#It was supposed to have a third layer of black originally but I ended up hating it on the one I tested so blue and orange alone for this gu | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

empyrean-thrones · 3 months

Text

Chapter 3

"The Children of Fire were the first to descend and raise the earth at the behest of the Conqueror." — translation of an ancient slab found in the Morriane Province

Ao3 Link

The dorms for first year cadets are…not what I originally expected. For starters, they’re not really dorms in the traditional sense — we stand in a large wood tiled room with only two windows for light to filter through. Thirty beds are lined against both walls with just enough space for us to move around; four bathrooms are tucked away in a corner. “So what’s with the lack of privacy?” Ridoc asks, dropping his sack on the edge of the nearest bed.

“You’ll need to be accustomed to each other’s presence for the next three months until you get your dragon,” Dain explains from the doorway. “It helps build the bond and trust of the wing. Once you’re done getting dressed, you have twenty minutes to get to class. Your first one, draconology, is on the third floor, eighth room to the right in the academic wing. Don’t be late.” He’s gone before we can ask any more questions.

“He’s pretty good at pretending he doesn’t know you,” Rhiannon murmurs next to me as she plops down on one of the beds close to the windows. I nod, letting my rucksack slip to the floor.

“Guess it comes with the job,” I say, unfolding the black tunic placed neatly at the head of my bed. The standard uniforms we’re given are significantly less impressive than the one Dain wears. There are no interesting stitch patterns or layers to protect from the high altitude. It’s simple, slightly itchy on the inside, but sturdy enough to withstand the usual weather. Mine is a bit too big but after I make it work by tucking in the hem of my tunic and fastening my pants with a belt. After putting my hair back in it’s usual braid, I head back to the rotunda and quickly trot up the steps to my first class.

____

“Good morning, class!” Professor Kaori, a burly man with pearly white skin, greets once we’re all seated. “Welcome to draconology. Everything you need to know about your future flying companions can be found in this exact room.” He spreads his thick, muscular arms out to the various posters and figurines of dragons decorating the place. Picking up a stick of white chalk, he scrawls the names of five breeds on the chalkboard that covers most of the wall: blue-tongued daggertail, Ospon clubtail, plated scorpiontail, frilled swordtail, and rhinestar vishap. “These,” he points at the list, “are the main dragon breeds who live in the Vale. You’ll encounter them during Threshing and when you’re deployed on the field so it’s important to remember the temperaments of each.” His eyes glow as he lifts a hand to form an illusion of a seven foot tall daggertail — the same one from orientation. It spreads its medium long and narrow wings, unhinging its jaws in what would be a deafening roar if the manifested blessing could produce sound. Her navy blue and white scales ripple as she prowls around the room, swiveling her head this way and that to sniff us. “This here’s Sgaeyl. Like most daggertails, she possesses more ruthlessness than any other dragon in the Vale.”

“Is that why they’re deployed in the Esben Mountains?” Rhiannon asks, ducking to avoid the dragon’s neck as it swoops over her.

“That’s correct. See her thagomizer?” I lean over a little to get a better glance at the curved claw-like bone structure at the end of her striped tail. “It can disembowel you with just a flick. So unless you’ve got a mender with you, try not to approach one from behind. In fact, I’d advise you not to get behind any dragon unless you get impaled, sliced, or decapitated.” Or if it’s a feathered vishap. They’re the only breed in the Vale that doesn’t have a thagomizer so there’s no risk of getting hurt by one. They’re not listed on the chalkboard though, which is a bit strange since Father would always talk about them whenever he got the chance. I suppose it makes sense, considering how rare they are. He once suspected that most of them fled to the east or Shizuyaka after the war started. “Now, can anyone tell me what makes the daggertail distinct from other dragons, tail features aside?”

“They’re favored by the king and queen for their fierce loyalty to their bonded riders and weyrs,” Luka, a slender woman with kohl rimmed monolid eyes, answers confidently.

“Yes, and?”

“And…”

“Oh! Because of their narrow wings and form, that makes them the fastest fliers,” Rhiannon cuts in excitedly. I nod in agreement.

“It’s also one of the reasons they were so detrimental to quelling the Tyrrish revolt,” I add. “Second Wing’s dragon riders used a tactic they called ‘blitzkrieg’ which utilized the deployed daggertails to raze Tyrrendor’s capital.” From the corner of my eye, I see a few Marked Ones shift uncomfortably in their seats at the reminder.

“Correct!” Kaori grins at me. “You’ll learn more about the fall of Aretia during history lectures, but yes. That is why daggertails were once known as messenger dragons in ancient times due to their high speed.” It’s rumored that they could outfly a peregrine gryphon but since the war, no one’s been able to actually test it since the latter went extinct two hundred years ago. “Now, there have been ten daggertails who’ve shown an interest in bonding this year but the numbers may change by the time presentation week rolls around.”

“How many dragons are there in total?” Rhiannon asks, scrawling something down on her scroll.

“A ten hundred.” She pauses briefly.

“That’s thirty-seven fewer than last year.”

“Yes, well. Like I said, numbers vary from time to time.” I press my lips into a firm line. How many first years joined? No one’s ever said, but I’m sure it’s more than one hundred. Fewer dragons are willing to bond these days. How come? What is it about us that makes them not want to bond?

“How are bonds determined?” I ask, raising my hand. “Are there certain attributes dragons favor more than others?” Kaori shakes his head much to my dismay.

“Dragon eyes can see more than just what’s on the surface; they see into the soul of an individual and decide whether or not they like what they see.” Ridoc fiddles with his quill next to me.

“That’s creepy,” he murmurs. “They can just… see and know everything about you? Isn’t that an invasion of privacy?” Kaori chuckles and makes a swiping motion with his hand as Sgaeyl’s nostrils flare. The illusion turns into colorful smoke that dances in the air before settling into the form of a familiar black dragon with short whiskers hanging from its chin.

“Privacy,” the professor says, “isn’t something you lot should be worried about, especially in the case of dragons. They’re governed by their own rules and don’t take too kindly to humans bossing them around. Besides, if it weren’t for their keen eyes, Fenrir’s coup might’ve succeeded. And where would we be now?” I grimace at the thought. If Tyrrendor had become its own nation, it would’ve allied itself with Poromiel and try to influence the rest of Navarre with its radical ideals. Imagine a government ruled by the common people instead of King Tauri! Most of them can’t even read, for crying out loud! “The dragon you’re seeing here is…”

“Tàirneanach,” a Marked One across from me murmurs. He has the same physical features as Xaden, only less sharp with shorter braids and more youthful looking than most of the new recruits. His dark eyes widen slightly in awe as he stares at the illusion like it’s some kind of deity. “His rider–”

“Ahem!” The professor clears his throat, giving the young man a nasty side eye. “This is Tàirneanach,” he explains. “He’s one of the oldest dragons in the Vale and comes from the Madinndubh vishap bloodline. He’s heralded by many as a dragon warrior and managed to survive some of the bloodiest wars in Navarrian history.” The black vishap shakes his scaly mane and arches his back, showing off his four sets of wings, before tucking in his legs underneath his body like a cat. His bony frill curves at the side in a sideways “C” shape and turns into a fading purple at the tips. The violet feelers extending from above his eyes ripple like slow moving flags as he tilts his head to get a better look at us. His thagomizer bursts into sharp purple tinted spikes of black that open and close occasionally.

“Is he related to General Melgren’s dragon?” a student at the back asks.

“Possibly. Vishaps aren’t very talkative creatures so our knowledge on them is limited. What I can say about them though is that they’re one of the oldest species ever recorded to coexist with humans, hence their sharp minds. Fun fact: he and Sgaeyl are a mated pair.”

“So if they breed…”

“You get weapons of mass destruction,” Ridoc finishes, earning a snort from somewhere.

“Yes, the perfect dragons built for exterminating our enemies,” Kaori nods, folding his arms. Interestingly, Ridoc’s brows knit together slightly, as if it bothers him for some reason. I’m not sure why. The more powerful our dragons are, the less those bird fuckers will try to invade. Simple as that.

“What are the odds of bonding with a vishap?” I ask partially out of curiosity. I know the chances of me getting one is low, but it’s not exactly impossible either. My brother rode one into battle before his death eight years ago. Dragons don’t typically bond with a rider’s relative after their death for fear of being too emotionally invested, but it’s not unheard of. If Zihnal ever forgives me for my stint on the bridge, maybe I’ll be as lucky.

“Statistically speaking, you have a 0.6% chance of even encountering one. There are– well, were three known Vishaps who occupied the Vale. The fact that two decided to bond within the same year is in itself a miracle.” His expression softens slightly. “I suppose it makes sense that their riders fell so soon.”

“What happened to them?” A part of me doesn’t want to know. My parents never liked to discuss Brennan’s death. Even Mira rarely, if ever, brings him up in conversation. I can only hope he died courageously. The other half — the scribe part, no doubt — craves answers.

“Brennan Sorrengail, one of our most valued assets in the war against the Tyrrish revolters, sacrificed himself by dealing the final blow to end Fenrir II and everything he stood for.” The professor exhales softly through his nose. “Unfortunately, the rebellion leader managed to drive a lance through his chest using his final breaths. Tàirn’s rider tried to resurrect him using his signet’s blessing but ultimately failed. In the end, Malek burned him alive before anything worse could happen.”

“But that’s impossible.” I shake my head in confusion. No one can bring someone back from the dead. That goes against everything we stand for. It’s an act of hubris. “Tàirn’s rider tried to play as a god? Why?”

“There were rumors that he had some form of madness. In truth, he was just a foolish boy who refused to acknowledge the pantheon and didn’t know his limits.”

“So why would any dragon bond with him? What did Tàirn see in him? I get that Brennan was chosen because he was smart–”

“Dragons choose because they want to,” Luka cuts in sharply. “You’re not special just because you bond with a super rare breed. If anything, it makes you more of a target for the enemy.”

