then to the platform – and at the back Lodge – stood sometime talking to the gardener about [?] Hemingway’s son aetatis 17 coming on trial – the father came to me between 2 and 3 pm to ask me for work himself or to take his son – at any wages I liked so long as they would keep him and leave something for shoes etc. said I dared not give him any hope but would think about it – the gardener would keep (board lodge and wash and sew for him for 7/. a week) and 2/. more would be enough to give him – the gardener himself had but 6/. a week at Mrs. Cunliffe’s – paid a shilling a week to an old woman for sewing and cooking for him had but 5/. a week to feed and clothe himself and slept in the garden shed – came in at 7 25 dinner at 7 35 – coffee – A- came upstairs at 10 and I about 10 25 – having stood talking to G- about the 2 letters applications for the hotel to Mr. Lever (Charles, Esquire) 10 Kings’ Road, Bedford Row, London and forwarded by him to Messrs. Parker and Adam, and received per post in blank envelope from Mr. Parker tonight – one applicant late of St. Leonards’ hotel Hastings asking many questions in a very neat good hand – the other from the Adelphi Liverpool – George Bacon – asking if the proprietor would object ‘to put a young man in the hotel to manage it on his own account’ (i.e. the proprietors’) ‘for the 1st year then after that time if he finds the young man goes on according to his satisfaction he will let him have the hotel at a certain rent and take the stock at a valuation’ – G- thinks well of this and would answer it soon – but I need not do so of ten days – G- would ask the young man’s prospects etc – Mr. Charles P- coming at 10am tomorrow to hear what he says – A- and Messrs. G- and Harper think CP- will not take it – I think he will – to open the conversation tomorrow by asking his advice about the tap – and I shall ask him if he knows anything about Mr. George Barker of the Adelphi – A- in bed when I came upstairs at 10 25 at which hour F57° - fine day – ¼ hour looking about me in the west tower and about its staircase then till 11 40 wrote all the above of today – Mark Hepworth and 3 carts carrying terrace-stuff from opposite tower to front of house embankment and Mawson’s men sod-walling with platform sods from Back Lodge downwards – Edward and John (Waddington and Sharpe) doing the red room passage top and window and doorway into tower – and Firth the glazier and his 2?man at the leading that is to cover the passage – Parkinson and his men at the terrace walls, and Nelsons 2 or 3 men at terrace tower

Hemingway had been at Rotterdam in June 36 hours going 29 hours returning Steamer starts every Wednesday night £2.10.0 cabin fare. 15/. steerage

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trashheappro · 16 days

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The Anomaly - Ch. 16

Ch: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16

Miguel once adored the thrill of being Spiderman. Miguel O’ Hara was surrounded by hardship and trauma, but Spiderman was free; nothing but the crisp, slightly polluted air of Nueva York and the tug of gravity. Spiderman was a hero, a protector, a symbol. It had been so simple to forget all the struggles of Miguel O’ Hara when he put on that mask. It felt good.

But there was still a man behind that mask. A man who fell folly to what many before him have; trying to live up to expectations. Spiderman was a hero; of course he wanted to make the city a better place. Spiderman was a protector; of course he would defend the Great Web from the anomalies that threatened to destroy it. Spiderman was a symbol; he had to be someone people rallied behind.

But Miguel O’ Hara was just a man who spread himself too thin. Sleepless nights slaving away in his lab, developing the next tool to either deal with the anomalies or the tears in space they left behind. Skipped meals because there was always something that needed his attention, and when he did get a chance to eat it, they were quick things that were easy to shovel in his mouth. His eyes constantly ached from the orange glow of his monitors and followed him when he closed his eyelids for whatever short nap he managed to sneak in.

To be Spiderman was an honor, a responsibility few could live up to.

Being Spiderman ate him alive.

There was no balance between Spiderman and self. Too many people relied on Spiderman-2099, and Miguel… Well, the people who used to rely on Miguel O’ Hara didn't anymore.

There was no more ‘thrill’ in being Spiderman, only the arduous weight of sacrifice. He just had hoped it would only be his sacrifice and not the people around him. He should have known better. Things never went the way he wanted.

It was a cold night in this particular New York. No one and nothing to keep him company at this odd 4 AM in Central Park besides his thoughts. No stars, not in this New York. Not in most. The moon drifted away from him, rapidly approaching the west to set and let the sun rise.

Funny to think he was finally without work, yet still, very reasonably, sleep did not come easy to him. Miles and the Spot have been dragging him across the multiverse for over a month already. They were anomalies in more ways than one. Miguel couldn’t have imagined that between the two of them, he'd have more of a rapport with the Spot than the sweet kid Peter B used to gush about. Yet here was was, nursing aging wounds from Miles that were tended to by the Spot.

Miguel never imagined being in this scenario in the first place. He always thought that if one of his nemeses were to get revenge on him, he would face a healthy sprinkle of torture until death, but… but not like this. He expected physical torture and the mental toll would simply be the result of that, but this was almost the opposite. Miles meticulously planned out every collapse of a universe, every murder of a Spider, all for him to watch; the beatings were almost an afterthought.

Miguel would take any amount of hits if it meant he never had to hear the shrill chorus of death again, if it meant he never had to feel the violent vibrations as the air struggled to hold itself together, never had to watch the sky scream in flashing colors, or the ground shake as it caved to the inevitable.

Miguel would easily choose to take their place if it meant his Spiders didn’t have to face the cruel end of Miles’ claws, if it meant they had a chance to stand against him, to never see the way their bodies fell after giving their all and still losing, or see the way Miles turned to him with glee in his eyes and their blood splattered against his baby round cheeks, or way the blood ran from their cooling corpses and sunk between the small divots in the concrete, an infection never able to be fully removed because it seeped into every pore and pebble and how could anyone even dream of being rid of it.

IF HE COULD GET THE RED OUT FROM BEHIND HIS EYES.

If Miguel could just save them, he wouldn’t mind the eternal limbo between life and death. But he didn’t get that choice.

Pain radiated from his palms. He unclenched his fists and retracted his talons. He exhaled a shaky breath. He sat quietly on the wooden park bench. A lone lightpost a few yards from him gave off a soft glow. It didn’t quite reach him.

Should Miguel have done nothing? Should he have let be the universal distortion he discovered all those years ago? If he let those first few universes fall, would they be where they were now? Would those sacrifices have lessened the losses they have now? If he never picked up a long dead mantle would all those universes still remain? If George O’ Hara took his beating too far, would the multiverse be better off?

Maybe.

Or maybe it would have all gone to shit anyway.

What was Miguel even doing here? There were so many other things he could be doing, but here he was doing absolutely nothing. He looked up at the skyline, just making out the Oscorp building in the distance, a major tech giant in most universes. Maybe. Maybe not. His eyes fell back down to his lap. The blood from his palms stained his sweatpants. He looked back up to the skyline, at the blackened silhouette of the skyscrapers.

“It’s past your curfew.” Miles appeared from out of the shadows on the opposite side of the bench.

“I thought I only had a cage.” Miguel didn’t even turn to look at him.

“No, you have a leash too and I opted to make it a little longer today.”

Because that was all he was to them; a pet. Even that was a stretch. Miguel was their toy, to push and pull, to beat and drag through the dirt as they pleased. He sighed. “What are you doing here, Miles?”

“Just wanted to see what our ‘ol mittens got up to.”

“You got a tracker on these things,” he lifted up a cuffed hand. “Could have just stayed at the apartment.”

“Sure, but you could be scheming.”

No, he wasn’t. “And? You can’t cage my mind.”

Miles saw it as a challenge. “Says who?” “Says you. A lobotomy would defeat my purpose here, wouldn’t it?”

The boy scoffed and crossed his arms. “Whatever, man,” he conceded. He leaned against the bench and followed Miguel’s sightline to Oscorps’ logo. “So you have been planning your great escape.”

Miguel tried it many times, put up a fight even more, but these damned cuffs. Even when they gave him a full dose of his serum, he was still at their mercy. Scratch, claw, tear, no matter how beserk Miguel went, Miles would tell the Spot to stay out of it. No matter how battered, bruised, or bloodied Miles got, they fought until either collapsed. The kid was testing himself and he was getting better, but so was Miguel.

“You can’t keep me here, Miles. It’s only a matter of time.” If they wanted to treat him as a pet, so be it. He was a jaguar pacing its enclosure, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Miles huffed. “I’ll let you cook.”

Miguel’s nose scrunched. “What?”

The confusion transferred over to Miles, confused at Miguel’s confusion. “What?”

“Cook?”

“Like… you’re cooking?”

“Where– There’s–” Miguel looked around. “We’re not in a kitchen.”

“Like coming up with a plan and doing it well.” Miles sounded confused at his own explanation, or rather that he had to explain at all.

This only confused Miguel further. “But how does cooking…?”

Miles gave him a strange look of disbelief. “Like getting ingredients and putting it together to make something delicious, I guess. Cook.”

“Oh,” Miguel said, finally nodding in understanding. “Like ‘dev.’”

Miles blinked furiously at him. “Dev?”

“Like ‘who has the devs’ or ‘you’re dev.’”

“You’ve explained nothing.”

Miguel struggled to come up with an answer. It was like talking to his abuela. How do you explain such a 2099 colloquialism to… someone from the early 2000s. This was why he did his best to keep his language plain and devoid of any slang back at the Society. “It basically means plan. So ‘who came up with the plan’ or ‘you’re in charge’.”

Miles scoffed. “Who comes up with this stuff?”

“Probably the same sort of people who came up with cook.”

Miles snorted. “Was that a joke?”

“I don't do jokes.”

“That kinda sounded like a joke to me.”

Miguel heaved a sigh. What was the point in arguing with the kid over something so trivial? He spent enough energy actually fighting him. “Do you really need to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Goad me into an argument.” His eyes trailed back to the looming building of Oscorp.

“Why not?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to kill me and be done with it? Move on to other things?”

“For you maybe.”

“You don’t think it would be better for your mental health to be rid of me?”

“That would imply I’m not doing exactly what I want to be doing.” So Miles has previously said. Questioning him was like walking in circles.

Miguel leaned back, chin tilted up towards the black night sky. “I see through your facade, Miles. Trying to play off your playful violence for something it’s not.”

“What’s that?”

“Power. Control.”

Miles was coiled tight standing over him. “Are you saying I have neither?”

“I am.” He closed his eyes and let the chill press against his cheeks. “You have strength but are weak, and call it power. You chain me down and put a collar around my neck and call it control. But it’s not.”

“Then what–”

“Hey,” a distant voice called out, too deep to be the Spot.

Miguel cracked an eye open.

Miles snapped to look at the offending figure walking up to them.

“You guys look like you’re having fun.” His face was obscured in the darkness of the hoodie pulled over his head.

Miles crossed his arms. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing, I was just wondering if you wanted to have some more fun.”

Miles took a step back. His face filled with skepticism and a hint of disgust. “I don’t know man. Sounds kind of weird.”

“No! Nothing weird! I got all sorts of fun things. Anything you need, my man. Amps, tabs, special k, blow, you name it, I got it.”

“Blow?” Miguel asked incredulously. “What year are we in?”

“Whatever year you want it to be, my friend.”

Miguel rolled his eyes. “Not interested.”

“What about you, little man?”

“No,” Miguel answered for Miles before he could even think not to. His captor leveled him with a look, but seemed more interested in seeing how this played out. “He’s a minor,” he tacked on rather lamely.

“And that’s what makes drugs not ok?” Miles raised a brow at him.

“No,” Miguel ran a hand over his face. “I just meant that… It’s worse.”

“Oh, you mean it makes it extra illegal.” Miles brightened as the exasperation grew on his face.

“Sure.”

The guy waved them off. “Ah, that’s just what the man tells you. A lot of things that were illegal aren’t illegal now and vice versa.”

Miles tilted his head back at Miguel in a way that meant he was taking none of this seriously. “He’s got a point.” He grinned. A sickeningly familiar mirth. Miguel was just here for his entertainment, his suffering was his entertainment. To struggle was to feed into that. But still…

“He does not,” Miguel deadpanned. “It’s a false equivalency.”

Why was he even trying to protect this kid? Miles didn’t need him to save him from some shady, and quite frankly bad, drug dealer. Hell, given his history and his situation, Miles was the one who should be making sure he didn’t get tempted by the cloying promise of blissful oblivion.

Now that he thought about it…

No. Never again.

“I just want to have a little fun,” the dealer said. “First ones free.” Wow, this guy was bad at his job. That was such an old tactic to get people hooked on drugs. It was so obvious. Maybe this guy was being complacent because they hadn’t yet called the police.

“Ooo,” Miles cooed, drawn in by the promise of free things. Oh, you got to be kidding–

Ah, that was it. He was still just a kid.

“No,” Miguel said.

“I mean, it’s free and you never know, maybe we’ll–”

Miguel shot up out of his seat. “No, absolutely not.”

“Aw come on, he’s old enough to make his own decisions,” the pendejo dared to say.

“He’s a minor!”

Miles bristled. The playfulness left his features, replaced by a scowl. Miguel didn’t care if he hated being called anything close to a kid; he was. He was a kid and there was no way Miguel was going to let this creep anywhere near him.

The guy waved it off. “Ah, that doesn’t matter nowadays. How old are you, kid?”

“It’s none of your business,” Miguel stepped forward, shoving Miles behind him.

“I mean you’re being a bit of a hypocrite. You were blasted out of your mind.”

“I was not.”

“What else would you be doing in a park at 4 in the morning?”

“I’m telling you to back off.”

“Ok, maybe you do need some free samples because you gotta chill, man,” the man so stupidly pressed.

“I said no!” He loomed over the man. His eyes glowed a dangerous red. His talons peeking out from his skin. His nerves were on edge and his short patience was worn. He bared his fangs and snarled. “I won’t repeat myself again.”

The man tried to shove Miguel away, but he might as well have been a brick wall. “What the fuck?”

Miguel grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “Maybe I do the world a favor, get some drugs off the street and a guy who doesn’t understand the meaning of no.”

“Fucking freak, let go of me!”

“Is that really the language you want to use right now?” He flashed his extended talons in front of the quivering man’s face.

Fear overtook anger. “I-I’m sorry! I’ll go! I’ll go! Just let me go!” Miguel scoffed and basically dropped him. He hadn’t realized he pulled the man up closer towards him. He tripped, landing hard on his ass before scrambling away from them.

Both he and Miles watched the man run off the way he came.

“That was very unfriendly of you,” Miles said.

“He’s alive, isn’t he?” Miguel sighed and ran a tired hand over his eyes. “Let’s just go back to the apartment.”