“I’d appreciate it if you refrained from speaking out of turn Cadet Riesse,” Professor Kaori chastises, giving her a pointed look. Luka scowls but tosses her glossy black hair over her shoulder with an annoyed flick of her hand. “Dragons are mysterious beings. Even though circumstances have forced us to become allies, I fear we may never truly know the ways in which they operate. Since Codagh’s the only Rhinestar Vishap in active duty right now, you most likely won’t have to worry about encountering one any time soon. But on the rare chance you do…” He pauses so one one of us can intervene. The Xaden look alike hesitantly raises his hand. “Yes, Bodhi?”

“You’ll need to drop onto your back and avoid eye contact at all costs. Staying still as much as possible improves your chance of survival,” Bodhi answers, keeping his gaze on Tàirn’s tail. Rhiannon hums and scribbles additional notes onto her scroll as the bell rings.

“Tomorrow, we’ll be going over scorpion and clubtails. Remember to read my field guide to dragonkind for additional study and be ready to answer more questions as soon as you walk in.” I hear a few murmurs of affirmatives as I pack my things. Bodhi and I make eye contact for a brief moment as I look up. He presses his lips into a firm line, taking me in as mild concern creases his brow.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Sorry,” he murmurs awkwardly, focusing his gaze on somewhere else. “About your brother, I mean. He’s in a better place now.”

“Why do you care?” I can’t help but ask.

“He was a good man.” That’s all he says before turning and quickly leaving the class. I can see Xaden waiting for him outside in the hall from where I sit. It’s only until they’re out of sight that I finally get up.

“Do you think Tàirn’s rider wanted to overthrow the gods?” I ask Kaori as I pause in front of his desk. His dark gray eyes glitter with amusement as he rubs his mustache with a thumb.

“No, I don’t think so. Only a fool would think to try such a thing.” He sits back in his chair with a sigh. “What he attempted was…sinful in nature and entirely selfish. After all, to resurrect someone is to defy the gods.”

“Why would he risk his own life for Brennan? Wasn’t he already dead?” He hums in agreement.

“I suspect he may have loved him more than he should have. Emotions can make you blind and dispel all rationality; there’s a reason we don’t exactly condone students pursuing romantic relationships here.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Mm. If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I will.” I nod in understanding despite the confusion swimming through my head as I check the map of the school for Battle Brief. To commit the greatest sin known to man just so you can see your loved one again… only a blasphemer would think to attempt such a thing. The dead belong to Malek and no one else.

____

Almost all of the cadets ranging from first to third year fill up the circular, tiered room that is the lecture hall. The new cadets are seated up front while the bonded and seniors are placed in the higher benched desks. A golden chandelier hangs overhead, illuminating the room with a purple hue from the mystic flames lighting the candles. I can see Xaden somewhere in the middle to my right, just two tiers above Bodhi. Imogen sits directly behind me, glaring holes into the back of my skull but I pay her no mind. Professor Devera, a brown skinned woman, stands in the center of the recessed floor before us. A purple patch stitched to her uniform’s shoulders tells me she’s from Flame Section, Second Wing. “In the past,” she begins, clasping her hands behind her back, “riders have seldom been called into service before graduation. If they were, they’d always been third years who’d spent time shadowing forward wings, but we expect you to graduate with the full knowledge of what we’re up against.” She paces the floor slowly, examining the first years. “You’ll need to understand the politics of our enemies, strategies for defending our outposts, and have a thorough knowledge of both past and current battles. If you cannot grasp and apply such basic knowledge, you have no right to be on the back of a dragon.”

“No pressure,” Rhiannon mutters next to me, eyeing the twenty foot map plastered onto the wall intricately labeled with our defensive outposts along our borders. I give her shoulder a reassuring pat on the back.

“We’ll be fine. Third years are only sent to midland posts as reinforcements,” I murmur. Imogen scoffs and I hear the sound of paper shuffling then quick quill strokes.

“This is one of the only classes you’ll have every day because it’s one that’ll matter the most if you’re called into service early,” Devera continues. “Since this class is taught every day and relies on the most current information, you will also answer to Professor Markham from the Scribe’s Quadrant.” My former professor moves to stand next to me. His thick dark brows rise as our eyes meet briefly. I give him a small thumbs up but there’s no approving look in his eyes. He just sighs and exchanges a glance with the senior rider before clearing his throat.

“It is the duty of the scribes to not only study and accurately record the events of history, but also relay information from the front lines. Without reliable info and veracious details to document our history, we’re doomed, not only as a kingdom but as a society.”

“First topic of the day.” Professor Devera moves to the map and flicks her hand, bringing a purple flame beside the eastern border with the Braevick providence of Poromiel. “Last night, the Eastern Wing experienced an attack near the village of Chakir by a drift of gryphon riders.” My heart leaps a little as a murmur ripples through the room. That’s where Mira’s stationed. Gods, please let her be alright, I pray as I dip my quill into the ink pot in front of me. I know she’s tough enough to survive this long but that doesn’t stop me from worrying. If a simple human like Fenrir could kill my brother, who knows what things a gryphon rider could do? “For obvious reasons, some info has been redacted. What we can tell you is that one of the rune wards momentarily faltered at the top of the Esban Mountains, allowing the drift to enter Navarrian territory somewhere around midnight.” I lift my head up in alarm. Oh shit.

The giant obelisks surrounding our border have been a staple of our nation since the first six riders established Bàsgiath as a place of learning. They’re the only thing capable of sending continuous waves of magic that are powerful enough to nullify foreign creatures’ powers and provide us with an additional physical barrier to prevent them from entering. Since dragons were the ones who powered them in the first place, they’re the only creature capable of passing through with ease. Without those wards, we’re fucked. Despite our trade agreements, Poromiel has never been satisfied with the resources they have. Those greedy bastards just want more and more, even going so far as to accuse us of stripping them of food and water. They should be lucky we haven’t pushed them back to the Barrens where life is nearly impossible to sustain.

“Thirty seven civilians were killed in the attack in the hour before a squad from the Eastern Wing could arrive, but the riders managed to repel the drift. Based on that information, what questions would you like to ask? First years, I want answers from you first.” The first thing that pops into my head is an obvious question: why are the wards faltering? They’d never tell us that, of course, but the thought of getting an answer is tantalizing. Thankfully, I don’t have to ask because Luka’s hand instantly shoots up. “Yes?”

“Is this the first time the wards faltered?” she asks.

“No.”

“And how often has this occurred?” Professor Markham’s eyes narrow.

“That’s above your pay grade, cadet,” he answers in an unpleasant tone. He turns toward my squad. “Next relevant question to the attack?”

“How many casualties did the wing suffer?” someone down the row questions.

“One injured dragon and one dead rider.” I stiffen slightly. Gods, don’t let it be Mira. Anyone but her. A few more cadets fire off a few more questions. How many riders were deployed to the site? 26.

How long did it take to clear the village of gryphon riders? Half an hour. The group dispersed after Lieutenant Sorrengail arrived to mow down the drift. I sigh in relief, thanking Dunne for answering my prayer.

What killed the lone fatality? A ranged weapon that appears to fire metal at the target. I blink in surprise. A new weapon? That could spell disaster for us if they make more of those things.

“Was the weapon recovered?” I ask, lifting a hand. Professor Devera blinks at me.

“Yes, it’s currently being held by the royal guards.”

“What was it made out of?”

“Steel, brass, and wood. Why do you ask?”

“If we can replicate it close enough, we might be able to redistribute it to our riders.” A bubble of confidence rises in my chest as I continue, “We can replace our bows and lances with those and even give them to infantry. That way, we’ll have less casualties and gain the upper hand despite the wards faltering. With the right tools, we can even improve this new weapon so we can attach it to our dragons without having to worry about maneuvering and aiming simultaneously. Th-theoretically, at least.” No one speaks for a moment and I fear my idea might be shot down. The two professors exchange glances for a minute before Devera nods, her dark eyes gleaming with interest.

“Yes, we’ve considered the first option. Your second idea, however, is certainly unique. I’ll have to inform General Sorrengail about your proposal.” I can’t help but grin. “Second years, any questions you’d like to ask?”

“What was the state of the village?” Xaden dares to ask. “You said the damage would’ve been worse, but what was the actual condition?”

“Why do you ask, Riorson?” Devera stares at him through narrowed eyes.

“They wouldn’t demolish it if they were trying to establish a foothold so the condition matters when trying to determine a motive for the attack.” She raises a brow.

“The buildings they’d already gone through were burned, and the rest were being looted when the wing arrived.”

“That’s not a gem district, though.” As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. Our mines are located towards the south near Athebyne and Resson. So that means…

“They were looking for something,” Imogen finishes my thought before I can move my tongue.

“And it’s not riches,” I finish. “So what do we have that they want so badly?”

“Exactly,” Devera says, folding her arms. “What were they looking for? Why that village? Were they responsible for the collapse of the wards or not? These are all missing pieces in the puzzle for why our enemies constantly refuse to accept our offers for peace. Tomorrow, next week, next month, there’ll be another attack and maybe we’ll get another answer.”

“What if they never want peace?” Rhiannon asks warily. “What’ll we do then?”

“Then we’ll just have to use more forceful methods,” Markham says simply. “They will have to surrender, eventually.”

“Couldn’t we just offer more land? Isn’t that what they’re after?” Devera shakes her head.

“They’re already crafting advanced weapons with just the resources they have. Who knows what they could do with ours? Keep in mind, they were the ones who attacked first. So until they kneel, we may never know peace.” Rhiannon sits back in her chair with furrowed brows.

“I’m sure we’ll find a way to stop this war somehow,” I murmur to her. She tries for a smile but it doesn’t quite land.

#first flight #fourth wing

2 notes · View notes

klonoadreams · 1 year

Note

Since Hilbert thinks his twin was a stillborn, does that ever affect him growing up? Like it's a touchy subject and what ifs

Even after Sawyer, they don't have a way to definitely prove that they're related, but imagine it's one of those "$25 blood test kits! See your ancestry!" they did as a joke to fill in a sleepover and BAM

Pokemon center has a Hilbert in the corner, going through all stages of grief at once, Cheren's trying to ignore the situation by talking awkwardly to his pokemon, Bianca was asleep, so she wakes up and why is Hilbert crying?

hvjrkhjbkb SO LIKE, there's an added layer to all of this on Touya/Hilbert's end, because despite everything, he always FELT like someone should be there. and it's a bit of a touchy subject because he never found out through his parents, but through a third party source that was being too damn intrusive for their own good.