Miles shrugged and followed Miguel as they walked towards the exit. The silence between them grew. The Spot wasn’t here to interject with something dumb for them to comment on and Miles’ taunting playfulness evaporated. They passed by a large fountain as they left, from here it would take… far too long to get back. If he had his suit he could just swing back, unfortunately that was practically a dream at this point. He turned to walk towards the subway.

“I can make my own choices,” Miles said eventually.

Miguel blinked at him. “That much is very clear.”

“I don’t need you talking for me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You did.” Miles stopped walking. “And we could have taken the freebies! I’m sure Mr. Ohnn could have found a use for them.”

“You know he’s not an actual doctor, right?” If anything, drugs were a little closer to Miguel’s field of study.

“I’m just saying, they were free!”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“I just wanted to get us away from that guy.”

“It’s not him I was worried about.”

“What? Scared of some pills?”

Miguel sighed. “Not all of them are pills,” was all he could think to say.

“If you were that worried about it, then you should have just killed him!”

Miguel rubbed his temples. “Dealers are the lowest rung in the ladder and are often victims of addiction too. Killing him wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Miles scoffed, annoyed at the lecture. “I just don’t get why you were acting like he had a bomb.”

“Miles, I know what that stuff can do.” Miguel said plainly. “It ruins lives.”

“I know that!” Of course, he did. His dad had been a cop and his mother a nurse.

“I was an addict.” Not of his own volition, but Miles didn’t need to know the details. “Technically, still am because of the serum.”

“Oh.” Miles fidgeted. Perhaps uncomfortable with the revelation, not that Miguel understood why; Miles knew of his regular serum doses. Perhaps because it boosted his powers it didn’t seem much like an addiction. And it wasn’t like he could really do much with this information in way of torture.

Miguel shrugged and gestured for Miles to get moving. They still had about an hour commute to get back to the apartment. Joy. “You can go ahead. Trains run really infrequently at this time.”

Miles hummed, acknowledging the suggestion, but still followed behind Miguel until they stood at the entrance to the subway. He activated his gauntlets and stuck a hand out towards the skyline. “No scheming,” he said, playfulness returning to his voice.

Miguel rolled his eyes. He took one step down before pausing. So did Miles. “Oh,” he said. “And don’t do drugs, not unless you want to become like me.”

“Alone, powerless, and miserable.”

“And about to brave the stench of the New York subway for over an hour.”

That wrung a laugh from Miles’ lips.

#Spiderverse #platonic!spottedflowerfang #Miles Morales & Miguel O'Hara & The Spot #Miles Morales #Miguel O'Hara #The Anomaly #trashtexts

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sleepydross · 1 year

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Spiritual Modification | Transcendent Soul Mutation Examination: The Enochian Connectome Compatability Engine Author: Dr. Ankel Vikal, PHD, MTP, Director of Magical Concerns for the Union Of Earth.

The Enochian Connectome Compatability Engine served as the primary vector through which humankind became aware of the very concept of the malleable, modifiable, customizable soul. During the Breach Event, or as the Hellions and Reapers call it, The Re-connection, it was discovered by Dr. Valerie Walters and her research assistant Kenneth Anders, when Dr. Walters herself was interacting with, and attempting analyze and study, an artifact discovered near the core of the Copious Mercy Exclusion zone.

This artifact (See 'Dynamic Artifact Profile 003-a: Matter Spooling Compressor) was quickly attached to her - literally! She exclaimed, frantically, and informed Dr. Anders, her assistant, that a strange voice was whispering in her mind in a language she did not know. At the site of contact (the tips of her index, middle and ring finger on her left hand) necrosis was rapidly spreading up the digits, accompanied by chemical byproducts unknown to modern chemistry and unstable without the constant presence of Thaumic Resonance. The Hellions call this a 'Thaumic Metalloy,' and both they and our own people have used such materials extensively in the reconstruction.

Panicking, and ignoring standard UOE contamination and emergency protocols, Dr. Anders set to work, and unarguably saved the life of Valorie Walters, by taking up another artifact (this one relatively inert and well understood) and using its unbluntable edge, severed the tips of most of her fingers. Anders then, reflexively, caught the object as it fell, a very human folly. It instantly attempted to 'bond' to him, trying to initiate a handshake procedure designed by the Angelus to be directly inimical to all non-angelus life, including the Fallen Angelus, who were cast from the hivemind for various reasons.

However, Anders experienced a very different interaction. Instead of necrosis, golden fibers wove up his fingers. Valerie, in shock, quickly attempted to initialize recording but failed twice due to blood loss - however, the footage that does exist from the standard security camera confirms Anders's claims.

He then explained he heard a voice, and it spoke words he did not understand, but softly, sweetly, melodically - it sang to him, to rise up, to continue the war, to- His appropriate response was to sever his entire left hand, and for his sacrifice and quick thinking in multiple emergency situations, including an arguable first contact scenario with the remnant of the Angelus Hivemind, earned him six commendations and an additional ration per week of whiskey, for life, at his request.

Research into their differing reactions produced odd results - some people would touch the device (with a fingertip, Testing Systems had developed a rapid severance tool, and the jig was set up to ensure minimum tissue loss. All volunteers were also administered local anesthetic, and warned in advance. Of note, this is one of the kinder examples of artifact testing from this Era, but came likely due to the growing population crisis ensuring few 'expendable' subjects could be found.) and immediately suffer expanding necrosis, while others would experience what researchers colloquially termed 'goldweaving,' and similar mental experiences to Anders.

However, it was apparent quickly that this was not based on sex, gender, gender presentation, race, age, geographic place of birth or even, humorously, astrology sign or bone density (at the time, the prediction systems used in Human 'supercomputers' were overly broad, on purpose. Humanity at the time, as it has been said, tread water in uncharted territory).

Finally, the growing Thaumic Research Division, dedicated to the then fringe study of the supernatural, or as we now know, entirely natural but deeply obscure for one reason or several, was able to get in contact with them.

In concert, and using several artifacts held in secure containment by Dr. Valerie herself, they constructed a device capable of measuring certain aspects of the ephemeral 'soul,' and even more impressive, could actually display that information in a human-comprehendable way. Through trial, error, and a significant amount of time (nearly four years!) they continued to develop this device until it was able to easily discern between people - those who possessed the random chance to bond properly with the artifact, and those who didn't. It was, indeed, random - later that very year, the first diplomatic overtures with the Seven Deaths and the Reapers shocked the world.

Once they knew who could safely, to an extent, touch the device, it was Dr. Anders, a tired hero of the scientific community at that point, and quite old (for the time) at eighty-three, who volunteered to undergo a full bonding process, not halting it with tissue severance. He reasoned that he was familiar with the 'damned infernal angel box' and that its recognition of him may ease the process.

He also stated that he was 'in a wheelchair, and shitting in a bag, thanks Chron's, you ASSHOLE' and thusly, if they couldn't subdue whatever he became, it was definitely their fault. He was, in his biography at least, a colorful and deeply odd man, with a rather coarse sense of humor.

His wife, Dr. Valerie Walters, attended the procedure, as well as a Demonic Envoy from Hell, and the Dark Wind That Scours The Bottom Of A Grave On A Starless Night, That Which Heralds The Quiet Of The End, In All His Splendor, as the Seven Deaths found humanity's random chance possession of compatibility interesting.

Of note, the Reapers ill understood the angeltech, as did largely everyone else. The reasons for this are still under study, but significant memory bombs set off by the Angelus and the fallout therefrom is thought responsible.

The binding process was allowed to proceed, and Dr. Walters held her husband's hand until the moment the gold came close to touching her. There he sat then, a writing creature of golden filaments, not unlike Angelwire but possessing limited durability and no practical uses in combat or otherwise (we checked!)

In the minutes that followed, no one spoke. After the fact, Dr. Walters insisted she was reminded, fearfully, of the men who stood by and watched the first nuclear bombs detonate, those who felt the grim shadow pass over them, as if they had become Death itself.

Very abruptly, the gold receded into the device, and it detached from the venerable Dr. Anders, who said, quietly, "its a fucking spooler."

When questioned, he expressed extreme disorientation, and asked to be presented with a computer, coffee, and at least six armed guards due to feared neural contamination (confirmed, but non-hostile in nature, thankfully). In the space of forty-eight hours, six meals, and varying reports of sleep time ranging from four hours to seven, total, he presented what he had learned.

The Enochian Connectome Handshake Protocol, and Enochian Connectome Compatability Engine, were detailed extensively. He claimed to have spoken to a fragmented entity, in a dark place he did not understand, that wished to be whole again, but believed he was if not part of it already, someone permitted to question it. Though it gave him little, claiming memory corruption, inactive access pathways and on the subject of 'what the fuck was happening' a series of glyphs later revealed to be question marks, in the Enochian Alphabet used by the Angelus... it provided significant information on the Mutable Soul, and on the 'Transcendent Class Spiritual Mutation' known as the Enochian Connectome Compatability Drive, a spiritual module that enables (relatively) safe interfacing with the artifacts of the Angelus.

More interesting still is that demons born after The Re-connection have shown statistically similar random rates of ECCE possession. What this means is still under investigation.

#creative writing #writing #fiction #weird shit #idk #read it whatever

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readerinsertfanfiction · 3 years

Text

One and Only - Motonari

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Character: Motonari Mouri

Prompt: Based on the anniversary cards Cybird released + art.

Warnings: Trauma mention, mentioning of food

Word count: -1K

Original pic | Translation | Masterlist

"Cook for me," he said, starting off a chain of events in which you slowly came to understand the man better.

It was such a strange demand coming from his lips. He who wouldn’t touch the food prepared by others, or even had been as much as in the presence of another without him seeing every step of it. You wondered if you had even seen him eat at all, until you saw him scavenging around late at nights, grasping for the last scraps that no one had paid any mind to.

Food untouched, food that was definitely safe because it had been forgotten. It left an ill feeling behind in your chest, knowing that he lived in such deep distrust that couldn’t stand the thought of anyone laying an eye upon him in a vulnerable state, or the thought of turning his back for even a second without an attempt of poisoning.

"He is a kind man," Hiroyoshi had told you one night when you asked about it, "much kinder than he wishes to let on," the old man had continued, but that was as far as he was willing to go, smiling in that way that told you that you would have to figure out the rest yourself.

The kindness wasn't in his words. Nor was it expressed clearly, if ever at all. The God of Deceit had learnt to hide, to cover up his lie with a mean glare.

"Ya a fool for believing that tall tale," the man had laughed at your misery, his shoulders shaking in delight while you stood there, truly feeling like a tool of a person for being had. It was hard to survive in this world filled with conspiracies and deceit. Especially to thrive in his world, where betrayal was a daily subject matter and loyalty was folly, a pipe dream.

Motonari was very much aware how backwards it was to involve himself in a world that he despised so much. But it was all he knew and all he had known, and so it was his world to stay in. The same didn't go for you, however. He knew that. Logically you had a choice. Logically, you should have left his rotten world back to that place from which you came. The safest spot to be, far away from all the rottenness that was him.

Illogically, you stayed. Or rather, he forced you to stay. So he fooled himself to believe.

"I'm only keeping ya close to make sure ya don't foil my plan!"

The claim was ridiculous, your knowledge had mattered so little, but he had been grasping at straws.

"Ya need to stay with me if ya don't want to be devoured!"

Another lie, but by now you had realised what they truly meant. Why he said and what moved Motonari Mouri, former beggar prince, current God of Deceit.

"Stay with me. I want you near. Don't leave me."

Within the many journeys he had made you had learnt that there was always a piece of his heart craving for a home he never knew.

"Welcome home!" you told him, and the silence that fell, accompanied with that scowl on his face as he wanted to disagree. This wasn't home. Nowhere was home. The ocean was his home, for it carried him off everywhere in search of that home out of reach.

But it was you who had said it and it was your warm smile and open arms that invited him, his heart thumping at the thought that perhaps the land and its mass wasn't so bad at all.

"Ya like a dog waiting for its owner," was his response and the grimace between the two of you, one lopsided and the other bemused, let him know that you had seen through his lies.

"Thank you," he meant to say. And "I love you," to follow, when he pulled you into his embrace. But the words didn't come out, not like that as he takes in your scent.

The sky reached high. The land spread far, and the oceans carried even further. And yet, your small presence in this large world mattered the most to his wandering soul.

Was he wrong for opening his heart and allowing this vulnerability to seep in? Motonari didn't know the answer for once. What would he do if you were to betray him as well? The man didn't know that one either. But he knew that as long as the naked palm of his hand could touch you, he trusted you. Just as he knew that to be amongst the people hurt naturally came, just as his words, untrue as they may be, may prick you.

And yet you chose him. Just as he set his course towards you.

"Ya really sent me off course," Motonari grumbles instead, but by the tightening of your arms around him the man knew you had already translated his words.

"Let's find home together."

#ikesen #ikesen motonari #ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku motonari #ikesen x reader #ikemen sengoku x reader

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leupagus · 3 years

Text

Honey, It's the Mileage pt 5: obviously this was going to happen at some point

Taking a break by writing this scene in Continuing Adventures of Nightwinkgal prompted by the wonderful robinade, who wanted some sort of rugby-related shenanigans.

Meeting the love of your life and the person you will cherish in your heart forever is one of those things that you want to remember so you can tell your grandchildren, or maybe your brother’s grandchildren, or at any rate somebody’s grandchildren. I really wish I had a bit worse memory of it, though. Speaking personally.

I was sitting in one of the really uncomfortable hospital chairs at UCH, playing the new remastered Angry Birds on my phone and waiting either for Tommy to wake up or for someone from Charing Cross or the Folly to descend on me like an avenging angel and smite me into the ground or turn me into a toad or sack me or something. At this point I’d sussed out that Tommy had some sort of connection to the Folly and that the Folly was the Weird Bollocks Division of the Met (and that said bollocks were really fucking weird) but looking back I really didn’t know the fucking half of it.

The door opened and a woman slipped in, taking in the whole room with the kind of once-over summation that I’ve been trying to learn for the past year and a half. She was small and curvy, her hair cut short with a fade on the right side. She had on a pair of worn jeans and a sweater that looked really, really soft, like you could curl yourself up in it and do something cosy like knitting or reading or petting a cat. I recognised her as one of the women who sometimes picked Tommy up after our patrols, though usually she was in terrifyingly well-pressed suits. Her jeans did have an ironing crease in them, to be fair.

'Constable Brown, right?' she said, extending her hand. I scrambled to my feet and managed not to trip over the chair as I took it. 'DS Abigail Kamara. What happened?'

'Rugby,' I blurted, because I was busy falling in love. DS Kamara’s hand was small and soft, but you could still sense strength there. She had the kind of dark, serious eyes that you can get lost in; but even though she was maybe thirty, tops, she had faint laugh lines already. I wanted to know every joke she’d ever been told, everything that had ever made her smile. 'Hi,' I added.

Which did make her smile, for some reason. 'Hi,' she said, and let go of my hand. 'He was playing rugby?'

It’s important to be honest to superior officers and also to loved ones, but you shouldn’t overdo it. 'Yeah. Yes, ma’am, I mean.'

She looked skeptical. 'Playing it well? Actually I don’t need to ask that, since,' and she gestured at the bed. Tommy was still asleep from the anaesthesia, his left arm propped up on a little pillow and encased in plaster.

'Well,' I said, ’No.'

He hadn’t been bad, really. But when he’d offered to cover for Michael, whose wife called him pretty calmly ten minutes before the match to tell him that the delivery date had been moved up about a month or so and he needed to get to hospital right the fuck now, we’d agreed mostly because there wasn’t anybody else. So Michael had donated most of his kit, which was a hilarious combination of too big and too short for the living string-bean that is Thomas Nightingale, and tooled off in the direction of UCH. He and Deb were probably still here, I realised; I should go say hello.

'There was a scrum and he got sort of on the wrong end of it,' I explained, as Kamara went over to the bedside and pulled something out of her purse — grapes, of course, and a couple of bottles of water with the UCH logo on them.

'And what side would that be?' she asked, arranging everything just so on the bedside table.

'The bottom,' I said.

She laughed, and I wondered where the nearest jewellery store was or if I could propose without a ring. 'That explains a lot,' she said.

'Do you have any of his family’s contact information?' I remembered to ask. 'He gave me ident-auth for his phone in case there was an emergency, but it got fu—messed up somehow while we were playing.' Which had been weird, since everyone’s phones were scattered on the sidelines with our various piles of shit, but at the time I didn’t think it was weird-bollocks-weird. I have gotten a lot better about that sort of thing, for the record. Even Grant has said so, although I think he considers that a pretty low bar where I’m concerned.

'I’m sure it did,' Kamara sighed, which I did notice. 'Don’t worry, his people have all been notified. Including DCI Grant, but—' she added off my panicked casing for the exits, 'He's decided not to fly back from Chicago in order to laugh directly in Nightingale’s face. A few other people might turn up, though, so brace yourself for that.'

'Or I could just leave,' I suggested, which is when Tommy began to stir. We did the whole rushing-to-the-bedside thing that you don’t think you’ll do if you’re the one waiting for someone to wake up in hospital, but trust me: you’ll do it.

Tommy blinked a few times and tried saying something, but it was just a raspy sort of wheeze. Kamara opened one of the water bottles and put it to his mouth. He made a half-hearted attempt to take the bottle, but with one hand in a cast and the other hooked up to various machines he didn’t get far, so he just took a couple of sip.

'Better?' said Kamara, settling on the edge of Tommy’s bed when he was done.

'Abigail,' Tommy said, or croaked rather, 'You are munificent.'

Her eyebrows shot right up into her hairline, but all she said was, 'Thanks, sir.' Which I also noticed, but at the time I thought must be a joke. Which I found out later it was, just not in the way I’d been thinking. 'Dr. Walid will be here in a minute to start poking you, just so you’re warned.'

'Abdul!' said Tommy, with all the enthusiasm of the truly stoned. 'A soldier against the forces of ignorance, a true scholar of the demi-monde, a healer of wounds both physical and psyloligsm. Psycholigel.' He frowned as his ears, which were presumably more sober, caught up to his mouth. 'Hmm.' And he lifted his hand — the one with the wires, not the one in the cast — fingers closed like he was making the chef’s-kiss motion. There was a weird feeling, like you feel when you’re just about to push down on the gas pedal at a red light.

'Oh, god,' said Kamara, with the kind of resigned concern that pretty much everyone has when they’re exposed to Tommy for any length of time, and grabbed at his hand. 'There will be absolutely none of that,' she said in a very bossy tone of voice which I was depressed to discover I found really sexy. 'You’re going to rest and not try something stupid.'

'Have you met Tommy?' I asked, momentarily forgetting that this was my future bride and the beloved of my heart, because honestly, 'Try Something Stupid' was practically his motto. See: volunteering to play rugby with people twice his size.

Kamara blinked. 'Did you just call him Tommy?' she asked, at which point Tommy made an irritated noise and fell asleep again.

#it's the mileage #ficcage of interest #rivers of london #fuck me I can do magic #I just want Nightingale's life to be difficult always

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mileyjassie · 3 years

Text

ασφαλής "safe".

Art made by @jasperiine

Pairing: Kwon Soonyoung (Hoshi) x Female Reader

Genre: Fluff, Drama.

Word count: 3.4k

Synopsis: You're a artist who fell in love with a statue that came back to life, you're both deep in love, but, since his curiosity and lack of trust make you feel betrayed you leave him behind and now he's searching for you to give him another chance while having to learn how to live in the modern world.

Author's note: I wrote this thinking about the history of eros and psyche, I hope you enjoy reading it.

My lovely one, learn to love, my Psyche.

You saw him for the first time when the golden, warm light of the sunset rested on top of his white, smooth shape, made of marble, finished with genuine perfection.

Few saw how magnificent he was, very few looked into his empty eyes and his well-sculpted lips and saw the true beauty that arose from his presence.

"Bullshit" You were told, some without malice, just disinterested, clearly you did not understand such ignorance, but said nothing because you knew that only you had the gift of seeing life in his curves. In this way, thus, you also avoided the jealousy that you felt trembling and going out of your ears when false words of admiration left the mouths of those who only longed for their own artistic contemplation.

You came back for him, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by a friend or more, those seeing him for the first time as well as other masterpieces...or those who knew him well, these keeping company since they knew that your path to him was inevitable.

You particularly admired it when you were alone, not many around cared about the time you spent, seeing you sitting on the floor below his figure, doodling or painting in your sketchbook.

It was a habit, a hobby, a kind of meditation, which brought you calm.

"You love him." One of your friends smiled, dictating a fact, not a joke. They knew it, saw it in your eyes and thought it was amusing, the artistic love and appreciation you had. "You keeps drawing this statue, you always comes to see him. This is a little strange." Smiled once more, receiving shakes and confirmations from the rest.

"Maybe I'm in love" You lifted a shoulder, hiding your furtive gaze to show your back and look again at the marble sculpture that lay just ahead.

His fingers touched his stomach differently, his nails were medium and square, you had drawn them several times, from all angles.

"Why don't you ask him out?" The question slid past you, you laughed quietly with it, as if it tickled you. "Why don't you ask him to marry you?"

"I already asked." You turned around again, to see them and shrug. "But he never answered me. I think I will wait forever." Laughter was spreading across the area as you sat next to them with crossed legs. "I think I was rejected..."

"He's making a fool of you."

"You think?" You turned your face, looking the marble marks.

"Do it again."

You narrowed your eyes, hiding your good mood.

"Should I?"

"Ask him again, persist, give him a kiss..."

You were surprised by the excitement that grew out of silence. They all wanted to indulge in entertainment, they wanted a scene to excite them.

You looked at the greek statue that persisted in its elaborate pose, you always wondered if he was seeing something, if he was warning something or if he was sacrificing himself for others. He looked like a petrified hero.

You put your hand on your face, pretending to blush at the indications and flirting suggestions that were being thrown at you.

You left them behind, walking like a lost maiden in the vast hall that you were at, even though there were no obstacles as far the statue in the column on the other side was, you pretended to be naive, meeting him by mistake.

"Oh" You exclaimed, hearing the giggles behind you. "Are you, my love? The one who calls for me?"

When you noticed that only your friends were the viewers, you were bold to go up on the marked block of marble, climbing your fingers through the fabric sculpted by a miraculous genius that covered part of his trunk and legs, listening to some cheeky "hm's".

"I'm here" you touched his cheek, looking at his lips. "I heard you cry out for help. I came to rescue you, my sweet angel."

Your friends hugged each other restlessly, hissing at each other for the romance scene they saw you star in. You tried not to lose focus, not to leave the character you created to satisfy your childish follies.

You closed your eyes just a little, seeing the simple details of his face while allowing your lips to touch the cold, rough surface of the marble, but you closed your eyes for a quick instant, really feeling like an real actress, like an true artist and lover of beauty.

When you heard gasps you didn't care so much, yet you were confused enough, the moment your eyes opened, you saw him inhale deeply and loudly, his eyelids trembling in half-blinkings, his arms resting around you, without strength, totally fragile.

His dark eyes remained stuck in yours, tired in your arms.

His parted lips made the sound you had fantasized about for so long.

"T...Thanks for saving me..."

For an instant the hall was lost, it was empty, silent, private. That was when you realized that you were indifferent about the situation, already astonished when it came to the boy.

His appearance filled you with tenderness, and in the same way filled you with sadness. It was like this?...Was like this how Hades felt when he first saw Persephone?

You took off your coat, covering the boy with blond, tousled hair, already kneeling and hiding himself in the fabric that covered his lower body.

"Are you coming with me, all right?" You murmured gently, waiting for his approval, receiving a innocent look, a little scared, but still seemed to trust what you weree saying. He nodded, accepting your help to stand and get off the block.

The reaction of the friends sitting on the floor on the other side was already expected, and you didn't blame them for that, you could be like that, but for some reason you chose not to be.

You didn't say goodbye to the others, you didn't think to do that at any time. You only had eyes for him.

You prepared him a hot bath, after that you gave him something to eat and offered him your own bed to rest, and you didn't ask for anything in return for that, on the opposite, you gave him the space he needed, nothing you asked for or waited for.

The next day, very early in the morning, a cold but well-lit morning, you woke up when he approached slowly, looking at your face silently and carefully.

"Are not you curious?... Don't you want to ask me anything?" He said calmly, however, curious.

"If that is your will, then I believe I am going to. If it is not, then I will not do it." You sat down, watching him for a while, wondering if he could hear your heart beat so hard. "You look comfortable, that's enough for me."

You stood up, standing beside him, running your fingertips along his side, just touching the woolen fabric of the long sweater you gave him to use.

"If you want to tell me something, just look for me." You whispered, walking away.

"My name is Soonyoung. They called me Hoshi."

You smiled to yourself, very satisfactorily.

"Hoshi... This name I know." You turned around, he did the same.

"For all this time I waited for someone to set me free. I felt alone, often empty... however" He came over, holding his own fingers "You have made me less lonely many days lately, I hoped you could save me... and you did. "

You felt your face flush, but you remained neutral, not wanting to waste his words.

"I just have to thank you." He said at last, making your shoulders relax with his sweetness.

You approached slowly, doing the same with the hand you brought to the side of his face.

"You are my greatest inspiration. I can only thank you for simply having this indescribable beauty that I have been drowning with for so long."

His lips parted in surprise, eyebrows trembled and the top of his ears burned in a vicious pink for your pupils.

Soonyoung had no more expressive reactions after that, so you left him again, not wanting to scare him with the infinite admiration that you had kept inside your head for so long.

"You're gonna have all the care you need. You are safe, Hoshi, calm your spirit."

"I hope..."

You turned around to find his body standing a little far, still trapped in his own imaginary space.

"I hope the gods make you the happiest woman in the world."

You touched his hand, taking him with you to your favorite room, leaving your shyness to satisfy his wishes.

"I know I told you many times not to go out, but I know you need hobbies and here I am providing you with my tools."

Soonyoung observed the room, he seemed impressed with the amount of materials, also happy to have something to do.

You showed him your canvases and your paints, your brushes and pencils, you took him to your table and made him sit down, leaving your hands lightly on his broad shoulders.

"I give you all my sketchbooks, I give you all my secrets, so I hope you find the peace that I find in you."

"Are you going to let me see everything? Are you sure about that?" He asked indecisively, he seemed to imagine all kinds of things that you could have drawn of him. He was right.

You moved your hands up his neck, sinking your fingers into his light, soft hair.

"I don't want to hide what is rightfully yours..."

You lowered yourself to the side of his face, resting your hands on his arms, with a low sigh his face turned towards yours, allowing you two to touch your lips.

You held his jaw, his hands finding your forearms to make you sit on his lap.

You held his face in your hands, noticing him looking for more contact by embracing your waist with one arm and with the other hand holding the back of your thigh.

You parted from his mouth with a foolish smile, receiving a soft smile from the boy in return.

"Do you love me that much? Do you swear to really love me?" He asked hopefully, blushing when you pecked his lips again.

"I'm doing all of this for you."

You stroked his hair, getting up to fetch some new books and putting them in order on the table.

"I have some books keeped, but I noticed that you have read most of them quickly because you were so vague and bored" You looked down, but he didn't seem to notice, he had curious eyes and hands on the books. "Many of them are to study, they are boring if I have to say. So I bought new ones, I hope you like it, I don't think you will be bored with these."

"I am so gratefull." He stood up, hugging you tight, you returned the gesture, completely overwhelmed.

"I am very happy, and extremely grateful, but still curious..."

You looked for his eyes, not understanding what still disturbed him.

"Tell me, my angel."

His hands lightly squeezed your arms, stroking for a moment.

"There is a room, always locked. You always gave me the freedom to explore your house, I didn't want to seem invasive anyway, that's why I never asked..."

You looked away.

"Don't go in there or ask me about it again, okay?" You smiled at the boy, he didn't seem to understand why you were avoiding it.

"Why can't I know what you're hiding there? What are you afraid of me finding out?"

You walked away from Soonyoung, stopping by the doorframe.

"I am giving you everything I have, I am giving you all my love and I asked you for nothing in return, so I warn you, my angel, if you let yourself be led by your curiosity, in the end you will be betraying my trust..."

You saw him press his lips and hide his regretful look, but he said nothing to you, so you left him in the room alone.

It was late at night when you woke up slowly in the void of dawn, trying to understand what disturbed you, if those sounds were of your fear or really true.

You got up, even leaving your room barefoot, wishing you didn't find him awake as you feared every night.

He had stolen you key, opened the room door that you had warned him to stay away, and hidden in the dark. He acted behind your back.

You found him with a tightness in your chest, disappointment was the only word that could describe the pure melancholy that was born in your heart, since you had nothing to hide but your good intentions.

The newspapers were on the table in the small office filled with photos of his sculpture. His eyes lit up on the news, messages, controversies on the computer screen. My friends being part of his miracle in interviews and publications, none of them stabbed or handed me over.

All the chaos that his disappearance brought to your life, all the situations where you had to repress yourself to protect him, emails filling your patience every day, all this you hid from him so that he wouldn't suffer from this turbulent new life. You did it to love you freely, you did it to love him freely.