Which is never a good thing, when you bring up the fact that he is SUPPOSED to be a twin, but what the actual FUCK. Now he KNOWS about it and has to deal with the, "who should be here with me?"

And it BOTHERS him. Especially whenever he comes across other twins. And he's like, on playdates with Cheren and Bianca, but he's still just "what if they were here?" and it just REFUSES to leave his mind. And sometimes, he just thinks, "Why me?"

This is brought to you by what I ended up doing to the BW player characters regarding their family ties, with Alder being their Dad (which will forever stay a constant because lmaooo).

Often, for his safety, the identity of his dad is kept a secret (if you know, you know), but that doesn't stop some people from calling him a bastard child, even THOUGH HIS DAD IS FINE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. He's just kinda aimless, given the fact that one of the two children he had was a stillborn, and then one of his Pokemon died to an illness?????

LIKE CAN YOU IMAGINE WHAT THAT DOES TO A PERSON??? So he just often wanders aimlessly, usually visiting during holidays, birthdays, or whenever he's in the area (surprisingly, a lot more often than you'd think, since his feet usually take him home when he's not at the League). He's a good dad otherwise....

...

Oh right - Benga. So here's the thing.... Let me go on a weird, long-ass tangent that is AAAALL related to this. I swear, it's relevant, it's just gonna be massive, so I'mma put a read more

fun fact: I had the "Alder is the Player Character's Dad" thing in my fanfic done BEFORE BW2 was released (meaning there was a gap of time after BW released both in Japan, and later, outside of Japan), and if you know how things were before X and Y, this means we HAD to wait after BW2 released in Japan before we got translations, so patches existed for roms (that is how I VERY much played Black and White first, by the way, it was the first Pokemon game I followed since its release in Japan) to hold us through until the official English localization released.

Originally, I had this elaborate situation because I legitimately thought Benga was Alder's son (before I later found out that, nope, grandson - again, translation to localization situation, it wasn't as convenient as it is now), where Benga was just from a previous fling that his Mama kept from Alder, until oops, "hey, I know I was kinda a dick before for ghosting you all of these years, but I'm dying...can you take him in?"

Now, I'm just looking at that, going, "you know what, Mama can fucking get it, being a Trainer who went on her own journey." She knows what she wants, and if landing the Unovan Champion as a husband is a feasible goal for her, then of course she'd go after it.

I like to think Mama was built different and had her own elaborate journey, where she spent at least ten years on her journey, just traveling around, dealing with whatever news she heard coming from overseas regions about criminal organizations, just absentmindedly collecting badges like "I should do that while I'm here" and then forgetting about everything else, like she's in an open world environment (like it's Scarlet and Violet, where I just went around, getting distracted by everything or in the case of my friends, going around catching everything on sight and also getting into areas they LIKELY shouldn't be in).

Truly an example of "We shouldn't have let ten year olds go on their own in this dangerous region" because by the time Touya/Hilbert is able to go on his journey, he's 14 - because that's the actual age limit (if you wish to go alone on a journey), added in to lower the trainer mortality rate (and region-wide concerns). Because LISTEN, there be Hydreigon in the wild and other mons that are capable of being hostile.

Anyways Mama was like 20 before she even caught wind of the Champion. Dude's only had the title for maybe a few years now - hard to say, since she was lowkey off the grid, because she was too busy catching Pokemon to help out her father and older sister with the Pokedex. Just field research to add more consistent variables to their data.

Like again, she was super casual on the Gym Badge side of being a Trainer - she just did her own thing before realizing, "I should try the League." and got the rest of her badges at the side. I mean it helps that she FINALLY ran into Alder. The stars fucking aligned, because Mama went "AWOOGA" and just her luck, Alder was single.

Anyways it took her like six years to get that ring on her finger, because Alder really was, "dude, there are better men out there - WHY ME" But nah, Mama picked him and wouldn't stop challenging him. She never really beat him in an official League battle, but she still did kick his ass every so often. Which, in the Pokemon World, is like a good way to appear attractive to others. :V

Where Benga comes into play, it's called Alder was a reckless older teenager that got into flings, like all teenagers tend to do. And being Pokemon Trainers adds another layer of recklessness. So you got two seventeen year olds just doing stuff like having one night flings that don't go anywhere...

Except oops, there's a baby, but whatever, orphanage time. Buh bye - there's no child support to collect from some rando one night stand, so PEACE. And then she left for an overseas region, never to be heard from again.

Seventeen years later, history repeats itself - only this time, the Baby Mama doesn't exactly make it through the birth like her bio mama, so now Alder is just being called up to collect his grandson - because SURPRISE, you're not only a father, but also, a GRANDFATHER. And by this point, the Champion Title makes it difficult to just keep this kid in an orphanage, so uhhh...take him. "You're like the closest living relative we can track down"

Anyways you know how Alder said there are better men? Yeah, he's like 34, with a grandchild to raise. And thankfully, he's pretty good at what he does - but STILL...A GRANDFATHER - why the hell does this lady want to go after him, when he has a grandson???

Anyways two years later, after one wedding and pair of rings, Benga is excited at the concept of being an older brother of sorts (really, he is an older nephew - AGAIN, it's complicated). And while things go south for one of the twins, he still does have Touya/Hilbert and they're raised together, even if Benga is a bit more feral due to Alder's influence.

All this mess, just to say that there's a lot going on with Touya/Hilbert - him thinking he was the surviving twin is just the proverbial cherry on top, given how much of a soap opera his life has become.

Really, him finding out about Sawyer is gonna blow his mind, but also make him all the more protective, after all the bullshit he's gone through. Genuinely just sobbing his eyes out, having a near melt down, maybe also even punching out Team Plasma too (physically with his fists) because WHAT DID THEY DO TO HIS SISTER. JUST LOOK AT HER.

She absolutely MELTED when she received a hug. The way she got emotional over a BIRTHDAY surprise. THE TRAUMA.

What's more, in that likely scenario, he can't just SAY that to her, like...without preparation. And while it was mostly a joke, because "lmao, we look alike, let's see if we're related in some way" before the truth is revealed.

And now Touya/Hilbert has this massive truth bomb to ease Sawyer into. LIKE

Being Touya/Hilbert is suffering.

#ask #pokemon #pokemon black and white #touya #hilbert #sawyer (oc)#alder #with friends like these (fanfic)#TEN YEARS Y'ALL #TEN FUCKING YEARS #things might have changed #but it seems that I still have a sort of soft spot to whatever mess of complications i decided to slap onto the BW player characters #feel free to ask me about sawyer #this is a mess lmaooo #BUT IT'S MY MESS

9 notes · View notes

sorrycory · 9 months

Text

I think it was around the second day of dreaming that I started coming up with weird conspiracy theories. “It’s a Dream ARG”, is something I said over and over again. I was really nervous, because I was worried that I wouldn’t get a satisfying ending to any of this. I guess I never did, but I’ve got my notes now, at the very least. And while my dreams didn’t come night-after-night after around the 4th day, my dreams haven’t stopped being that vivid since. I think my friends thought I was insane. I don’t blame them, because they were probably right.

I kept waking up and going back into the dream on the third night, which was good, because I got to finally get some good notes on everything. Something else that’s probably worth noting for some reason: it was 3:42 when I woke up for the first time.

The dream started with gunfire. Then, I was at this restaurant. You know how Ranboo was in my second dream? Now Michael Afton was passed out in a chair in the outside seating arrangements. The person I was struck up a conversation with Michael, though everything was too blurry for me to hear what they were talking about. The notes I sent to my friend said that Michael was “Recruited to the Campfire”, which is really fucking ominous.

Everything went black, but I heard something adjacent to “Thank you for visiting the 6 layers and a half”, in one of those customer service voices you hear over Walmart speakers.

That was followed by a slow motion of a shattering vase and an 8 ball falling to the ground, before cutting off abruptly again.

The weirdest part of the dream, and the clearest- I found myself standing on a metal bridge. The room was large, and all the other bridges around me seemed like they could go on forever. I was on a higher up bridge, which meant I got to see everything else going on around me. I started to hear talking, so I peaked down at the bridge below me. I saw two figures going on a walk down the bridge, one wearing a violet colored suit with a top hat and a cane, and the other one I can’t remember the details of. The room was too big, so everything was echoing too much to make out the entirety of what they were saying- but there was one thing that was clear enough for me to understand.

“We have to destroy the archives.”

I woke up after that. There was two more dreams after that, but I don’t think the fourth one is worthy of a full length post, because I was a fool, and didn’t record the details when I originally woke up from it. Most of my memories from it are gone, but I remember Ranboo being there again, and hieroglyphics of dogs on sandstone walls. I can’t make sense of any of it, but it is a dream, so I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to make sense.

I don’t have any old drawings for this dream, though I’ll try to make some art of it later. It’s pretty late right now, and I have things to do tomorrow.

#dreamcore #weird dreams #lucid dreaming #ranboo #fnaf #magnus archives #i didn’t sleep last night

0 notes

haus-seeblick · 3 years

Text

Suptober Day 4 - Secrets

Title: “Messy”

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 3,503

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Original Characters

Tags: John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Angst, Breaking The Rules, Dean is Sam's Real Parent (But he shouldn't have to be), Dean Giving Sam a Childhood, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dean Meets a Cute Boy, Unwanted Haircut, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dean is 13 and Sam is 9

Summary: John leaves Dean and Sam alone at a motel the day before Halloween. Despite John's hard-and-fast rules about leaving the motel room, Sam convinces Dean to take him trick-or-treating. While they're out, Dean meets a boy who makes him feel like breaking the rules was worth it.

On AO3 Here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Dean, you know the drill,” John says brusquely as he hoists the duffel over his shoulder. “Tell me the rules.”