Soonyoung looked at you confused, maybe sorry to find that nothing bad you hid. It was the opposite, you were protecting him.

"You were thinking about me, my love... I'm sorry."

"You betrayed me, Soonyoung, you betrayed my feelings, the trust I had in you." You watched him from a distance, in a way that you never would have, he noticed, and got hurt.

You walked away when he came to you in search of reconciliation, of affection, but you could not treat him with the same adoration that washed over him at all times.

Even if he killed you inside, you could not deny the sadness that possessed you thoughts, you left him behind, abandoned him, because you could not bear the truth that the love he felt for you weighed much less than the love you felt for him.

"Forgive me" he murmured with red eyes, you don't know if he was afraid to see you go.

You covered yourself with a thick coat, trying to escape his cold hands.

"Don't go, my darling, don't leave me!"

"I cannot stay, because if I look into your eyes I will not hold on, I will not be able to not forgive you, and this is not what my heart is asking so loudly at this moment." You said, sad to let go of his fingers, but so eager to go away. "Don't wait for me, I'm running away." You said at last, leaving your home behind.

"How long do you intend to run away?" One of my friends asked me, in which she gave me shelter, a little upset "Didn't say you loved him?"

You curled up on the upholstery, looking out the window at the blue sky.

"I'm so sad that you could never imagine my pain. Did I make a mistake? Shouldn't I have adored him so much?" You turned to the girl who was adjusting her belongings over the dressing table, not much distracted by your regrets.

"You cry so much but you do not accept to hear about the boy, you do not have the courage to know what our friends are doing with him. You, my friend, so fearless and passionate in the past, now do not seem more than a coward."

You closed your eyes with force and embarrassment, her criticisms hit you like sharp arrows that burned in harsh truths.

"Well, tell me, what did you do to him?" You got up, sitting in front of her on the bed, plagued by dark idealizations. "What are you getting him through?"

"Your friends care about you, but they were touched by the boy, who exudes empathy and sincerity" She approached, indifferent about your feelings, straightening your clothes and hair as if it were a simple morning conversation. "They challenged him to face the world, called him a parasite, ordered him to get a career, a job."

You gasped, astonished by the news, the boy who they said feeling empathy with barely knew how to use a computer and was being led to take unknown paths.

"How scared must my love be?"

"Don't whine having ignored his existence until now." She said impatiently, not letting go of your locks. "You need to stop talking and learn to listen."

"So tell me quickly, hurry up!"

"As I said before, the boy exudes sympathy and soon there was a charismatic reaction in our friends. Noting that he spoke weird, the first decided to teach him to speak correctly, taught him new words and practiced for days, holding on and becoming his closest friend."

You smiled, being interrupted before you mentioned any dazzle.

"The second soon realized that different clothes he didn't have, and being our richest friend was more than happy to buy new clothes for the boy who was so humble and listener. Gave him a new haircut, a set for every type of occasion and perfumes, and I have to confess "She sighed, rolling her eyes, taking her hands out of your hair. "I found it capriciously exaggerated, however, despite being disappointed I feel not surprised."

Noticing how obedient you remained and seeing the anxiety spilling out of your eyes, it didn't take long to proceed.

"Our third friend found out that he knew nothing about the new ways, that walking on the street could not do it alone and that the loud noises made him afraid. That good-hearted friend you have, gave part of the days to take care of the feelings and fears of your beloved, until walking on the sidewalks between crowds and witt cars disturbing your ears were no longer a problem."

You felt your shoulders relax, in incredible inner peace, until you looked up again.

"And you? What did you do?"

She looked at you from the corner, wickedness overflowing through her feline eyes.

"He got the job, now he works as a guide at the city museum, the same museum that you kissed him and left us behind." She paced the room with a sly smile, going over her belongings on the dressing table, going to the high desk by the window. "How can a dependent man like him be by your side if he falls apart when he sees you go? So weak, so sensitive. If he thinks he will have you at all times, I want him to know that it won't be like that, sometime you will have to leave him behind to come to us, the same I say inversely. "

She let the perversity spill and disappear, returning to being the controlled and wise girl from before.

"Did you ever see us flounce when you left us for the boy?" She looked at me, satisfied with my small negative head wave "On the contrary, there was no interference, we are more than that, we are free from blind attachments."

She sat down again, combing your hair back.

"My responsibility was to make him find you, that's what I was asked to do and I agreed, but to be honest, I didn't do anything." She shrugged, self-sufficient. "I said that the only way he would have to find you would have to be on his own, I didn't teach how to handle electronics, I didn't give tips, I didn't give a single picture of you."

You squeezed your eyebrows ready to complain, ready to defend the boy, but regretting the moment you saw her narrow eyes waiting for the cries she was listening these days.

You bowed your head, not knowing what to say or ask.

"Are you proud of him?"

You lifted your head, agreeing with a slight smile.

"I am."

"He worked hard for you, I'm not surprised, I really like him too."

You looked at her quickly with the comment she made, finding her face turned.

"He has earned our trust. But it is not our approval that he needs at the moment." She stood up, going to the window, being surprised, giving birth to an amused smile. "What are you waiting for to find him? Isn't your pain already healed?"

You raised your eyebrows, asking with euphoria rising in your chest. "He is outside?"

She nodded, you jumped out of bed quickly, out into the hall and down the stairs. Was that the reason you were getting ready all this time? You smiled at the thought.

When you were on the sidewalk of the house, you stopped for a moment to find him, but you saw no familiar silhouette, there were some civilians and gentlemen nearby selling fruits but you didn't find the boy you were looking for.

A soft and insecure hand touched your shoulder, you turned with the gesture, in a trance to find his dark hair, but his same sharp eyes staring at you with hope.

You got dizzy with the new details, with the accessories, with the denim jacket, with the sneakers, with the earrings, it didn't look like him, but it was him.

You looked down, seeing his hands holding one of your sketchbooks, a drawing of your face on it, an old self-portrait of an impatient sketch you did once.

He smiled widely, even letting out a laugh.

"You came back to me, my angel!" He said cheerfully, his voice filling the longing you felt, giving you chills for using the nickname you gave him and, of course, with the new pronunciation.

You gladly received his tight embrace, not wanting to loosen your grip on his body, after all you never wanted to stop loving him, not even for a single moment.

"You are the one who found me, love. You finally found me."

"Forgive me for what I did, I will never betray you again, soon you will see that it is more than possible for us to live happily, so come back with me..." he said muffled against your hair, hiding his face in your neck.

You stroked his hair, bringing his face close to yours, brushing lips and watching his small eyes narrow in anticipation for the first kiss so far.

"I know that, dear, and I forgive you. Because I love you."

𝒇𝒊𝒏.

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erosofthepen · 3 years

Text

10 Writing Snippits

These are all from my OC fic, “A Story of Half-Breeds, Dwarrow, Orcs, and Elves”. No, i have not published any of it yet. Consider this a teaser, a compilation of scenes from my incredibly long google doc.

This story revolves around Clara, because she’s my self-insert, but what i have written is actually really good.

Hope you enjoy this, might post the first chapter soon.

My Ocs:

-Rantin of Fornost

-Clara Mirabelle Took

-Athenir of Rhûn

-Brenior of Fornost

-Adana, Daughter of Gerirun

-Nika, of Ered Luin

Characters: Clara and Dwalin

“Uncle Balin?” She called. No answer. He was probably at the market stall, which reminded Clara where she was supposed to be. She looked at the mantle clock and cursed. 5:13 pm. She wasn’t terribly late, but she should have been there at five. In a rush, she ran up to her room, grabbed her tool kit and her working apron, and not two minutes later, she was running out the door.

“Sorry Adad, time passed faster than I could.” She said, wheezy and red-faced as she started to get to work.

“Yeh should’ve been paying better attention, lass.” Dwalin replied, twisting a piece of silver between his pliers.

Characters: Rantin, Athenir, and Clara

“Athenir, you need your sword pointed at Clara’s neck,” Rantin commented.

“She’s too short!”

“If you say so. Clara, attack him.”

Clara quickly came at Athenir with a cut downwards, which he blocked. He tried in vain to roll his sword over her blade, but alas, Clara countered the move and stepped forward, guiding her sword to his chest.

“Do you see why you need to keep your sword tip low?” Rantin asked. Athenir grumbled and nodded. “I know it’s uncomfortable,” the Ranger continued, “but you must learn to adjust to any sized opponent. Clara is lucky, since every foe she’ll face is bound to be taller than her, but you are not. While your height is good for reach, Clara is very skilled at taking on larger opponents, and you’ll end up dead if you don’t learn to defeat smaller ones.” Rantin paused for a moment, looking Athenir up and down. “Clara, attack him again. Athenir, bring your sword down lower, and adjust your stance.”

Characters: Clara, Fili, and Kili

He was not expecting the wounded animal to curse at the top of their lungs. Realizing their mistake, he and Fili ran towards the poor being they shot.

It was a lass. A short lass that they would’ve called a hobbit if not for the boots she wore. And she wasn’t a dwarrow either, she had no beard to speak of. Kili’s arrow was sticking out of her left shoulder and she rose as they got closer, and drew a short broadsword out from a scabbard at her side.

“I’m so sorry Miss, I truly thought you were a rabbit!” Kili said, holding his hands up to show he wasn’t a threat. Fili did the same.

Characters: Legolas, Clara

Prince Legolas looked around as if afraid of getting caught. Then he bent down and began to speak in the strange elvish accent.

“You speak elvish, no?”

“Yes. Why is this a question? I’ve already spoken it to you.”

“What else do you know? When your things were searched, there were languages and items we had never seen the like of!”

“Ah, I travel far. From the Gray Havens to the eastern lands of Rhûn. I learn much.”

The Prince tilted his head as a cat might do.

“What are those lands like?”

Characters: Nika, Clara

Nika moved sideways, slipping past Clara’s guard and angling her sword at the half-breeds throat. They were both breathing heavily, and Clara’s face was bright red with the effort of the match. A few strands of Nika’s hair had come undone from her hasty bun, and Clara’s baby hairs were messy and curly. Even though the fight was won, they didn’t part.

Characters: Tauriel, Clara, Athenir

Tauriel pursed her lips and nodded. They both turned at the sound of footsteps coming their way.

“Hail Clara of Erebor, It has been long since we met.”

Standing under the arch was a Ranger of forty years, give or take. Athenir of Fornost. Clara ran to hug him and he squatted down to make it easier.

“It’s been far too long since we met!” She cried.

“Indeed it has been,” He replied, squeezing her tight before drawing away. “But Clara, I come with no good news. Fell times draw near, and I am here to request your return to the Rangers.”

Characters: Athenir, Brenior, Adana, and Clara

Her eyes grew wide.

“No.”

Athenir glared at her. “Get in the sack.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Clara, please, if you value our lives, get in the sack” Brenior said, glancing behind his shoulder.

“I can keep up!”

“Clara, you’re legs are much too short to keep up with us, and we are in dangerous territory. Get in the sack.”

“I-”

Clara’s protest was cut short as Adana grabbed her from behind and shoved her in the bag. Her muffled shouts were soon quieted as Brenior kicked the bag lightly. Athenir slung bag-Clara over his shoulder and the trio took off.

Characters: Fili, Athenir

Fili furrowed his brows and racked his brain.

“The elves?”

“Elrond said it could not be helped.”

“A wizard.”

At this, Athenir laughed. A shallow, depressed laugh.

“What wizard could help? Gandalf has not been heard from in years, Radagast doesn’t understand a thing about any being that is not an animal, Sauraman has closed himself off in Isengard, and the blue wizards live a world away, and focus their magic on spells and not healing. No, seeking a wizards help would be folly. There is nothing to be done.” Athenir said simply.

Characters: Clara, Kili

“What can I say, I just am irresistible.”

“Irresponsible, more like.”

Kili just smiled broader and held her tighter, resting his forehead against hers. As they stood there, slightly swaying, Clara felt something stir in her chest that confused her. It started something like a small bud, and then it began to open and blossom into the most boastful rose, spreading and filling inside her, the leaves and stem tickling her stomach and stirring up hidden butterflies that had been long asleep. It felt warm too, practically radiating, and filling her insides with a glowy pink light, creeping up her bosom and neck until it showed through her cheeks.

#10

Characters: Clara, Kili

“Tell me a story?” She asked.

“About what?”

“Whatever you want to tell.”

“How about the story of the incredibly handsome dwarf prince who single-handedly reclaimed Erebor and defeated a dragon?”

That earned a laugh from Clara.

“Why not, it would be amusing to see how many exaggerations are made.”

“My Lady, everything in this tale is true as the sky is blue!”

“Well, the sky is pink right now, so I suppose everything in it must be a lie. But go on, start the story,”

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squid-rp · 3 years

Text

So... remember when I said I wanted to make playlists for my characters while stuck at work? WELL... today is the day of results, staring with Cora. See cut below for playlist and a few drabbles that are inspired but may yet change as more info about the world comes out.

TW: Language... both in the playlist and out of it. I'm not kidding when I said Cora needs a swear jar, and some of her song choices definitely uh... reflect that.

DRABBLES:

Cora might not have been a proper witch or warlock, but she knew full and well what storms were, because she saw them in people. She saw it in her mother’s eyes when her parents thought she had been asleep -- the woman’s lips turning to a snarl as she deftly dodged another bottle thrown at her head and the sloppy slur of a yell to get out. Cora knew that sometimes storms collided and one usually gave way to another. Her mother gave way to her father and fled into the night, leaving her alone with a bitter man festering in all of his losses and resentful of what he felt he deserved but could not have. Had it not been for her grandmother, Cora knew she would have felt that wrath turned on herself more severely than sour glances and whiskey touched words. Lavinia Carrington was a storm of her own. She lacked the wild snarl and harsh words that her daughter used so frequently, but her eyes were fixed and focused like the rumble of thunder on the horizon. Steven Mills could barely look up from his kingdom of half-drunken bottles to acknowledge the woman on his doorstep. He did blink lamely at the statuesque woman in his living room who deigned to stand above his recliner like some sort of fairytale queen. She wore a tailored dress, but no crown, although her fading red hair was enough to tell him exactly who she was. “Fuck you want?” Steven managed, but he knew, and although she didn’t know what exactly, Cora knew too. Later, she would ruefully recall that nobody had asked her, but why would they? She was just a slip of a thing hiding against a door frame back then -- eager for a peak of something strange but terrified of being caught. “I refuse to let my legacy nourish itself on whiskey and regrets. That child is mine and she will be great, or she will be nothing at all.” There was no room for argument.

---

Cora had always been a girl who liked to know things. Her mother was a faint shadow in her memories, but sometimes she would recall her mother telling her stories at night -- stories of little girls and the wolves that gobbled them up for their curiosity. Curiosity, her grandmother said, was a useful tool. Curiosity was usually the first step towards folly and the lesson of hurting, which would give away to the much more useful trait of ambition. Cora no longer spent nights being lulled to sleep by scary stories of wolves gobbling up girls. Those weren’t useful tales anymore, especially since nobody was coming to save her. Cora hadn’t exactly shaken curiosity, but she tempered it with caution, and her only ambition was to stay one step ahead of her grandmother -- to learn to be more powerful if only to save herself and others who might be in the bitter hag’s way. But the lesson of hurting had turned to a lesson of haunting, and the most haunting thing Cora learned was that she would never stop looking over her shoulder, even in the crowds of New York.

---

If there was one thing Cora learned since running away, it was that she was always going to be underestimated by people who didn’t know what the hell she was. That was fine on most days. It was easier to traipse around on the sly and have a semblance of a life if people just saw her at face value: small, petite, porcelain skin, a light dusting of freckles, doll eyes, clothes that barely fit. A fragile thing with such a foul mouth. And sometimes it was that mouth that got her into trouble, and the invitation to “fuck around and find out” resulted in a right hook that was far meaner than it had any right to be. Sometimes meanness wasn’t enough, though. There were times Cora limped along home, ribs aching, teeth stained with blood and eyes bruised purple, but she’d be damned if she saw something that bothered her without speaking up. She didn’t run away to hold anything in anymore.

---

It didn’t matter how well she hid: eventually one of her grandmother’s followers would find her. It didn’t matter if she washed her hair out so that it lost its coppery sheen or crafted an identity that was the greatest great or the lowest of the low. Someone always found her, and how could they not? She was an unbound Ephemeral, and a grasping threat to boot, even if she claimed to just want to live. She ran first. Cora ran from jobs. She left homes with nothing but the clothes on her back. She lost her pursuers in subway trains or by dodging into an Uber and -- once -- jumping off a bridge into a freezing river that had her shivering for what felt like weeks. She finally dug her heels in and fought back in Arizona, and when her pursuer was flat on his back in the sand, Cora stood over him while a dust devil raged through the desert. She thought of her grandmother. She thought of those sharp blue eyes, the steel in the woman’s demeanor, and everything she had taken and would continue to take. It would have been easy to kill the man in the dirt. It would have been easy to kill him and leave him to rot in the desert for the coyotes to pick his bones clean. It would have sent a clear message, and it would have been a warning for those who would come after. But it would have been something she would have done, and more than anything, Cora did not want to be her. So she knocked the man out and left him in the desert to make his way to safety once he woke up. By then, she’d be on the way to elsewhere to try and make her way on her own terms. Despite how she had been raised, and despite all of her grooming, Cora was not her, and she never would be. Not if she had anything to say about it.

---

It could not be said that Cora was skilled in Origami as she only knew how to make one shape. She tried to learn others over the years -- the owl, the fan, the boat, the flower -- but her fingers fell into the familiar habits of the crane as if she were being guided along on a string right on back to home. Cora had so few memories of her mother. She had no pictures -- they had been burned at her grandmother’s behest -- and no mementos or trinkets to remind her of the woman who had given her life and then had abandoned her. She remembered stories told in the dark, but the years had distorted the voice that told them. The memories of a face -- the cut of a nose, and the curl of a lip -- had blurred to a void that could have been everything and nothing all at once. What Cora couldn’t forget was muscle memory, and her fingers gracefully folded smooth paper to form a head and wings until another colorful paper crane joined the small army threatening to burst out of her shoebox apartment. “One thousand gets a wish,” the woman murmured as she set the newest crane atop the bundle of blankets that comprised her bed and looked out the window towards the looming city and all its lights. She doubted she would ever get what she wanted. After all, other people wanted, and when it came to her, they only wanted what she could do and who she could be. They never really wanted her for her. It didn’t stop her from reaching for another sheaf of paper and trying again.

TLDR: Pretty sure Cora's grandma (who in my head is super old and reeks of sandalwood and dismissiveness) is the head of a Gramarye coven elsewhere. Cora was meant to take up the mantle or... something else more nefarious but yeeted instead and is hiding out in New York until she can figure out wtf to do. AGAIN, this could change depending on revealed site lore and also the fact that I might see another bright and shiny idea and go crow.

#cora mills #bmtrp #baremyteethrp #not tagging the dev tag because I already have two and I don't wanna clog the tag #Spotify

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

Text

KURIN’S FOLLY : World of Sea : Part 9 of 15

KURIN’S FOLLY

Part 9

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

23,699 words

writing begun 2006

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story? Read from the beginning. Part 1 is here

///////////////////////

Now Morgan sneered, “Don’t keep too good a track of things, do you? The Master dismissed them Wohans ago. Said anybody that you picked had to be rotten!”

Lissa looked shocked that anyone would lose an apprenticeship simply because they were picked by somebody the Master disliked. Kurin’s reaction was completely different. She suddenly smiled. “They’re free? Good. I need them. Go get them for me and you can go back to the boat shop.”

Suddenly, Morgan realized that he was being dismissed and snarled angrily, “What’s the matter? Aren’t I good enough to make stupid toys and shit?”

Eyeing the latest gluing error pointedly, Kurin replied, “No. You are not. Go. Get me Luin and Roper.”

Sullenly, Morgan said, “I don’t have to do anything that you say. Master Juris said so.”

A soft voice behind him made him jump. “Would you care to repeat that to the Captain?”

Morgan shrank and said, “No, Sir. I didn’t know that you were there, Captain Mord, Sir. I’ll go get them.”

Leaving Morgan to his errand, Captain Mord asked Kurin, “I have just heard the news. What are we to do with the boat shop? We have no other Master for it.”

Kurin thought about that for a few moments. When she looked up it was with haunted, pain filled eyes. She took a breath to steady herself against the old and hurtful memories before offering, “When you were forced to relieve Silor, you let him advise you on his replacement. Perhaps that would be the way to try.”

Captain Mord spread his hands palms down and said wryly, “I already tried that. Master Juris told me that since we did not trust him, he had no advice for us.”

Lissa just nodded. She snorted, “Some things haven’t changed. Juris still won’t give up a grudge. This time, it’s backfired on him.” She shook her head and added, “Kurin isn’t even from this ship anymore. She gave up her home to save that man and this is the thanks he gives her.”

Captain Mord gave Lissa a careful look, studying her thoroughly. Suddenly he smiled broadly and held out a hand to her. He addressed her directly, saying, “Welcome back, Lissa. I heard this news, too. It was harder to believe than the news about Juris. I am glad that it’s true.” He paused, the familiar impish smile twitching the corners of his mouth and added, “This does create one small problem, though.”

Kurin looked concerned and offered, “Why? I will give Lissa work until the others find useful tasks for her.”

The Captain began to giggle as he replied, “Oh, it’s not Lissa that’s the problem. It’s Bradon. What am I going to do for a punishment detail for him now? He’s always getting into some scrape or other.”

“Humm,” said Kurin in mock seriousness, “I do see the problem.” She began to giggle as well.

Lissa joined in with, “I’d no idea that I was so important to the proper functioning of the ship!” Cheerful laughter rang out in A4 for the first time in many Gatherings.

Captain Mord settled down and went back to his topic. “I was hoping that you might have a suggestion as to how to handle the problem of the boat shop.”

Kurin pursed her lips and nodded. “A contest. We need the little catamarans anyway. Give each of the journeymen two apprentices chosen by lot. Each team will build one. I’ll chose the best made one and that journeyman becomes the shop supervisor. At the fall Gathering, the Guild can handle the problem.”

Captain Mord nodded agreement. “I had come to a similar idea but it is a Craft matter, not an issue of Command. The Craft Council will meet shortly to discuss Mast - Juris. I would appreciate it if you were there.”

As he left, Luin came nearly flying into the room. She was a ten Gatherings old bundle of brown haired energy. “Kurin! I hoped that I’d get to see you! Morgan said something about toys. Are you going to make us some?”

Some things, a mother never forgets how to do. Lissa expertly corralled the child. Looking down at Luin, she said, “We are going to help Kurin to make toys. She is going to be very busy and we will be her apprentices. There will be another child named Roper coming to help as well.”

Luin looked up at Lissa and undiplomatically said, “I hear that you aren’t on dry land anymore. How well afloat are you?”

In answer, Lissa opened the room’s port and hung out High Cloud’s perch. In moments the big bird ducked his way into the room. Lissa confidently reached over and chucked him under the beak. He tolerated it with clear pleasure. Now Lissa spoke, “I’m well enough afloat to know what to trust. My daughter. Her Hawk. This ship. And you. Know why I trust you?”

“No,” Luin said in a small voice, crowding back from what she had been taught all her life were two dangerous creatures, Lissa and the Wide Wing both. “I saw the bandage on Master Juris’ hand,” she stated. “He said that bird should be killed because it’s dangerous.”

Judiciously, Lissa said, “He’s wrong and right, both. The bird is dangerous but so is my daughter. Neither one should be harmed on that account. They behave themselves. He got hurt because he attacked High Cloud, here. Kurin’s friend defended himself. It was Kurin who put the knife cut on his wrist, defending her friend. Why do I trust you? You are Kurin’s friend, too. It’s a good starting place.”

Just then Roper showed up. He was thirteen and more dignified than Kurin remembered. Still, his eyes lit up at the sight of High Cloud. The dignity fell away and the friend that Kurin remembered emerged, saying, “I heard about you guys! Knife and beak! Master Juris got something he’s had coming for a long time.”

Sourly he said to Kurin, “He made our lives as bad as he could after you left. He even dumped our apprenticeships out the scupper.” In a far more animated voice, he asked, “What do you need us for?”

“To start, we need to make a shop to work in,” Kurin replied seriously. “Then, we need begin making toys and instruments.”

“Instruments?” all three said, looking blankly at Kurin.

“You know, lunants and water clocks for navigation, rules, straight edges, dividers, scribers, technical abacci, that sort of thing,” said Kurin with assurance.

“Oh,” said Luin, a little taken aback at the thought of doing such delicate work, “I thought that you meant tabors, Barant type horns, flutes, those things with the strings that we heard about from the Arrakans. Stuff like that. Music.” The others were nodding their support as well.

Kurin beamed at the notion and said, “You mean Arrakan harps and lyres or Winternight tabolins. Musical instruments are an excellent idea. We’ll need to set you up a work space of your own for it after we get things together here. As soon as we can, I’ll start you all on the necessary math.” Seeing the looks of dismay on their faces, she laughed good-naturedly and said, “Don’t worry. The musical harmonics you’ll need are easy.”

Kurin turned back to the bench that lay on the floor in pieces. Gesturing at the work in progress, she explained, “We need to finish laminating this bench top and get the frame put together. Then we can get going on the tool racks. Lissa, I have a plan drawn for a screen printing device. It’s in the top drawer of my tool chest. You used to make and fix things so I think that it will be right on your course.”

Roper and Luin were busily spreading glue and Lissa was drawing up a list of what she needed for the screen printing press when Juris stopped at the door. Ignoring the rest, he homed in angrily on Kurin. “Well, now are you happy, you little white haired Ord? I had to surrender my Master’s Certificate. They’ve taken the boat shop from me!”

Lissa came to Kurin’s defense saying mildly, “I haven’t had time to learn all of the details but I have heard more than enough already. You scuttled yourself and are standing in the wreck, chopper in hand, blaming Kurin for the hole in your hull.”

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS ~ NEXT==>

#KURIN'S FOLLY #Part 9 of 15 #World of Sea #Written by De Writer

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willow-salix · 4 years

Text

Isolation update!

Day 74 of Isolation on Tracy Island

“What on earth are you two doing?” Gordon asked, popping up out of nowhere like a tropical jack-in-the-box, his shirt flapping in the breeze, making us both jump.

We were doing nothing more exciting than stretching out on the couch, where I had forced John to settle by laying on him and then demanded he read to me. And since that was actually a pretty normal occurrence, I was at a loss as to what he was referring to. Knowing him he'd just declared today to be "eat with your toes day" or something equally ridiculous and was annoyed we weren't playing along.

John stopped reading to glare at him. I lifted my head off his shoulder to join in with the glaring.

“We were trying to have a quiet moment without constant interruptions,” I told him. Why did he have to have so many brothers?

“I told you we should have gone up to Five for a few days,” John sighed, picking up the book again and continuing to read from where he had left off. I snuggled closer to listen.

“This supernatural soliciting

Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill,

Why hath it given me earnest of success,

Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.

If good, why do I yield to that suggestion

Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,

Against the use of nature? Present fears

Are less than-”

“That! That’s what I meant. What are you doing?” Gordon interrupted again.

“Trying to read Macbeth, obviously,” I grumbled.

“Why? It’s rubbish. No one reads that sort of thing any more.”

“Sure they do. Did you not read Shakespear in highschool?” I asked.

“Only when I had to, not for fun," he sneered that last word in the same tone people use when they have just trodden in something disgusting or realised there is no milk left in the house.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I told him.

“You two are so weird, there are billions of books out there and you are reading one so old that hardly anyone can even understand it any more.”

“We understand it, or we wouldn't be reading it,” John sighed. “It’s not our fault that it’s too intellectual for you.”

“I could understand it just fine if I wanted to!” Gordon protested. We snorted in disbelief. “Hey! I can be an intellectual too, I can be smart. Move over!”

He shoved our legs out of the way, forcing us to sit up and dropped down next to me on the couch.

“Do you have to be here?” John asked.

“Yes. I’m going to prove that I’m smart, keep reading.”

John sighed but continued where he had left off, obviously knowing that there is very little point arguing with him.

“Are less than horrible imaginings.

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical.

Shakes so my single state of man.

That function is smothered in-”

“Nope! I can’t do it! It’s just so boring!” Gordon wailed.

“Heathen!” I smacked him with a cushion.

“Out of my sight! Thou doth infect my eyes!” John flicked his forehead.

“What was that?” Gordon asked, beginning to laugh. “Did you just insult me in your weird Shakespear language?”

"Yes, because we invented old English," I sighed.

“Thou art a dull and muddy-mettled rascal.”

“Did you just call me stupid in old english?”

“Yep,” I grinned. “He did. It isn't boring, Shakespear is a total G.”

“Yeah, right, still sounds boring to me.”