Dean stands up from where he’s folding laundry on the motel room floor. They stopped at the laundromat this morning, John tossing Dean just enough quarters for two small loads before taking Sam along with him to the local library for research. They’ve been tracking a creature for days and John’s still not sure exactly what it is.

Dean would have loved to help with the books. Instead he sat in front of the laundry machine, exactly the same as the hundreds of others he’s fed with quarters over the years, and watched their clothes spin around and around. He noticed new holes in Sam’s jeans and socks when he moved them to the dryer. If his dad will let him use some of their wound-stitching thread, he’ll repair them after this hunt.

He faces his dad, posture straight and hands behind his back. “The rules are stay in the room, keep the doors and windows locked, don’t answer the door for anyone except you and Bobby, only spend money if I absolutely have to, and always have a weapon in reach,” he rattles off.

John nods, face impassive. “And the most important rule?”

“Protect Sammy,” Dean says firmly. He glances over to the rickety table under the window, where his scrawny little brother is filling out a worksheet. It’s part of the last round of homework their teachers had given them at their previous school, right before John took them out again to hit the road.

Dean quietly tossed his own homework in the garbage and told Sammy to finish every worksheet, because he was going to mail it back to the school and his teacher would check it. Sam’s even writing a letter in the cursive he’s learning to go along with it.

Dean has no clue what the address of the school is.

John pulls the Impala key out of his pocket and opens the door. “I’ll be out of cell range during this next leg. Check in date is Thursday. Don’t call for help until Sunday.”

Dean nods. John steps halfway out the door before turning back. He eyes Dean for a long moment, as if he’s trying to come up with something to add. Eventually he just says “I’m cutting your hair when I get back. You look messy.”

The door closes. In the silence of the room, Dean reaches up and touches his bangs. Just this morning, in the reflection of the washing machine door, he admired how his hair was curling a bit over his ears. It framed his face and made him look softer. Less skinny. More like the other boys he’d seen at school.

Oh well.

The Impala roars to life outside in the parking lot, and Dean listens until the purr of the engine fades away down the road. He looks at the half-folded pile of laundry at his feet.

“Tomorrow’s Halloween.”

Dean jumps a little. Sam’s right next to him, eyebrows raised expectantly. Dean pushes him away and drops onto the couch, nudging a balled-up pair of socks with his foot. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

Sam sits down next to him. “Dean, I think Dad forgot about Halloween.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “He didn’t forget, Sammy. It just doesn’t matter.” He avoids looking at his brother, running his fingers over the ridge of threads barely holding together the hole in his own jeans.

“But I told James I’d be a doctor,” Sam needles. “He’s gonna be a pirate.”

Sam’s ability to instantly make friends always leaves Dean feeling half-proud, half-nervous. Sam was in third grade with James for less than two weeks, and he still talks about him constantly.

Dean thinks it’s better not to get attached. He just can’t bring himself to teach Sam that particular lesson yet.

He sighs and glances at Sam. “You know you can’t trick-or-treat with James anyway, right? He’s in Denver.”

Sam groans dramatically and flops against the hard backrest of the couch. His shaggy hair falls into his face. Dean looks at the longest strands, curving past Sam’s cheekbones.

“We can just do Halloween here,” he suggests, even though he knows “buying candy from the gas station” definitely doesn’t count as necessary spending.

Sam shakes his head where it’s still resting on the couch. “That’s not real Halloween.”

“We’ve never done a real Halloween, so how would you know?” Dean’s just buying time now, putting off the moment when he has to say “no.”

The stink-eye that’s sent his way is of epic proportions. “I watch TV, Dean.”

Dean rubs his face. “Sammy--”

“--Oh, please, Dean, please!” Sam shifts into begging mode, sitting up and whipping out the puppy eyes. His left eye is half-covered by hair. “I know we’re not allowed, but can’t we break the rules just one time? It can be a secret.”

They hold eye contact for a moment, but Sam’s more stubborn. Dean looks away first, his eyes falling to the laundry on the floor. Almost unconsciously, he reaches under the lumpy couch cushion next to him and lets his fingers graze the pistol stashed there. His stomach rumbles and he wonders how far he can stretch their last cans of soup.

Suddenly, a secret doesn’t sound so bad at all.

“Okay,” he says.

Sam must’ve not expected Dean to relent, because he’s silent for a couple seconds before whooping and launching himself at Dean. “Ahh! Thank you thank you thank you!”

Dean can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. He hugs Sam back, the kid’s bony shoulder digging into his ribcage. After a moment, he pulls away and puts on his most serious face. Hands on Sam’s upper arms, he looks him straight in the eyes. “Sam, if we do this, you cannot tell Dad. Do you understand?”

Sam nods enthusiastically, still grinning. Dean digs his fingers into his arms. “Listen to me, or we’re not going.” He waits for Sam’s face to fall a little before continuing. “You can’t just not tell Dad, you can’t drop hints. You have to clean up all your wrappers. We can never talk about it. Do you get it?”

Sam’s eyes are wide now. He nods again, very small, and Dean knows he’s gotten through. He loosens his grip on Sam��s arms. “All right, then. How are we gonna make you look like a doctor?”

Sam beams.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next night, they lock the motel room door behind them and head out. The neighborhood that starts a few streets behind the motel is pretty normal, as far as Dean can tell. The houses aren’t super big, but the yards are, and there are toys scattered on some of the lawns. The biggest house on the corner even has a tree swing. The big tree reminds him of the one in their front yard in Lawrence. He tries not to think about that too much.

It’s dark, and chilly -- they’re still in Colorado -- and Dean holds his jacket closed in front of his chest. The zipper broke a couple weeks ago. Ahead of him, Sam doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all. His “doctor coat” flaps behind his legs as he skips down the sidewalk. It’s just a sheet from the bed that Dean stuck together with safety pins in a certain way (it doesn’t look like a coat at all, but the mirror in the motel bathroom was shattered so Sam couldn’t see it anyway). He hung their stethoscope from the big first-aid kit around Sam’s neck, with the express instruction not to lose it, and he emptied the rest of the first-aid kit onto the couch so Sam could carry the empty box with the big red cross and look professional.

Sam hasn’t smiled this much in weeks. Dean’s neck is crawling with the knowledge that he’s breaking rules, bigtime, but he shakes it off. They’re out now. It’s done.

Sam has already latched on to a group of kids making their way up the drive to a single-story brick house. Dean hears him introduce himself, sees him flash the big toothy smile that Dean told him makes him look friendly. The other kids compliment his stethoscope, and Dean relaxes a little.

Everyone in the group is wearing what looks like homemade costumes, too — there’s another bedsheet, draped over a short kid’s head like a ghost (if only ghosts actually looked like that, Dean thinks); and a long black coat, obviously from an adult, dwarfing a kid who Dean’s pretty sure is supposed to be a vampire. Sam, in his makeshift getup, fits right in.

Dean’s trailing behind the group, letting Sam do his making-friends thing, when he notices another older kid doing the same. He looks about Dean’s age, maybe a year older, fourteen or so, and he’s dressed like an angel with a blue halo made out of pipe cleaners. The rest of his outfit is normal, though — a t-shirt that’s printed to look like a suit and tie, under a regular puffy winter coat. Dean’s eyes linger on him as they follow the younger kids up to the house. When they come to a stop so Sam can ring the doorbell, the other boy looks over at Dean, too.

“Hi,” he says. In the yellow glow of the porchlight, his eyes look greenish blue. “I’m Al.” He reaches out a hand. Dean looks at it for a moment, then takes it. They shake. Al’s hand is warm and smooth, a stark contrast to Dean’s freezing, calloused palm. Dean wishes he could hold on a bit longer.

“Dean,” he replies, dropping Al’s hand. He’s not sure what to say next. That’s Sam’s area of expertise.

Luckily, Al doesn’t let him flounder long. “Do you live around here?” he asks, friendly and curious. Dean’s used to hearing that question asked with a thick layer of suspicion, usually out of the mouth of some nosy adult. He still gives his practiced answer, though.

“No, me and my brother are just visiting our grandparents for a couple days.”

Al nods, accepting the lie easily. “I thought I’d never seen you at school.” He points at the sheet-clad ghost. “That’s my sister Katie. She’s seven. It’s the first time our parents are letting me take her trick-or-treating on our own.”

Dean smiles and gestures at Sam, who’s holding the empty first-aid kit out to the homeowner for candy. “That’s Sam. He’s nine. Same deal for us.”

“I like his costume,” Al says. Dean bristles for a moment, until he realizes Al’s being sincere.

“Thanks,” he replies. “I like Katie’s too.” He sweeps his eyes over Al again. “Why are you wearing a fake suit with your halo?”

Al looks down at himself and laughs sheepishly, smoothing down the front of his t-shirt. “I wanted to do a toga with a sheet, but it’s way too cold. I just dressed up ‘cause Katie wanted me to. The halo was the quickest thing.”

“It works,” Dean assures him, suddenly wanting Al to feel good about himself. He shuffles his feet a little, kicking at the fallen leaves littering the walkway. Al smiles at him and something grows in Dean’s chest, a warm, glowing ball, making everything feel tight and tingly. He’s not sure what to do with it.

Sam appears at his elbow suddenly, much to Dean’s relief. He ruffles Sam’s hair. “What’d you get?”

Already chewing on something that looks very caramelly as it squishes between his teeth, Sam holds out the first-aid kit. “She gave me two big ones!” he announces around his mouthful. Two full-sized Milky Ways, one already half-unwrapped, slide around in the box.

“Cool,” Dean says. “Don’t get a stomachache.”

“They’re gonna get stomachaches,” Al says ruefully as Sam and Katie bounce down the driveway to hit the next house. “We should steal some of their candy, y’know, just to protect them.”

The word protect briefly jolts Dean out of his growing sense of relaxation and he sneakily pats his chest, feeling the sheathed knife tucked away in the inside pocket. He makes sure he can still see Sammy (now bounding up the walkway of the next house), and takes a breath. Everything’s under control.

“You okay?” Al’s looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together, a lock of dark hair falling into the crease. He has nice hair, Dean decides. Floppy and kind of messy, squished flat in the middle by the band of the pipe cleaner halo.

“Yep,” he says, forcing the cheer into his voice. If Al notices, he doesn’t say anything. They continue to follow their siblings through the neighborhood, leaving some distance so they can talk. Al tells Dean about school, that he likes science and hates history, that his favorite band is Journey, that he wants to play soccer but his dad wants him to play football, and that he wants to be a veterinarian.

“I like cars,” Dean says in response. “I’m not great at school. Not sure what I wanna do when I grow up.”

Not sure how to tell you that I’ll probably be hunting monsters for the rest of my life.

Al leans on the picket fence of the house that they’re currently waiting outside. “You could be a teacher,” he says.

Dean narrows his eyes at him in confusion. “I just told you I’m bad at school.”

Al shrugs. “My favorite teacher says he didn’t like school. That’s why he’s so good at helping us. He gets it.”

The heavy layer of clouds above them breaks, and a ray of moonlight lands across Al’s face. They’re standing between streetlights, so the silvery glow makes Al’s blueish eyes gleam. Dean finds he has to breathe a little harder than normal. He shakes his head.

“Nah, if anyone’s gonna be a teacher, it’s Sammy. He’s really smart.”

Al hums and pushes off the fence. Sam and Katie are moving on again. “I don’t know, man. You seem smart to me.” He pats Dean on the shoulder, the warmth of his hand seeping through Dean’s threadbare jacket.

In the relative darkness, Dean smiles so hard his eyes squeeze shut.

Eventually, they’ve stopped at every house in the neighborhood. Dean’s pockets are full of the candy that doesn’t fit into Sam’s overflowing first-aid kit. Al’s coat pockets are bulging, too. Sam and Katie run sugar-hyped circles under a streetlight while Dean and Al stand on the corner, looking at each other a bit awkwardly.

“Uh-- I’m glad we ran into you guys,” Al says finally. “You’re really cool.”

Dean’s glad that he’s the one facing away from the streetlight, because his cheeks heat up and probably look way pinker than they would from just the cold.

“You too,” he says. “Wish we lived around here.”

“Where do you live?” Al asks. “You know, just in case we ever take a road trip.”

Unless your destination’s my dad’s car, I don’t think you’re gonna run into me.

“Sioux Falls,” he says. “South Dakota. I live with my uncle.”

If Al finds that strange, he doesn’t pry. Dean could hug him. He wants to hug him.

Katie comes barrelling over, dragging her pillowcase of candy along the pavement. She’s huffing from running around, ghost sheet dangling half off her body. “Al, I’m soooo tired.” She flops against her brother. Sam comes trotting up behind her and grins at Dean. Dean tries to smile back, but there’s a lump in his throat, something that’s making it hard to breathe.

Al pats Katie on the head. “We should probably go home, anyway. It’s getting late.”

Still taking tight little breaths, Dean nods. “Uh-- yeah, us too. See if Sam can sleep off the sugar rush.”

“How long are you staying with your grandparents?” Al asks.

Dean looks at his feet. Weighs the pros and cons of sneaking out again. He’d have to take Sam; there aren’t actually any grandparents who could watch him.

He can’t risk it.

“We’re going home tomorrow morning,” he says, every word dropping like lead. Sam shoots him a confused look, but he ignores it.

Unless he’s imagining it, Al’s face seems to fall. “Aw, too bad. Wait! Hang on.” He rummages through his candy-heavy pockets until he pulls out a little spiral notebook and a nub of a pencil. He writes something on a page and rips it out. He hands it to Dean.

“Our phone number,” he says with a little smile. He steps forward and the streetlight catches his eyes again. Dean thinks that in the sunlight, they’d be bright blue. Al gestures at the paper. “You’ve got a phone at your uncle’s, right? Maybe you can call me sometime.”

There are way too many feelings jumbling around in Dean’s chest for him to say anything coherent, so he just nods. Al smiles wider. “Cool. I’m happy we met you.” He takes one more step forward and — Dean stops breathing altogether — wraps his arms briefly around Dean’s shoulders. He’s very warm. His hair smells good. Dean’s brain doesn’t catch up quite in time, and he misses his chance to hug back. The edge of Al’s halo brushes Dean’s forehead as he pulls away.

“Thanks for hanging out,” Al says, putting his arm around Katie’s shoulders and turning to go. “Have a good drive back home!”

Dean clears his throat. “Bye, guys,” he says lamely. Sam waves enthusiastically to make up for it. They stand under the streetlight for a long few minutes, watching Al and Katie go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam manages to eat every piece of candy by Thursday morning, which is the day they’re supposed to hear from John. Dean makes him eat canned vegetable soup in between meals of Mars bars and Skittles. They scrounge the motel room for wrappers, tossing them all into a big garbage bag that Dean’s going to throw into the dumpster outside. He finishes folding the laundry, counts the money to make sure it’s all there, re-packs the first aid kit, and puts the sheet back on the bed without the safety pins.

Anytime the unease creeps in about having broken the rules, he looks at his brother’s shining face and pushes it back down. He and Sam rehearse their story in case John asks them what they did and Sam even finishes all of his worksheets. Dean folds them up and hides them at the very bottom of his duffle. He tells Sam he put them into the mailbox in the motel office.

And every few hours, he pulls the folded little piece of notebook paper out of his pocket and looks at it. In careful handwriting, Al had written:

Alan Montgomery

(from Halloween. I hope you call.)

And his phone number.

Thursday afternoon, Dean takes the candy-wrapper garbage bag out to the parking lot. At the last second, he pulls Al’s note out of his jeans. After a long moment of reading and re-reading it, he gently folds it back up and tosses it into the bag. He throws the whole thing into the dumpster.

But not before memorizing the number.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John gets home late Thursday night. Before they check out of the motel on Friday, John sits Dean down on the toilet seat in the bathroom and pulls out his electric clippers.

While John has his back turned, plugging in the clippers by the sink, Dean pushes his hand through his hair, feeling the soft strands bunch up between his fingers and fall back down onto his ears. He remembers Al’s messy hair brushing his cheek when they hugged.

John flips the clippers on and the buzzing fills the bathroom. For the second time, Dean is glad that the mirror is shattered.

With every lock of hair that tumbles to the ground, Dean recites Al’s number in his head.

“There,” John says gruffly, after the floor and Dean’s lap are littered with honey brown strands. “You look like a man again.”

Dean stands up, brushing off his jeans. His head feels cold. “I’ll get a broom,” he says.

He’s halfway out the bathroom door when John says “Dean.”

Dean freezes, already wondering where he left a wrapper, how John found the garbage bag, if Sam let something slip. He slowly turns back. John’s wrapping the cord around the clippers.

“I need you to come on the next hunt. We’ll drop Sam off at Bobby’s.”

Bobby’s, where the telephone is. Dean’s heart beats hard for a different reason now. He tries to look casual. “Are we gonna stay for a bit?”

John’s already shaking his head before Dean’s done talking. He pushes past him and drops the clippers into his duffel bag on the bed. “No. We’ll be on the road for a while.” He stops and looks at Dean. “Weren’t you going to find a broom?”

Dean loads a dustpan with his hair and empties it on top of the garbage bag in the dumpster.

He whispers Al’s number again.

#suptober21 #sorry for the angst #it's Hating John Hours over here #Al is not intended to be a time-traveling Cas btw #I just liked the idea of a pipe-cleaner halo and of Dean having a type #Anyway Dean is Sam's parent #Fuck John Winchester #Dean deserved a cute teenage boyfriend #spn fanfic #ficlet

29 notes · View notes

lambden · 3 years

Text

Here’s some belated Geraskier fic that I finally get to post, as last week’s flash fic challenge has wrapped up! This was originally published anonymously; kudos to those of you who guessed that I was the author. Head to the collection to see the picture prompt that inspired this, as well as view the other works. I've been having a great time participating in fandom events like this; I promise there's more on the way!!! (Read on AO3)

Up To Date

prompt: "You were so hot that when you asked if I was the blind date you were looking for, I lied and said yes. But then your actual date comes up to introduce themselves and I'm so embarrassed."

G, 2.3K words, modern AU, Geralt/Jaskier

It shouldn’t be this difficult to find inspiration. He never used to struggle like this in high school, finding his muse in everyone and everything. Even his mundane trip on the city bus to and from school would give Jaskier hundreds of ideas, for poems too personal to publish or lyrics too deep for his band to use. Back then he had thought he lacked discipline and experience, so the clear choice had been to take his interest in poetry one step further and go to university.

The problem, as he’s now discovering halfway through his second year, is that he maybe hates university. He loves it, of course; he loves the praise from his professors and peers, he loves learning about the history of literature and art. He even loves the academic rivalries that wax and wane every term, and the competitions that ignite a mean streak in him he didn’t know he had.

But his assignments are of worse quality than anything he’s ever written before, and try as he might, they aren’t getting any better. Putting words on the page just to meet a count is impossible for a poet, not when the space and thoughts and images are all supposed to be cohesive. Poems used to flow from him so freely he hadn’t been able to keep track and now his well of motivation has just about run dry.

That’s what led him here, for the third time this week. His creative dysfunction has forced him into the day-to-day habits of an elderly man who spends his days reading in public gardens. It hasn’t helped so far, but maybe this third time will be the charm. Jaskier finds his favorite place: right by the koi pond, next to a strange art installation with ivy crawling along it. He sits at the base of the giant question mark, dropping his backpack onto the bench beside him.

“This better fucking work,” mutters Jaskier to himself and the koi, opening today’s book to a random poem. He refuses to let his mind wander at first, gluing his eyes to the page and reading with intense intent. The first poem he sees is about love.

Groaning, Jaskier flips the page. The next poem is also about love.

The third poem is about war, and Jaskier thinks that might be alright, until he realizes what this long-dead poet is trying to tell him, which is that war is also about love. Because it is, of course, but also of course it is. Jaskier scowls deeply and flips through the book to a random page, hoping to find something to spark inspiration that won’t just make him feel hopeless and single and hopelessly single.