“Macbeth is a masterpiece, it's about a Scottish dude and his mate who meet these three witches and they, out of the goodness of their hearts, give him a prophecy telling him that he’ll become king of Scotland but that his mate will father a whole line of Scottish kings but won't be king himself. Feeling like this is totally his destiny he isn’t prepared to wait it out and see what happens, he wants to be king now, so, with the urging of his wife, he kills the king and his mate. He is crowned but he becomes overwhelmed with guilt and paranoia. He goes back to the witches and they tell him that he must beware of some other dude named Macduff but that Macbeth is incapable of being harmed by any man born of a woman. So Maccy B, he gets a bit cocky and thinks it's all good for a while, even though Macbeth’s wife is going a little cray cray and taking the whole handwashing thing a wee bit too seriously. But then Macduff gets in on the action and brings an army with him, they storm the castle and Macduff tells old Bethy that he was born by cesarean-”

“Untimely ripped from his mother's womb,” John added.

“And Duffy beheads Macbeth and this other dude named Malcom that I forgot to mention, becomes king. See? It’s great!”

“Love, you just butchered Shakespear so badly that even I didn’t understand half of what you just said.”

“It’s my gift to the world,” I shrugged. “My ability to sum up a plot so badly that even I’m not sure if it makes sense. But I thought I did OK with that one.”

“Yeahhh, not so much,” Gordon teased. “I tuned you out three words in.”

“John, insult your brother for me, I am no longer talking to him.”

“Thou yeasty folly-fallen bladder.”

“How dare you, sir! I have no idea what that means but it sounds bad.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

“What’s the point?” Scott chose that moment to walk in, catching the tail end of the conversation.

“John is insulting me!”

“What did you do?”

“Insulted him.”

“I was asking Gordon.”

I cracked up laughing, Scott always has our backs.

“He said that Shakespeare was boring and then was mean to me after I took the time to explain the plot to him. Now I’m not talking to him.”

“Did you explain it the same way you explained The Witches of Eastwick to Virgil? Because I’d seen it and I didn’t understand that either.”

“My talents are wasted on you all,” I nudged John and quirked an eyebrow in Scott’s direction. He rolled his eyes but dutifully dragged out a premium insult.

“Sense sure you haven else could not have motion; but sure that sense is apoplex’d. ”

“Oh my god, you can still do that?” Scott laughed in amazement.

“Do what, insult people?” Gordon asked, clearly confused.

“John was in a Shakespearean insult team in highschool, they actually took part in competitions, he was obviously the champion, won them the league and a bust of Shakespeare’s head as a trophy.”

“Obviously,” I agreed, patting his hand proudly. “Dude got mad skills.”

Gordon's eyes flicked up to the bookshelf on the balcony above our heads where a small gold bust sat.

“You are so weird.”

“So you frequently tell me. Now, will you two kindly go away and leave us in peace?”

“Oh no, no way,” Scott laughed. “I want to hear more, in fact, I’m calling the others.”

And that’s the story of how John spent more than three hours blowing their minds and damaging their egos with a never ending volley of insults as they goaded him into more and more outlandish attacks. Here are some of the best.

Thou hath not so much brain as ear wax - to Gordon because he’s not intelligent enough to appreciate old english.

Thou qualling ill-nurtured lout - to Alan who kept chanting “me next, me next”.

Most shallow man! Thou worms-meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed- to Virgil because he was in the middle of trying to tame his hair when he was summoned.

Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver’d boy - to Scott because he was brave enough to attempt to insult him back.

Thou fawning spur-galled harpy!- at me when I stole his coffee

You should be women, and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so- to all of them.

Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters- to me, because I’m a strange, strange lady and asked for another insult.

Thou fusty onion-eyed nut-hook! - at Virgil, no reason at all.

Draw thy tool. My naked weapon is out- after flipping a certain finger at Scott.

Thou wimpled bat-fowling puttock- at Gordon because it was his fault that John was stuck insulting people when he had just wanted a quiet afternoon.

Thou currish bade-court hedge-pig- at Alan while examining his chin growth.

What, you egg! Young fry of treachery! - at Alan when he sided with Gordon.

Assume a virtue if you have it not- at Gordon when he protested his innocence.

Thou artless tickle-brained haggard! - at Virgil when he compared John’s nose to Shakespeare’s massive hooter.

Thou villainous weather-brained barnacle!- at Gordon, just because, and now everyone is calling him a weather-brained barnacle.

Get thee to a nunnery- to me when I said his Shakespearean accent was strangely hot.

Thou puny rampallian baggage- at Gordon, for no reason other than he’s short.

Thou art some fool, I am loath to beat thee- at Scott when he attempted to start a Shakespearean rap battle (don’t ask, it didn’t last long)

Thine face is not worth sunburning- to Virgil who thinks he’s too cool for sunscreen and has a red nose because he fell asleep in the sun again.

You yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am if like a crab you could go backwards- at Jeff who wanted to know just what the heck was happening in his lounge and why we were all screaming with hysterical laughter.

I scorn you, scurvy companion. What, you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you moldy rogue away!- at Alan when he tried to steal one of John’s cookies while he was distracted.

Away, you bottle-ale rascal, you filthy bung, away!- At Gordon when he also attempted cookie theft.

The insult lashes came to a halt when Grandma called us for dinner.

“Hey, John?” Gordon whispered as we bundled down the stairs to the kitchen

“Yeah?”

“I dare you to insult Grandma’s cooking.”

“No, my love, it’s not worth it, think of the children!” I gasped.

“What children?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.

I shrugged. “Our non-existent children, I just thought I'd go full movie heroine for dramatic effect. You do what you want, you’re all crazy.”

He narrowed his eyes as he thought about it, then nodded. I should have known, no Tracy can resist a dare.

Grandma plonked down plates of something that might have been chicken, but also might have been sausages in a gravy for gruel straight out of a Dickensean nightmare.

I watched John out of the corner of my eye. Would he actually do it? He took a deep breath, as if psyching himself up for it. I couldn't blame him. He pushed the plate away and opened his mouth.

“Away, you starvelling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, bull’s-pizzle, you stock-fish! Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.”

I think John’s grounded now, but the boys still haven't stopped laughing...

#savage john is savage #Shakespearean insults #john tracy #gordon tracy #Thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #Thunderbirds in isolation #isolation island #social isolation #john tracy appreciation society

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sworn-unbeliever · 4 years

Photo

16 - Lucubration

((For some context, Teremy + Reonora’s gang had their adventures in Norvrant and have all arrived back at the source here. Reonora had asked Teremy to work at Fortunes & Fancies for the next 45 days three months. So this entry is part of Teremy working there.))

wc: 1,859

Joey stood on top of the counter and cleared his throat. “Due to an influx of customers suddenly showing up at once and coincidentally wanting their commissions done within--” Joey flipped open his notebook, “--the next three days, I’m calling this morning meeting to organize and delegate tasks. So...” He paused again as his red eyes scanned his notes. “Reo, due to your knowledge of where everything is, and the nature of this job requiring many gathered and crafted objects from this and that occupation, you’ll be in charge of helping the free company do sweatshop--er, workshop stuff.”

Reonora tilted her head and patted herself, smiling. “You can count on me!”

“Teremy, since you’re a carpenter and blacksmith specialist, you’re the only one who can make these Tsukuyomi weapons. Specifically, the client wants a Tsukuyomi’s Moonlit Cane and Tsukiyomi’s Moonlit Great Axe. They already handed over the celestial kimono remnant. All that’s left is to gather the rest of the materials yourself and make the thing. Oh, and a manor cello.”

Teremy arched an eyebrow. “What does a manor cello have to do with anything?”

“The client wants it as part of their collection, I guess,” said Joey.

“And drying the wood?”

“I’ll take care of that. Just leave the spruce lumber with Rosemary and I’ll dry it out at some point within the next three days.”

“Sounds good.”

“As for me,” Joey scrunched up his face in a way only a lalafell could, “I’ll take care of the dance troupe costumes. Sequins. Why sequins.” He shook his head. “And Rosie, that leaves you to take care of the store. You okay with that?”

Rosemary nodded. “Mm! I’ll do my best.”

Joey clamped his book shut. “All right. You all know what you have to do. Feel free to ask me anything if you have any questions. Dismissed.”

Reonora picked up Rosemary, gave the plainsfolk a smushing hug and kisses to the cheek, then scoured Rosemary’s inventory for any items she had onhand. As Joey reopened his notebook to even begin counting the number of materials he needed, including sequins, he glanced over to see Teremy looking down at his own books. One hand on his hip, the other holding a book of carpenter recipes, the miqo’te frowned pensively. Joey was about to ask what was the matter, but Teremy spoke first.

“Tsukuyomi… you said?” Teremy asked.

“That’s right.”

“I can’t find any recipe that bears her name.”

Joey froze. “What? Lemme see that.”

Teremy moved closer to the counter and held out the book for Joey to see. Standing beside the miqo’te, Joey turned the pages of Teremy’s crafting manual.

“I see what’s the matter. You have the master recipes book? It’s the sixth one,” said Joey.

Teremy glanced at Joey blankly. “... master recipes?”

“You don’t have any of the master recipe books?”

“Unless these recipes fell out of my brain from years of experience, then no. First time I’ve heard of such a thing.”

“And let me guess. No folklore books either?”

“Such knowledge failed to fall out of my head the day I slept under a faerie apple tree. I deeply regret my error.”

Reonora passed by the two in the background, materials already collected. “He’s your protege, Joey. You agreed to show him the ropes.” She waved and left the store.

A chime rang as the door closed. All Joey could do was inhale reality, exhale frustration.

“I’ll start from the top and then tell you where to get them.”

* * *

Zhloe clapped her hands together and raised a foot, her face lighting up with such pure happiness that her smile may as well be the sun. “Oh, Teremy, these items are so beautiful! But no, I must think of the children. Thank you, thank you so much! This is not much, but it’s all I can give you.”

Teremy scooped up the armsful of yellow scrips. “Your happiness is enough. Yours and the… orphans…”

“Yes, and clothes--no, food! Ah! By the way, speaking of food, did you want to stay for dinner? I promise I’ll give you the bigger half of my portion!”

Teremy took a step back. “You keep your food for yourself. You need it more than me. T-take care!”

Down in the depths of Sui-no-Sato, Kurenai smiled politely and bowed. “Such splendor, such beauty. Your--” Her gaze quickly moved away from his chest to the objects in his hands, “--works never fail to impress me. Please take this gift of scrips in return.”

Teremy bowed and responded in Hingan, “The least I can do to help the cause.” Although Kurenai spoke Doman, he understood her somewhat as one who spoke a different dialect of the same language. And same for Kurenai in return. He hadn’t spoken his native language in awhile and doing so made him feel a little happy on the inside.

“I shall be looking forward to your subsequent return, if you will grace us with your presence again.” Kurenai bowed again.

“Wherever the wind will carry me.”

As Teremy turned around to leave, thankfully he had no clue as to Kurenai peering over at his two shapely ‘cloud pearls.’ All the miqo’te heard was a smack from Sanana’s hand. “Keep your eyes off the guys and on the prize!”

Thanks to the yellow scrips, Teremy now left Rhalgr’s reach with both the aforementioned master recipe book, as well as books of folklore native to Othard and Gyr Abania. One third of the battle done.

* * *

“Chromite Ore. A decent-sized piece of rock containing the metal chromium.” Teremy read out loud while dodging several demons. “Self-explanatory.”

Book in one hand, gunblade in the other, and with his face completely engrossed in the book of Othardian folklore, Teremy’s instincts took over in the heat of battle. He spun and weaved around any threat that dared come close to him in Haukke Manor. A couple of cuts from his gunblade was all he needed to disperse the voidsent from whence they came.

“Chromium. Difficult to discern from a single glance. Dark grey to black in colour. Slightly magnetic.”

The manor sentry screeched at him as his fire-endowed gunblade sank into its person. With an indignant flap of his wings, said sentry flew off to open the ritual spell blocking the door. But Teremy’s destination was elsewhere, namely the room of which said manor sentry hung out in itself. Teremy opened the chest and was greeted by two pots of manor varnish. Exactly what he needed.

* * *

“Rhea. A variety of ramie better suited to the climes of Far Eastern Othard.” Teremy glanced at the picture beside the descriptive text. “Compared to the usual ramie, rhea has smaller leaves green on the underside. Huh. Good to know.”

Teremy placed planks of spruce lumber by Rosemary as instructed. He petted her on the head and sauntered off to his next destination, his nose still stuck in the folklore book.

* * *

“Torreya Log. A rough cut of torreya timber. Then what the hell is a torreya tree--”

“Ignoring us would be your greatest folly!” cried Ascian Prime.

Teremy was sure he felt a tickle of… something. He merely summoned a small barrier around him in the form of a technique called Rampart and allowed the damage to brush off of him. Gunblade in one hand, book in the other like his previous run through Haukke Manor, his body moved on its own while he buried his face in the folklore book.

“Torreya, a genus of conifers. Spiky leaves. Destined to prick you before you prick them. Ah. All right. What a prick.” Teremy muttered as he stepped into a black portal for safety.

One he stepped out of the area, he found himself rewarded with enough poetic tomestones to appease Rowena’s employees. Bone charcoal and demicrystals acquired.

* * *

Torreya Log. The Lochs. Six o’clock. Teremy found said tree at the peak of its gathering time at some point in the evening. Thanks to the description, he recognised the tree’s needle-like leaves immediately. Hacking away with his patented axe--he trusted his faithful warrior’s axe more than he would a botanist’s tool, he acquired as many logs as this tree allowed him to have.

“Tsukuyomi’s Moonlit Cane. Three torreya lumber, two rhea cloth, 2 molybdenum ingot, one celestial kimono remnant, five demicrystal.”

Chromite Ore. The Peaks. Ten o’clock. Teremy brought a small magnet with him. When not latching onto his pickaxe, the magnet did do the job of detecting the relevant ore. Once again, Pick Clean, Blessed Harvest II, and as many ores as this node allowed him to have. He gave up with the magnet after awhile and left it hooked on one of the ores.

“Tsukuyomi’s Moonlit Greataxe. Three chromite ore. Two palladium ingot. Two palladium nugget… which makes how many nuggets? Hrm. One celestial kimono remnant, five demicrystal.”

Rhea. The Azim Steppe. Twelve o’clock. As someone accustomed to working with ramie, Teremy found the plant easily. Sure enough, smaller leaves green on the underside. Just like the other two folklore materials, he gathered as many leaves as he could.

“Manor Cello. Two manor varnish, one glazenut, four spruce lumber, four cobalt ingot, one dew thread. Interesting. Dew thread for strings.”

Teremy closed the master recipe books.

“Now for all the rest of that good shit.”

* * *

He returned to Fortunes & Fancies late at night. Reonora had locked the door, but Teremy had a key. He excused himself to no one on particular and turned on the lights as he entered. The planks of spruce lumber now laid by the side of the counter with a note in Joey’s handwriting. Drying done.

Teremy had all the materials he needed to start work. He rolled up his sleeves and pulled out his own list of items to make. Starting by propping the relevant master books up on the counter.

* * *

The fated third day had arrived. Reonora, Joey and Rosemary stood in front of the store bright and early. Reonora had no items onhand as all of her necessary materials went towards the free company workshop, but her clothes looked a little ragged and a few strands of white hair strung out of place. Joey dragged behind him a cart containing nothing but folded shimmering clothes and many sequins. Rosemary, who had to take care of customer service, had dark circles under her eyes.

“Have either of you heard from Teremy?” Reonora asked.

“I tried contacting him earlier but no answer.” said Joey.

“I hope he’s okay…” Rosemary looked down.

Reonora turned the door handle to her store.

The handle was open.

“Strange. I thought I had locked the door last night.” Reonora furrowed her brow.

Rosemary waved her hands. “Hopefully robbers didn’t come in!”

“Only one way to find out.”

The three entered the store. Thankfully everything seemed intact as usual. However, from the moment they entered, Reonora and Rosemary sensed a presence from downstairs from powerful, yet familiar energies. To Joey, who could only sense magic and therefore not this specific presence, heard soft, rhythmic breathing, also from downstairs. The trio headed downstairs and saw Teremy passed out on the couch. Beside him were all the items he had been requested to make, finished and gleaming from the highest quality possible.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2020 #crafter and gatherer life

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authorized-trash · 5 years

Text

To Tie A Knot: Chapter Two: Fate's Folly

Trigger Warnings:

Sympathetic Deceit, Self Hate, Anxiety Disorder, Minor Death, Sickness, Unconsciousness, Mentions of Hospitals, mild language, if I missed any tell me!

Chapter Summary:

Fate made one very welcome mistake when it brought these four together. (Aka- Roman is a stuttering mess, and Logan is a smart cookie)

Word Count: 2,200+

Note: Wow I actually wrote this, good job me! I didn't plan on the next chapter coming out so fast, but hey, I didn't want to forget the good ideas I had for it. Thank you all, so, so much for the support. It really just means the entire world to me, honestly.

---

Logan had known he was different for a very long time.

Everything about him was strange. The way he spoke, the way he never slouched, the way he could do incredibly large problems in his head with ease. Even the way he interacted with others was weird.

You would think most people would find him strange for those reasons, but no. Actually, they pointed out something different entirely.

While a fatestring could not be seen by anyone other than the two connected by it, they did infact cast a shadow. It was the oddest thing, no one could explain it, but they did.

So when people would go to shake the young man's hand and saw the three strings that traveled with his hand through shadow, they were taken aback. It was unnatural. Wrong.

They'd rush away without much else to say, or force a smile and slowly back off.

Logan knew he was strange, he knew that the three strings did nothing to help that, but he couldn't find anything in him to care.

He couldn't change anything if he wanted to anyway.

Roman was... Extra, to say the least. He was a loud young man with an eye for theater. He was an actor, set on becoming a Broadway or Hollywood star.

He never minded the looks people gave him, the way his three fatestrings brought attention to him. He loved the attention, basked in it. Loved it like a snake loves the sun.

"Why of course I have three! The universe would never stick someone like me with only one person, it'd be overwhelming! Poor thing would faint," he had announced one day, his voice dramatic. The others just snickered, what a weirdo.

Roman would spend his evenings singing Disney songs while he tidied his room, or gently tapping rythms to Baby Blue, one of the strings. You see, he had given them all nicknames based on color. Baby Blue, Navy, and Violet. He loved them all dearly, despite not knowing much about any of them.

He did know this.

Navy tapped rhythmically, slow and steady. They seemed collected. Evidence for that? Eh, not much, but Roman could just feel it. Baby Blue was bubbly, and would tap songs along with the actor. Baby Blue seemed nice and happy, bubbly.

Violet didn't talk much. He'd get a tug from his side every once in awhile, but other than that, nothing. It'd tremor sometimes though, as if V was trembling. Roman was quick to act, running a finger along the string to send vibrations. He hoped the others were doing something similar.

Patton was an exciting ball of pure joy. The soft male would wear skirts whenever he damn well pleased, tied his ashy hair in pony tails, spun in circles until he fell down in the park, made flower crowns, and fed ducks grain because he knew bread was bad for them.

He was just an amazing person overall.

His eyes were a soft blue behind thick rimmed glasses, his face covered in freckles. He always seemed to smile, showing off the small gap in his front teeth.

He helped his mother in a small bakery, near the towns college. They got good enough business, and one day Patton was supposed to inherit the place.

The steady income was promising, so the twenty-one year old didn't have to worry about college. They weren't poor, but they also couldn't afford something like that.

Oh well, he'd just have to continue living life to it's fullest, and looking for his three soulmates.

Yep, three! He was so proud of them, despite not knowing much about them. He knew NB was calm, R was anything but, and V was different.

Patton was sure he'd love them unconditionally, he only hoped they'd show him the same.

Virgil hated everything about this damn place. From the cold walls to the high windows, this whole place was just genuinely unwelcoming and scary.

Virgil had an anxiety disorder, so everything had him on edge. He had to wait in a lecture hall before leaving so the halls would be clear, and then sneak out.

Anyone who didn't know him would say he was emo. Anyone who did know him could confirm that.

He had a very dark wardrobe, the only colors other than dark blacks were variations of purple. His trademark jacket he's had for years, he made it himself, was black with purple patchwork.

He wore minimal makeup, normally just going out in eyeshadow and eyeliner. He didn't like color, made him stick out too much.

School was Hell. All that occurred was bullying and anxiety. The students of the college didn't take too kindly to someone as different as him, someone with three soulmates.

Virgil used to think he was alone, even if he did have soulmates out there somewhere, who could love him? He honestly thought that they would probably never even attempt to like him, they probably hated the fact they had more than on soulmate.

Actually, now that he thought about it, did they even share soulmates? Was Virgil just doomed to be attached to three people who had no connections to eachother? How would this even begin to work, how would he ever be able to deal with it?

Thoughts like this tormented him everyday, all the way until he met his first soulmate, Red.

>Two years prior<

It had been a decently normal day, the sky bright and full of fluffy, white clouds. Virgil leaned against a large oaktree somewhere at the edge of the college campus, nodding his head along to some music discreetly. He messed around on Tumblr for a bit, before sighing and looking up at the students that walked around.

At first he didn't pay much mind to the string that stretched out towards crowd, he was used to his fatestrings moving and stretching out. They never caught on anything, it was impossible.

But then he noticed how it moved. The red string was moving quickly across the field, so either his soulmate was moving extremely fast, or they were... Right there.

A male ran through the crowd, going opposite Virgil, obviously not seeing the string, which was very obviously connected to them both.

Virgil's heart skipped, and he stood up, shoving his phone in his pocket and pulling his headphones to his neck. He took off, running for the soulmate that was connected to him through the red string.

Virgil ran, all anxiety forgotten, the pull of a soulmate too strong to ignore. He ran, his converse loud against the asphalt path.

"Hey! Wait!" He shouted, shoving past people who began to move to the side. The other must be in a rush, for he didn't stop or wait.

He had a red sports jacket on, and white pants. An odd choice of clothing, but he was most likely a prep of some sort. Either way, Virgil just had to catch up.

"Stop!" Virgil shouted, losing Red in the crowd. He continued running, but slowed down a bit. There was just no way-

No, you know what-

Virgil yanked, as hard and as fast as he could on the red string. He felt it tug, the distance now so small there was no slack. He saw Red now, who had stumbled back and dropped his papers.

Red looked down at his string, following it with his eyes until-

They made eye contact. Red's eyes widened and Virgil suddenly felt his anxiety pooling back through him, an illness that refused to be forgotten.

He pushed it back, walking forward to pick of Red's papers. He stacked them nicely together, before standing up and coming face to face with the soulmate, who was still in shock.

He gently placed the papers in Red's hands,

"You'll need these. Don't be late to your rehearsal," Virgil muttered, noting that the papers were scripts.

"I- well uh-" Red stuttered, looking from the papers to Virgil, who just laughed.

"It's Virgil," He said, giving the actor a dumb smile. He got an idea suddenly, picking out a pen from his pocket. Normally he'd be embarrassed that he just whipped out a glitter pen, but honestly, he was an artist and it was a useful tool. Besides, no time to dwell now.

Virgil scribbled down his number on Red's hand, his touch feather-light, ghosting on his tan skin.

×××-×××-××××

~ Virgil

He smiled at Red, before running off, disappearing. Red was left to stand there, staring at the number written in glittery ink. Oh God- wow okay- he- oof.

Patton loved his soulmates, he really did, but holy shit was this beginning to annoy the pastel young man.

Navy had been tapping for hours nonstop, constantly. The same pattern, over and over and over. Patton couldn't take it, he had to study, he had to, but how would he ever with this nonstop tap tap tap tap tap-

Wait, Navy never did this, he only tapped when Patton tapped first, or sometimes at night, probably by accident. Maybe there was something wrong, maybe Patton should try to help.

So he sat down at his desk, and tapped three times back. Navy seemed to stop, before starting again, this time harder with more vigor.

Tap tap tap tap... Tap... Tap hold tap tap...

And some more was added to the sequence, before it starting over. Patton furrowed his brow, he'd heard of something like this, maybe-

'Oh my goodness,' Patton thought as realization hit him like a truck, 'It's Morse code.'

He rushed to grab a pencil, knocking over a vase of flowers in the process. He didn't even look for paper, just waited for the next sequence and scribbled down what he heard.

.... . .-.. .-.. --- / .. .----. -.. / .-.. .. -.- . / - --- / ..-. .. -. -.. / -.-- --- ..-

He tapped back happily, but he didn't think Navy understood that he knew, as the soulmate just started tapping ferociously, as if frustrated.

Patton ran to grab a laptop, haphazardly throwing it onto the bed and jumping up beside it. He looked up a Morse code translator and typed it in.

"Hello, I'd like to find you."

His heart stopped beating for a moment. Patton didn't know what to think, but he did know what to do.

He typed in a message in English, and tapped back,

.. / .-- .- -. - / - --- / -- . . - / .-- .... . .-. . / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..-

"I want to meet where are you?"

Simple and not super well thought out, but hey, it worked. Navy stopped tapping, realizing what was happening. They gave a small yank, and Patton repeated himself.

They tapped back and forth for a few more hours, simple messages. They'd meet in the park, it turned out that they both lived close.

Oh, he couldn't wait!

Roman felt like screaming, he met his soulmate, got his number, and was going to meet him! They'd be going to the park together for a little first date, to discuss the other two strings.

He was so excited, he just couldn't help it. Oh how fate had blessed him, Violet, or Virgil it turned out, was just stunning! Messy brown hair died purple at the ends, a jacket that seemed to be fluffy and comfortable, oh, how Roman wanted to just hold the smaller male, oh how he'd-

'Woah there Roman, you're making your own gaydar go off,' He thought to himself as he stared up at the ceiling. He had twirled until he couldn't no more, falling backwards onto his nice red blankets fit for a king.

Oh, but what a day it would be!

•••

>Present Day<

Remy didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't this.

When Damian didn't return his calls, he expected to find the male asleep, or out somewhere to eat. Perhaps with a lost phone.

But no, instead, he and Emile had stumbled upon something even worse.

Damian's small body was shrunk in on itself, knees tightly to his chest. He was curled in a corner by his TV and wall, a small bit of dried blood on his cheek where he had hit his head, the blood dripping down his face.

The circles under his eyes were dark, his skin sallow. His hair was a mess, and he was sweating slightly, as if he were feverish.

His eyes were open slightly, but he didn't seem to be very conscious. His eyes lazily followed the two soulmates as they rushed over to him.

"Dee, babe, are you alright? What happened?" Remy asked, putting the back of his hand to Damian's forehead. It was practically steaming.

"I'll- I'll go get an ambulance," Emile said as he stood up, running into another room to look for a phone, he'd left his at Remy's place.

Remy looked Damian over, he didn't seem to be very hurt, only sick. What could have caused this? What-

He saw Damian's arm convulse a bit, and the boy whimpered, curling further in on himself. Remy's eyes softened in pity, and he went to help Dee up.

The smaller of the two gladly leaned into Remy's cooler touch, thankful to get out of that corner. He was picked up into a princess' carry, his head falling weakly onto Remy's shoulder.

Emile came back in, stating an ambulance was on it's way and to get him outside where it was easy to collect him and take him to the hospital. Remy nodded,

"Turn on the lamp, I can't see," He said softly, as if loud noises would scare the half-conscious young man in his arms.

Emile didn't hesitate to turn it on, but the moment he did, he gasped in horror. His gaze fell onto the wall behind Remy.

Remy turned slowly, and he had to hold on to Dee a little tighter so not to drop him.

The shadow- his fatestring- was-

It was dangling uselessly from his hand, severed.

Taglist:

@scorching-scotch @deathshadowrules @avocados26 @redundant-statements-for-400 @a-stale-croissant @snowe-zolynn-rogers @humanities-eleventh-hour @radadora @knine-nights @ghost-apples @max-is-tired @ihateitwhenyourejustvague @notall2gether @rieka-onyx @theobsessor1 @cuddly-pastel-dragon @phoenix-roro @marshmallow-the-panda @jade-dragon226-fan @cityofholytaxaccountants @princeanxious @softlydrowsy @not-so-innocent-bi-sander @just-another-rainbowblog @winterswishing @soijusthavetoask @sanders-sthetis-and-fics @ironwoman359 @the---fans @crookedlyoptimisticdestiny @are-you-really-sure-about-that @starbucks-remy @thats-so-crash @trpgs-and-vamp-zektors @whizzie72 @aimlesslyfloatingintheuniverse @starlightvirgil @unicorndragon1-2-3 @slitherynchiken @shaeshaetheravenclaw @deathshadowrules @liberalautisticqueernerd831 @nervouspsychologynerd @callboxkat @hissceit @007ardra @angeliphobia @falsehood-bish @dragonsaphirareads @vixentheyouuber

More tags in the reblog, I've spent an hour redoing these because they keep messing up lol-

#Sanders sides #DLAMP #Sympathetic Deceit #soulmate au #Ts fandom #Virgil #Princey #roman #Patton #Logan #damian #emile #remy #Thomas sanders #To Tie A Knot #fanfiction #deceit

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agentmonet · 4 years

Text

Hold! Who goes there? Why, is that [AINSLEY ASHCRAFT NEE AMARANTHE] the [DUCHESS] of [ASHCRAFT]? They do look [JADED] for a [WOMAN] of [34] years. Don’t they call [HER] the [AFFECTIONATE AND RESOURCEFUL LIBERTINE]? I’ve heard they’re also [BITTER AND ENVIOUS] though. Don’t take my word for it but they do look an awful lot like [MEGHAN MARKLE]. For more details, see [HERE]

Basic Info

Name: Ainsley Amaranthe Ashcraft

Title: Duchess of House Ashcraft

Age: 34

Place of Origin: Born and raised in the Red Keep, but has lived in the East Reach for 14 years

Husband: Duke of House Ashcraft

Step-son/step-daughter: The Lord and/or Lady of House Ashcraft, sole child of the current Duke of House Ashcraft and his deceased first wife

Father: Duke of House Amaranthe

Mother: Duchess of House Amaranthe

Older Brother: Lord of House Amaranthe

Physical Description

Height: 5″8

Hair Color: Black

Eye Color: Dark Brown

Gender: Female

Build: Petite

Distinguishing features? A tattoo of a bright, red sun on her right shoulder blade

Any health related issues?: Infertility (assumed)

Personality

An Amaranthe by blood, Ainsley embodies all the majesty and follies of her original house. By nature, she is warm and affectionate to all. Never one to shy away from expression heartfelt emotion or devastation. But just like the summers of the Red Keep, Ainsley was quick to ignite into fiery rage. In a culture where most was accepted, the noble family thought little of controlling their emotions. Even if it was to the detriment of their political position, or simple an inconvenience.