Before Jaskier can get through the title, someone speaks to him, startling him so badly he jumps. “Are you Yennefer’s friend?”

Jaskier scrambles to catch the book by its cover and nearly drops it. He hadn’t even heard anyone approach. “Sorry?”

The stranger audibly sighs, as if Jaskier has inconvenienced him terribly. With all the force of someone announcing their presence at their own death row, he grits out, “I’m here for a blind date she set up. With you.” Jaskier looks up at the man and sees him wearing a blank expression, pointing at the question mark in front of the bench. “By the thing.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, still looking at the man. It takes a second for the words to sink in because the stranger is perhaps the most handsome person Jaskier has ever seen. He could write a thousand poems and still fail to capture his beauty. He has golden eyes, for one, and a sharply chiseled face. Even grimacing like this, his jaw is set in the loveliest way, and his stern brow is framed by platinum white hair, half-tied up. He’s wearing a fairly gloomy outfit for a blind date, but maybe he told whoever Yennefer is that he would be dressed in black. Regardless, he’s making it work.

The gorgeous stranger is still waiting for an answer, scowl worsening as Jaskier tries to make his decision about how the fuck to handle this. Really, there’s no decision at all— he just impulsively takes the leap. All his best ideas come when he’s stumbling forward blind anyway. “Yes,” he finally says, jumping to his feet. “Yes, um, I’m sorry, you caught me off-guard. I’m Jaskier.”

“Geralt.” They’re of a similar height, but Geralt is so much wider. Jaskier wants to climb him like ivy on a question mark. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“It’s fine! I got here a while ago. You know, can’t be too early!” Jaskier has never been early for anything in his life. He sits down again and shoves his books into his bag as quickly as he can. Geralt shifts his weight back and forth between his feet before awkwardly sitting on the bench next to Jaskier, looking out at the garden. “I’ve never done this kind of thing before,” he admits, which is true. His usual lies and schemes are much less chaotic.

Geralt doesn’t reply to that, leaving Jaskier to privately wonder about his dating life. He stares at the plants, giving the impression that he might be hideously nervous. Jaskier has no idea why someone like Geralt would be nervous about anything but it’s an awkward situation, to say the least. Right as Jaskier’s about to suggest they get out of here before Geralt’s real date shows up, the man asks, “What were you reading?”

“I was studying, sort of,” Jaskier says. “I’m a student.” Then abruptly he wonders how much Geralt knows about who he’s supposed to be, and he swallows, pulse racing.

Glancing over, Geralt’s yellow eyes meet his. There’s no obvious doubt there, just a curiosity. “What’s your major?”

“Poetry,” Jaskier grins as their conversation starts to pick up something resembling a rhythm. “What about you, are you in school?”

“No,” says Geralt, cutting his dreams of a normal date conversation short. “Are you any good? At writing poetry?”

What a weirdo. Jaskier’s heart thrums. “I’d like to think so!” This, at least, is something he knows how to talk about. Except, of course, it isn’t really the truth. “Well… recently, I’ve been in a bit of a creative rut. Just waiting for the right burst of inspiration to come along.” Perhaps this blind date that he’s stolen will suffice, but he doesn’t say that. “This place is great for that, actually. I mean, it hasn’t worked yet, but I’m sure any day those fish will sing for me.”

Geralt blinks. Jaskier feels a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck. He tries a different tactic, crossing his ankles and asking politely, “Are you a reader? What kind of things do you enjoy?”

“Nonfiction,” Geralt answers, slightly stilted. His gaze drifts over to the plants once more. “Not biographies, more like… encyclopedias and field journals. I like field journals.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says, shrinking into himself. This is going terribly. “I’ll have to go bribe some scientists for their field journals, then.” The corner of Geralt’s lip twitches, and Jaskier’s stomach flips. Gorgeous and weird and maybe, although he’s trying his best to hide it behind seven layers of nerves, maybe a little amused by Jaskier. Jaskier is going to fuck him right here in the garden. “Do you take journals of your own for work?”

A rather roundabout way of asking ‘what the fuck is it that you do’ but somehow, it lands. “I’m a… researcher,” Geralt mumbles. How very vague. “But I don’t publish my findings very often.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Do you work… for a company?”

“No.”

“Right. So you’re just keeping all your findings to yourself for no good reason at all.”

“No.”

“Then it sounds like you’re a pretty terrible researcher, actually.”

Geralt’s eyes flash as he turns to glare at Jaskier. “What?”

“Well, if you don’t share what you’ve found with anyone—”

“My… colleagues—”

“Aha! So you have colleagues!” Jaskier pokes Geralt’s side. “You aren’t just holed up in some depressing storage unit with months and months of research just for you.”

Once more, Geralt half-smirks. Not even half— more like a one-fifth smirk. “Years,” he admits.

“Years…” Jaskier tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “Why do I have the feeling that you’re perhaps a significant number of years older than me?”

“I had the same thought when I saw you sitting here,” Geralt mumbles.

Jaskier snorts. “Seems like something Yennefer should have warned us about, perhaps. I would ask you directly how old you are, but I’m fairly certain that the only response I will get is a very gruff no.”

“No,” says Geralt, nearly smiling.

Making a show of pouting, Jaskier folds his arms over his chest. “Is that your favorite word?”

“No.” Geralt breaks into laughter as he repeats himself, and his whole face lights up with it. Jaskier laughs too, delighted by how joyous Geralt looks. He’s even more beautiful when he’s happy like this, and Jaskier wants very badly for this not to be their last date. “If I tell you my favorite word, you’re bound to judge me for it, as a poet.”

“As a poet, I swear not to mock you,” Jaskier raises his hand to cover his heart, barely restraining himself from grinning.

But before Geralt can share whatever it is, someone else approaches their bench. A second stranger— a woman about his height with short brown hair, wearing a pretty blouse. Jaskier notices her much more quickly than he’d noticed Geralt, and he makes the connection instantly. This can’t possibly end well.

“Oh, Yen wasn’t kidding,” says the stranger, eyeing Geralt. “You are very distinctive!”

Geralt stares back at her, slack-jawed for a moment. “What?”

“I’m Renfri,” Geralt’s date introduces herself. Jaskier wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole, especially when she glances over at him. Her gaze slides back to Geralt, as does Jaskier’s, and yeah, he is very fucking distinctive with that white hair and those yellow eyes. Damn. “My friend Yennefer set us up for a blind date…?”

As Jaskier contemplates throwing himself into the koi pond, Geralt twists to stare at him. Jaskier can only imagine how mortified he must look right now; his face burns as both Renfri and Geralt look his way. Perhaps Renfri will figure it out before Geralt says anything; she looks like a smart woman.

But Geralt just gets up, dusting himself off and shaking his head. “No,” he tells Renfri, which would almost be funny if it weren’t the weirdest thing Jaskier has ever seen anyone do. Then Geralt leaves, turning to walk away from both of them, leaving Jaskier and Renfri alone together in the garden. Renfri frowns, watching him go with obvious increasing confusion. Jaskier also jumps to his feet, equally confused but determined not to lose sight of Geralt.

He chases the man— and it does feel like a chase, Geralt must be fucking speed-walking away— and finally tracks him down well outside the garden. Geralt is thundering down a set of stairs leading to a parking lot and he doesn’t stop at the sound of Jaskier careening towards him. Only when Jaskier desperately calls his name does he finally stop, slowing until he reaches the bottom landing and then standing there, still.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier calls down the stairs, breathless. He begins to descend them but Geralt doesn’t turn around. “Fuck, you’re fast! Shit. I’m sorry, Geralt.”

Without looking his way, Geralt complains, so quietly that Jaskier nearly misses it, “Yennefer is going to kill me.”

“I would have fucked off,” Jaskier says quickly, hurrying down the rest of the steps until he gets to the bottom. Geralt still doesn’t look at him so Jaskier slides none-too-gracefully into his space, demanding his attention. He’s hardly red in the face or anything, but he looks embarrassed. Jaskier crumbles. “I’m sorry. I— seriously, I don’t care, I would have fucked off. I should’ve left, I should’ve— You should go back there, she’s beautiful!”

Geralt’s nostrils flare but he doesn’t look away. “Why did you lie,” he demands, flat.

“Well,” Jaskier deflates. “Um. You’re beautiful.”

“Hmm.”

“I really am sorry,” he offers.

Geralt, still watching him closely, says, “You don’t sound sorry.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jaskier throws his hands in the air, breaking away from Geralt’s stare— in the greenhouse, surrounded by bright lights and open, manmade nature, it had been easy to sit under the weight of Geralt’s eyes on him. Down here, at the end of a staircase and the entrance to a dark garage, chest still heaving, it feels too intimate. He puts some distance between them, sighing. “You want me to go back there and explain the whole situation to poor Renfri?”

When Jaskier finally turns around again, Geralt’s gaze hasn’t left him. “I want you to come have dinner with me instead,” he says, slowly but purposefully.

“Oh,” breathes Jaskier. “That’s— well, if you want that.”

“I already made a reservation for two. My name’s on the list.” Geralt is fidgeting with the end of his sleeve at first but when he approaches Jaskier he drops it, striding forward without hesitating. “Table for Geralt and one young brunet friend of Yennefer’s.”

Jaskier chokes on his own surprised laugh. “I don’t actually know Yennefer,” he needlessly explains.

“She’s going to hate you,” says Geralt, half-smirking, and then he adds, “Well, she’ll hate both of us now.”

They get to the restaurant twenty minutes late, Geralt’s hair mussed up and lips a bitten red and Jaskier wearing his backpack and a shit-eating grin. The host sees them and immediately tells them their table has been cancelled, and they end up getting terrible two-dollar slices from a hole-in-the-wall pizza place. They eat on the way back to Geralt’s car and then he drives Jaskier back to campus, kissing him soundly in the door to his apartment until Priscilla comes home and yells at Jaskier to get a room. As they squabble Geralt apologizes, polite and nervous, and kisses Jaskier’s cheek and tells him it was nice to meet him.

Jaskier goes inside and spends the next thirteen hours writing the best poetry he will ever write.

#my writing #geraskier fic #geraskier #flash fic challenge #events

30 notes · View notes

the-writers-bookshelf · 3 years

Note

Sending a little bit of worldbuilding in for Friday, and just a little early because otherwise I know I'll forget.

So, in book two of the Stolen Stories, Takeover, I very much wanted Reilly to give Stella something seemingly innocent, but with multiple layers of importance.

I eventually settled on a scarf, but this scarf is lightweight, and however you wrap it around your head and neck it stays where you've put it, securely. It was first introduced in Chapter Two as a way of Stella to stay hidden on a night heist, when she refuses to wear the thieves guild 'uniform'.

But I also knew I wanted this scarf to have some additional properties, and that meant it needed to be woven from a magical creature, and so the Mura was created.

Mura are tiny desert mice, maybe 5-7 centimetres in length as an adult (minus the tail), with most of that size being attributed to long back legs that allow them to hop across the hot desert sands.

Their tails, however, are easily as long again as their body, sometimes even longer, and are made up of many single, long, strands of hair, much like a horse tail. It drags across the sand behind them, erasing their tracks and making them very difficult to hunt.

The Plains elves often cultivate thorny bushes wherever they spot Mura burrows, and will frequently check them to collect the strands of Mura hair that collects there, so that they can weave it into the lightweight fabric known as Mura-wool.

Mura-wool is lightweight and cool, and was often used by the Desert elves to combat the heat of the Western Deserts. Additionally to that, it stays where it is positioned, and can stop an unenchanted blade in its tracks, making it a highly sought after resource.

Because Plains elves are the only ones who know how to harvest the hair, and can weave it into Mura-wool, it's exceedingly rare and very expensive.

So the scarf Reilly gives Stella is valuable, and a kind of protection, but there's a third, emotional, weight to the gift in that it previously belonged to his sister, Eryn, who was killed prior to the beginning of the first book.

In chapter two, Reilly gives it to Stella, without telling her any of these things about it. In chapter seven, she finds out about it's additional properties and who it's previous owner was, but indirectly. In chapter seven Reilly is... indisposed.

It's only in chapter nine when Stella can finally ask Reilly about it's purpose and origins, and that's the excerpt I'd like to share for Friday...

Stolen Stories, Book Two, Takeover;

Chapter Nine:

"Reilly?" Stella called softly, and the guild master immediately halted and turned back to her, head tilting in question when she hesitated to continue, "Can... Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," he responded, and for a heart stopping moment Stella believed it, that she could ask him anything, but she shook the thought away quickly, not daring to think on that possibility for too long.

"It's... the scarf," she started slowly, "Dara recognised it, and I was just... wondering..."

Reilly's dark eyes flickered over her features, and Stella got the impression he was seeing far more than she was saying and lowered her eyes, drawing a soft sigh from the guild master.

"Ask, Stella," he prompted and after a small bracing breath she did.

"It was your sisters," she said softly before finally lifting her eyes back to Reilly's, "I know how much she means to you, why would you give it to me?"

Reilly slowly stepped back to her side, and gently tugged on the ends of the scarf that was still wrapped around her neck, the fabric so light she'd almost forgotten it was there.

"There's more than one reason," he started, "in part it was simply because I couldn't get you to try the guild leathers, and you needed some way to stay hidden." He paused for a moment before smiling softly, "There's also the fact that Eryn would have liked you, and if she'd known how long I'd let her favourite scarf sit on a shelf going to waste, she'd have killed me herself."

Reilly sighed, lips still curled into a smile as he lifted his black eyes from the scarf to meet Stella's gaze, "But mainly, we were about to break into what was supposed to be a heavily guarded building, without backup... and I wanted to make sure you came out again in one piece."

The soundless ringing in her ears, and the hum of potential hovering in the air between them returned, and Stella recognised it now but that didn't mean it made any more sense than the first time she'd felt it as she drew in a nervous breath.

She didn't know what it meant, or what she wanted and her lips parted on words that wouldn't come, forcing her to drop her gaze. Reilly's fingers slid down the scarf, letting the ends slip free of his fingers and releasing her.

"Goodnight Stella," he offered, and as he stepped back again she suddenly found she could breath.

I. LOVE. THIS!!!! Your worldbuilding is so intriguing!! And the tension you're creating in that excerpt!?!? omg!!! 😍😍😍

#fab friday writers #writers on tumblr #author-a-holmes #asks

21 notes · View notes

degeneratekitten · 3 years

Text

The reeducation of a King

!!!WARNING!!! Read the tags before continuing. If any of the tags upset you then you probably wont like it when it happens in the story.

This story was one of the first asks I got, I started it, but never finished, so here we go.

The woman in front of you looked incredibly tired. She had bags under her eyes, her skin was pale, and she looked like she was on the verge of a mental breakdown. Truthfully you had yet to even inform her that the King Lamia she had rescued off the street was classified more as a hunting type bitty. She’d been under the assumption, like many people who came to you with rescues, that all bitties could be kept like pets.

“So he’s gotten possessive of you, and he started trying to control your life?” You questioned making sure that you’d gotten her story straight.

“Yes!” She sighed, looking almost on the verge of tears. “I had to slip tranquilizers in his food so I could come here! He goes absolutely berserk if I leave his sight for even a moment, and he refuses to let me decide where we go!” She cried, soundly more and more like an abused spouse than a distraught pet owner. To be fair, this was an abusive relationship, one you would be more than willing to remedy. “He also always tries to tell me what kind of underwear I should wear and gets mad when I don't wear them!”

“That's very troubling.” You nodded, before inquiring about an important question. “How was it that he got so much control over you?”

The woman opened her mouth to answer only to snap her mouth shut again in a frown. She didn't seem to have an answer.

“I… I can't remember…” She mused, before continuing. “I guess I didn't realize it at first, but over time he just got worse and worse, and somehow he convinced me that it would all be ok if I did this, or that. He started getting threatening, baring his teeth whenever I even suggested doing something he didn't want. I was afraid he’d somehow escape his cage at night and kill me, so I just did what he wanted. I figured this was just a part of rescuing bitties. It wasn't until last week when he started to demand I stop seeing my mother that I realized how weird everything was. He’s a pet, not a boyfriend, and I won’t be controlled by a pet!” She stated, seeming to come to a firm resolution in her own mind.

You nodded at her. “I see, so I think I know how this all started. “ You smiled, giving the woman a look that seemed to calm her down.

“What?” She asked, fully invested in what you were going to say.

“You see, bitties are separated into two different types, ones that are pets, and others that are meant for more, violent situations. Lamia’s with venom are generally meant to be either guards, or exterminators. Your King is the former. His breed was designed to protect an owner, staying vigilant for all threats both physical and mental. Where this all went wrong is because your King was born and bred in the wild, where a lot of the original designs and personalities of bitties have changed.” The woman looked incredibly interested in what you were saying. Fully invested and curious, you loved customers like this.

“So his idea of protection involves being controlling?” She asked just waiting for you to elaborate.

“Yes and no. His ideas about protection are skewed more in favor of breeding. If he has a partner he has to hide them away so they can't get taken by another bitty or human. He has to provide everything for them then, food, shelter, warmth, stimulation, everything. The problem with a lot of bitties in recent generations is that their predisposition to be reliant on humans still applies even when they’re experiencing sexual urges. They expect and crave for their human owners to satisfy them sexually alongside everything else.” You watched as the woman's face twisted in disgust.

“Wait, so you’re saying that hes trying to fuck me?” She yelled, grossed out and shivered slightly.

“In short, yes, he wants to fuck you.” You deadpanned watching as the woman hugged herself.

“That's so messed up!” She exclaimed, which made you chuckle.

“I agree, but magic is weird, and magical constructs with origins like bitties are even weirder. But anyways, there is a way to fix this. A way to uncross his wires so to say, and make him desire other bitties rather than you. Which in turn should ease a lot of the behavior towards you. After I do that he should be more receptive to my traditional training in learning how to act more in line with the original king lamia’s.” You finished, watching as relief seemed to wash over the woman.

“So what needs to be done to uncross those wires?” She asked, to which you chuckled.

“Get him a mate.” You stated watching as the woman seemed to balk a little at how simple your answer was.

“Wait! It's that simple?! I could have done that myself.” She asked sitting up straight, shocked and a little giddy at the prospect. You laughed with her.

“Well, kind of, unfortunately if you get involved in the process and give him a new mate, he’d take it as a sign that he needs to fight the other bitty to mate with you. It’s better to let a third party do the introduction.”

“Oh… Well, if it gets him to stop wanting to fuck me I’m more than willing.” She smiled, seeming to realize that a huge weight was being lifted from her shoulder.

“So when can we start?” She added, looking at you with hope.

“Well first we have to pick out a new mate.”

-----

You’d gone over potential mates and your rates with the woman for the rest of the visit. You’d mentioned that a cherry would probably be best for the King, as they were incredibly meek and in need of the amount of attention that this particular King was ready to give, plus they weren't lamia so the chance of breeding while already small, was nearly impossible. The woman was excited over the idea, as she wanted a pet who was easier to cuddle with as opposed to her King who she had to keep far away from her sleeping arrangements.

You’d made sure to explain fully to her why although she had the best of intentions, King’s were not traditionally pets, and she needed to treat him accordingly. She could keep him as part of her family and give him a better home off the streets, but she needed to be careful not to let him take charge of her life anymore as next time he probably would kill her. She ended up taking this to heart, nodding her head as you led her to the door.

“I’ll make sure I read more on how I’m supposed to handle him.” She promised, leaving in her car. You’d set a date for that weekend to go and pick up the King, you needed a few days to get a suitable cherry and set up an area in which you could do everything that needed to be done.