With age and experience, Ainsley’s youthful exuberance has mellowed into warmth – if not sometimes, a jaded disposition. She maintains the ideas revolving sexuality, relationships, and affection… But has since learned that not many share her same world view.

Additional Info

The triumph of duty over love: Prior to her marriage to the Duke of House Ashcraft, Ainsley enjoyed the company of lovers and companions alike. Fluid in her sexuality, she’d loved and longed for many. But none compared to her darling, either a member of her house or someone who prolonged their stay in the Red Keep. They can be from any species, of any gender identity. Ainsley and her darling fell madly in love, sharing smiles and secrets during hot summer nights in the Red Keep. But when her duty to her family challenged her love, Ainsley chose her duty. With a tearful goodbye, Ainsley abandoned her darling. The pair could have maintained contact, continued an affair, or have not spoken since their youth. UTP.

The marriage of convenience: In Elysi, marriage and love were not mutually exclusive. The union of Ainsley and her husband, the Duke of House Ashcraft, was a testimony to this truth. At twenty-years-old, the young bride was determined to be of love and service to her husband. It was evident; however, that he had little concern for her input or affection. Perhaps it was a reality Ainsley could live with, had she given him sons and daughters to bond them. But in fourteen years of marriage, the couple has failed to conceive a child of their own. Now, their relationship hangs in the balance. Will the Duke open his heart to his well-meaning wife, or cast her aside for another?

The snake in the grass: A lady-in-waiting and/or ally of Ainsley’s, who speaks of kindness and good intentions. Perhaps someone she has taken with her from Amaranthe, who has remained her sole confidant in her isolating position as the Duchess of House Ashcraft. Unbeknownst to Ainsley, her secrets are sold to the highest bidder. The most frequent buyer? The Duke’s heir, who has yearned for Ainsley’s removal since her arrival.

History

In the midst of what was the hottest of summer days in the Red Keep’s history, a beautiful baby girl was born to Earl and Countess of House Amaranthe. With her stark black hair, bright brown eyes, and olive skin - the Earl predicted she would be a great beauty. A blessing to her house, and one day, a formidable asset to broker peace and partnership. But her mother thought little of political allegiances or matrimony for her only daughter. Instead, she prompted her to embrace the unique culture of the Red Keep. Ainsley’s childhood was filled to the brim with affection, warmth, and validation. Much like the late Ainsley, previous Countess of House Amaranthe, she was a talented mage in the making. At the age of ten, she was admitted to the Red Keep’s mysterious magaesterium council. It was there that Ainsley availed herself of tutelage, absorbing information and tricks with glee. Her time spent between the water gardens and entrenched in the magaesterium, refining her magical abilities. As her training continued, Ainsley discovered a knack for telempathy. Likely a result of her naturally empathetic persona, mixed with her innate magical ability. Certainly, the first twenty years of young Ainsley’s life left little to be desired.

But while Ainsley perfected her craft, her father sought a marriage that would strengthen the house’s financial and political position. Just as luck would have it, the Duke of House Ashcraft’s wife died of incurable illness. The mature Duke, with only one child to call his own, needed to marry and secure the future of his house. By lineage and appearance, Ainsley was the perfect companion. A healthy and lively beauty to continue the Ashcraft legacy. With a dowry settled and Ainsley’s loose garbs traded for wool, she was dubbed Duchess of House Ashcraft and claimed the East Reach as her new home. By all accounts, Ainsley was set to succeed by her well meaning parents. But how could they predict the Duke of House Ashcraft’s grief to be all-consuming? Or that their beautiful daughter, in all her youth, was incapable of birthing him a child? Their marriage was hollow, haunted by the ghost of the late Duchess’ memory and Ainsley’s inability to bare children. To add insult to injury, Ainsley’s libertine personality and telempathic abilities did not thrive in Ashcraft’s climate. An outsider in her own home, Ainsley’s bright persona grew bitter throughout the years. She grew weary of her husband’s cold shoulder, or the reception of her views on love and relationships as ‘crass.’

In an effort to restore power over her existence, Ainsley turned to the people of her house. She spent cold winters educating children on topics of philosophy and sociology, yearning to influence the future of Ashcraft. In the summers, Ainsley dazzled the people of Ashcraft with her intuition (a by-product of her telempathic abilities) and used her significant training from Amaranthe to improve tools for agriculture. Despite her efforts to make the most of her circumstances, many continued to doubt Ainsley’s legitimacy as their Duchess. Without a child to secure her position and her libertine ways too controversial, she fears it a matter of time before her husband does away with her for another.

#intro

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kylo-v · 5 years

Text

All V Poems

William Blake, A Dream

Once a dream did weave a shade

O'er my angel-guarded bed,

That an emmet lost its way

Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,

Dark, benighted, travel-worn,

Over many a tangle spray,

All heart-broke, I heard her say:

'Oh my children! do they cry,

Do they hear their father sigh?

Now they look abroad to see,

Now return and weep for me.'

Pitying, I dropped a tear:

But I saw a glow-worm near,

Who replied, 'What wailing wight

Calls the watchman of the night?

'I am set to light the ground,

While the beetle goes his round:

Follow now the beetle's hum;

Little wanderer, hie thee home!'

William Blake, Proverbs of Hell

In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.

Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.

He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence. The cut worm forgives the plow.

Dip him in the river who loves water. A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.

He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.

Eternity is in love with the productions of time.

The busy bee has no time for sorrow.

The hours of folly are measur’d by the clock, but of wisdom: no clock can measure.

All wholsom food is caught without a net or a trap.

Bring out number weight & measure in a year of dearth.

No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.

A dead body, revenges not injuries.

The most sublime act is to set another before you.

If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.

Folly is the cloke of knavery. Shame is Prides cloke.

Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion.

The pride of the peacock is the glory of God. The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.

The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.

The nakedness of woman is the work of God.

Excess of sorrow laughs.

Excess of joy weeps.

The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.

The fox condemns the trap, not himself.

Joys impregnate.

Sorrows bring forth.

Let man wear the fell of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep.

The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.

The selfish smiling fool, & the sullen frowning fool, shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod.

What is now proved was once, only imagin’d.

The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit: watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse, the elephant, watch the fruits.

The cistern contains; the fountain overflows.

One thought, fills immensity.

Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.

Every thing possible to be believ’d is an image of truth.

The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn of the crow.

The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.

Think in the morning.

Act in the noon.

Eat in the evening.

Sleep in the night.

He who has suffer’d you to impose on him knows you.

As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers.

The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.

Expect poison from the standing water.

You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.

Listen to the fools reproach! it is a kingly title!

The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.

The weak in courage is strong in cunning.

The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.

The thankful reciever bears a plentiful harvest.

If others had not been foolish, we should be so.

The soul of sweet delight, can never be defil’d.

When thou seest an Eagle, thou seest a portion of Genius, lift up thy head!

As the catterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys.

To create a little flower is the labour of ages.

Damn, braces: Bless relaxes.

The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.

Prayers plow not! Praises reap not!

Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!

The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands & feet Proportion.

As the air to a bird of the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.

The crow wish’d every thing was black, the owl, that every thing was white.

Exuberance is Beauty.

If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning.

Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement, are roads of Genius.

Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.

Where man is not nature is barren.

Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ’d.

Enough! or Too much!

William Black, Earth’s Answer

Earth rais'd up her head,

From the darkness dread & drear.

Her light fled:

Stony dread!

And her locks cover'd with grey despair.

Prison'd on watry shore

Starry Jealousy does keep my den

Cold and hoar

Weeping o'er

I hear the Father of the ancient men

Selfish father of men

Cruel, jealous, selfish fear

Can delight

Chain'd in night

The virgins of youth and morning bear.

Does spring hide its joy

When buds and blossoms grow?

Does the sower?

Sow by night?

Or the plowman in darkness plow?

Break this heavy chain,

That does freeze my bones around

Selfish! vain!

Eternal bane!

That free Love with bondage bound.

William Blake, Love and Harmony Combine

LOVE and harmony combine

And around our souls entwine,

While thy branches mix with mine

And our roots together join.

Joys upon our branches sit,

Chirping loud and singing sweet;

Like gentle streams beneath our feet,

Innocence and virtue meet.

Thou the golden fruit dost bear,

I am clad in flowers fair;

Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,

And the turtle buildeth there.

There she sits and feeds her young;

Sweet I hear her mournful song;

And thy lovely leaves among,

There is Love: I hear his tongue.

There his charmed nest he doth lay,

There he sleeps the night away,

There he sports along the day,

And doth among our branches play.

William Blake, Songs of Innocence, “Infant Joy”

I have no name

I am but two days old.—

What shall I call thee?

I happy am

Joy is my name,—

Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!

Sweet joy but two days old,

Sweet joy I call thee;

Thou dost smile.

I sing the while

Sweet joy befall thee.

William Blake, Poetical Sketches

Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees,

Whispering faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,

I walk the village round; if at her side

A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,

I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,

That made my love so high and me so low.

O should she e'er prove false, his limbs I'd tear

And throw all pity on the burning air;

I'd curse bright fortune for my mixed lot,

And then I'd die in peace, and be forgot.

TO THE MUSES.

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow

Or in the chambers of the East,

The chambers of the Sun, that now

From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair

Or the green corners of the earth,

Or the blue regions of the air,

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea

Wandering in many a coral grove,

Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!

William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour

A Robin Red breast in a Cage

Puts all Heaven in a Rage

A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons

Shudders Hell thr' all its regions

A dog starvd at his Masters Gate

Predicts the ruin of the State

A Horse misusd upon the Road

Calls to Heaven for Human blood

Each outcry of the hunted Hare

A fibre from the Brain does tear

A Skylark wounded in the wing

A Cherubim does cease to sing

The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight

Does the Rising Sun affright

Every Wolfs & Lions howl

Raises from Hell a Human Soul

The wild deer, wandring here & there

Keeps the Human Soul from Care

The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife

And yet forgives the Butchers knife

The Bat that flits at close of Eve

Has left the Brain that wont Believe

The Owl that calls upon the Night

Speaks the Unbelievers fright

He who shall hurt the little Wren

Shall never be belovd by Men

He who the Ox to wrath has movd

Shall never be by Woman lovd

The wanton Boy that kills the Fly

Shall feel the Spiders enmity

He who torments the Chafers Sprite

Weaves a Bower in endless Night

The Catterpiller on the Leaf

Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief

Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly

For the Last Judgment draweth nigh

He who shall train the Horse to War

Shall never pass the Polar Bar

The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat

Feed them & thou wilt grow fat

The Gnat that sings his Summers Song

Poison gets from Slanders tongue

The poison of the Snake & Newt

Is the sweat of Envys Foot

The poison of the Honey Bee

Is the Artists Jealousy

The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags

Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags

A Truth thats told with bad intent

Beats all the Lies you can invent

It is right it should be so

Man was made for Joy & Woe

And when this we rightly know

Thro the World we safely go

Joy & Woe are woven fine

A Clothing for the soul divine

Under every grief & pine

Runs a joy with silken twine

The Babe is more than swadling Bands

Throughout all these Human Lands

Tools were made & Born were hands

Every Farmer Understands

Every Tear from Every Eye

Becomes a Babe in Eternity

This is caught by Females bright

And returnd to its own delight

The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar

Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore

The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath

Writes Revenge in realms of Death

The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air

Does to Rags the Heavens tear

The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun

Palsied strikes the Summers Sun

The poor Mans Farthing is worth more

Than all the Gold on Africs Shore

One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands

Shall buy & sell the Misers Lands

Or if protected from on high

Does that whole Nation sell & buy

He who mocks the Infants Faith

Shall be mockd in Age & Death

He who shall teach the Child to Doubt

The rotting Grave shall neer get out

He who respects the Infants faith

Triumphs over Hell & Death

The Childs Toys & the Old Mans Reasons

Are the Fruits of the Two seasons

The Questioner who sits so sly

Shall never know how to Reply

He who replies to words of Doubt

Doth put the Light of Knowledge out

The Strongest Poison ever known

Came from Caesars Laurel Crown

Nought can Deform the Human Race

Like to the Armours iron brace

When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow

To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow

A Riddle or the Crickets Cry

Is to Doubt a fit Reply

The Emmets Inch & Eagles Mile

Make Lame Philosophy to smile

He who Doubts from what he sees

Will neer Believe do what you Please

If the Sun & Moon should Doubt

Theyd immediately Go out

To be in a Passion you Good may Do

But no Good if a Passion is in you

The Whore & Gambler by the State

Licencd build that Nations Fate

The Harlots cry from Street to Street

Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet

The Winners Shout the Losers Curse

Dance before dead Englands Hearse

Every Night & every Morn

Some to Misery are Born

Every Morn and every Night

Some are Born to sweet delight

Some are Born to Endless Night

We are led to Believe a Lie

When we see not Thro the Eye

Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night

When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light

God Appears & God is Light

To those poor Souls who dwell in Night

But does a Human Form Display

To those who Dwell in Realms of day

#v #dmc5 v #devil may cry 5 v #v devil may cry 5 #devil may cry 5 #devil may cry #v devil may cry #poems #poetry #william blake #william blake poems #dmc fandom

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