---

Meeting the King in question, Moriarty, as he had aptly named himself, was an occasion that was sure to be violent. You had a thick jumpsuit on, with extra layers covering your arms and legs, combat boots your husband had bought you just for these situations, and heavy duty handling gloves on so he couldn’t bite you. You had some safety goggles on as well in case he tried to spit at you, and even your neck was covered by a long collar from your jumpsuit. You didn't take any chances with violent venomous lamia’s especially ones who had reason to believe that you were a threat. You’d nearly lost your brother that way when he’d insisted on trying to calm a venomous lamia without gear. He’d been in the hospital for two weeks and aptly served as yet another reminder that protection bitties were not to be taken lightly.

Your husband was dressed beside you in a similar getup, and he had insisted on taking at least one Squadron bitty with the two of you, said bitty was currently standing at military attention waiting for you to give him orders. He wore camo like most squadron bitties, with a black shirt, ripped off sleeves, a pair of smaller dog tags and miniature combat boots and a knife. He didn't have his ecto flesh summoned so his outfit was a little baggy. His dark green eyelights were focused on you, while his arms were situated behind his back.

You had planned to use magic if things got too bad, but it was always good to have a backup plan.

Squadrons were very similar to Edgies in terms of vocabulary and humor, the only real difference being that they were never overtly hostile to anyone outside of combat. They made dirty jokes all the time and cursed like sailors, but never called you cunt or assface unless they were set out to kill you.

“I’ll need you to stay outside until we give you a signal.” You said to the bitty, watching as he gave a toothsome grin and saluted you in response.

“Just gimmie da signal an I’ll rip em up ma'am.” He replied, forgoing his usual vulgar vocabulary in lieu of a more respectful tone. He gave you a nod as well to tell you not to worry about him and you turned towards your husband with a pleased expression.

“You said this is your best one so far? I’m impressed! He didn't even cuss at me!” You praised watching your husband's face light up.

“Yeah, he used to cuss more than the others but I straightened him out real quick, nothing a little friendly competition couldn't solve.”

Chuckling you turned your attention back towards the door again, and steeling yourself for the worst you knocked on the door. Hopefully she’d managed to tranquilize her king.

“Hello! We’re here today for Miss Shelby! We’re here to pick up the package like we discussed yesterday.

“*GASP* MOTHER! HOW DARE YOU! I TOLD YOU NOT TO GO OUTSIDE! YOU DISOBEYED ME!” You heard the loud, unmistakable shriek of the problematic bitty then a mumble in response before there was a loud crash and the shriek of a woman. Worried that maybe the King had gotten more violent, you tested the doorknob, relieved to find it unlocked.

“Hello, Miss Shelby! I’m coming in!” You shouted, before bursting into the home.

What you saw caused adrenaline to surge through you.

The king in question was wrapped tightly around Shelby’s arm, hood spread out,tail swishing agitated, and teeth bared. He was on the verge of attacking.

Looking at Shelby you could tell how nervous, how terrified she was as she stared at the King’s teeth. You noticed that a plate of noodles lay shattered on the floor.

“Oh thank god.” Shelby breathed out, relieved to see you.

“WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE! BARGING IN HERE! MOTHER TELL THEM TO LEAVE!” The king hissed, moving itself so he was partially wrapped around Shelby’s neck, he had placed himself right next to Shelby’s ear with his teeth still bared and from what you could tell, his fangs were already secreting venom. He was very ready to bite.

“M-m-m-mori! She’s a guest, I invited her over for dinner!” Shelby tried to explain, earning herself a shriek in the ear.

“I DIDN'T GIVE PERMISSION FOR THAT! WE AREN'T ACCEPTING COMPANY! TELL HER TO LEAVE!” Moriarty screeched, tail seeming to tighten around her neck.

Shelby moved to try and loosen the tail only to earn a menacing hiss from the king, your eyes widened a bit as you tried to think of the best course of action.

Moving towards her would probably cause him to tighten his grip, talking could yield good results but with how agitated he was it would probably only buy you time before he bit her. Maybe if you challenged him he would take the bait, but you couldn't do that if you wanted him to respond to you in training.

Suddenly you were incredibly glad that your husband had insisted on bringing a squadron bitty. The king would probably never see it again, and it would leave you in a neutral position from which to train the king.

You clicked your tongue at the king, not making any sudden movement, he hissed at the sound, and seemed to be hyper focused on you, before its attention snapped to the door, as a bulked up squadron bitty stormed in.

“The fuck is this cunt ordering ya round for!?” The squadron bitty bellowed, he was still minimal size, but you yourself knew better than to underestimate him.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS! LEAVE MY TERRITORY AT ONCE INSOLENT CRETIN!” The King hissed, attention snapping to the other bitty.

Shaking your head, you looked at the little squadron bitty and gave a firm order. “Nothing crazy.” You stated, watching as he frowned in displeasure.

“Fuckin fine. Yer not a lot a fun are ya.” He stated as he stepped forward, chest puffing out as he readied himself for a fight.

“FIGHT ME BITCH!” He screeched out simply at the king, using the most direct way in which to challenge the king.

Taking the bait immediately, the King slithered down in front of his owner, hood spread, and fangs dripping poison. You took a step back, and whispered at Shelby to slowly back away.

There wasn't much of a fight, the King lunged and ended up shot by a tranquilizer as the Squadron bitty jumped out of the way for your husband to get a clear shot of the King’s hood.

You’d had these instant magic tranquilizers well before the pure bite incident, but they simply did not work on large bitties, they were meant for smaller bitties, and were tested extensively to work instantly said bitties.

There was no need for an actual fight, and really the simplest solutions were generally the best. You nodded at the Squadron bitty, as he immediately made to restrain the King bitty and brought him over to you, where you put a special muzzle on its skull. After which the squadron dragged it by the tail to a pre-prepared cage.

Having completed your business, you turned towards Shelby, noticing how shocked she seemed. It wasn't uncommon, people tended to be shocked when the people, or “pets” in this instance, that had been tormenting them were taken down. You took the lead, grabbing a shock blanket that you had also, prepared ahead of time and wrapping it around her.

“Do you want me to call someone for you?” You asked, as you secretly examined her for any bites or cuts. Luckily the only injuries she had were bruises from where the king had squeezed her arm too tightly.

Shelby nodded dumbly at you, before grabbing her phone and scanning her finger to unlock it. “Could you… Call my mother… I was too scared to have her over before.” She said, then plopping down in a nearby seat.

You nodded at her. “I’ll wait with you until she gets here.” You said, before pressing the call button on the phone.

---

The very first step in rehabilitating the King wasn’t to immediately jump into training. It was a little different from that. You’d brought your client over after she’d calmed down in order for her to pick out one of the Cherries you’d set aside for the King. You’d set aside 5 of them, not that it really made much of a difference as they were all crying at the prospect of meeting someone new. Most bitties were identical, luckily there were” some notable differences between these cherries, mutations weren’t always bad.

The customer came in, and almost immediately grimaced at the crying Cherries. You’d warned her that they were high maintenance pets, but also assured her that with a King around a lot of the more intolerable aspects would almost certainly be enjoyed by the King.

She did however warm up to the Cherries after a little play time, and after finding out that one of the Cherries enjoyed eating literally ANYTHING, she picked that one in a heartbeat. She stated that she loved cooking new things and someone to enjoy new things with was something she struggled with.

After that she bonded for a short while, she left, she had wanted to hear the cherry say “mommy” before leaving but you insisted that that was a TERRIBLE idea.

After she left, you shoved a heat inducing gummy down a screaming Cherries throat and quite literally threw him into the pen with the King. If you heard hysterical pleas for help, and screams to “shut up slut.” You ignored them, that would sort itself out naturally.

---

You monitored the situation between the King and Cherry loosely. It went exactly as you expected it to. The King violently fucked the Cherry, while the Cherry simultaneously cried for more and pleaded for it to stop at the same time.

By the end of the week long fuck fest there were no more pleas for stopping, only begging for more. Until finally, the King had firmly marked the Cherry as its own, and was holding it close and whispering as sweet of compliments as it could muster. The Cherry was crying, as usual, but at the offer of food it had accepted the King as its mate.

You waited another week, allowing the King to thoroughly fuss over the Cherry and fuck away its excess of aggression, before entering the pen. You entered with food, eyeing the King to make sure he didn't pounce. He has significantly calmed down, instead of hissing and threatening he stared at you warily while he held his wide eyed mate close. You set the food down, and nodded.

“I see you enjoy the mate I’ve prepared for you.” You stated, watching as the King’s head tilted to the side as he questioned the implications of that statement.

You left before he could question you. Letting the tranquilizers in the food take effect before you went to collect your newest project.

---

The King awoke in a cage alone while a hysterical Cherry cried as it reached out to him from a cage opposite of him.

You didn't have gloves on as you opened the cage of the Cherry, and you would never admit to smiling at the reaction of the King as you roughly handled the Cherry.

“RELEASSSSSSE MY MATE AT ONCE INSSSSSOLENT HUMAN!” He hissed, utterly incensed at the handling of his new mate. You shook your head, and placed the Cherry on a table, he cowered into your hand, hiding his face as he reached for his mate, but at the same time he still recognized you as a human to trust, you’d bottle fed him after all.

“Ppp-please I want to be with Mori.” He pleaded with you hugging your thumb as his tears colored the edge of his sockets.

You replied softly. “I know, but we have to correct some of his behavior first.” You replied as you shook him off.

He landed on his behind, more tears welling up in his eyes. Before you grabbed a shock collar, and placed it around the neck of the Cherry.

“What’s this’ moAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!” You wasted absolutely no time in shocking the Cherry, watching as its tears pooled on the table, and pissed soaked down its bare legs. The king had thoroughly destroyed any clothing that had been on the Cherry in its vigor. You could make out the small cuts on its form, the first few days had been incredibly rough in terms of sex, not enough to kill the Cherry, but certainly enough that you wondered why it wasnt terrified of the King.

The Cherry flopped on the table, while you looked at the King who’s hood was spread as he hissed, spit and thrashed about in his cage. It was bolted down so there was no way for him to tip it, but it was still quite the sight.

Nodding in satisfaction you placed the sobbing Cherry back in his cage across from the King, where he reached out desperately towards the Cherry intent on comfort, even if that wasn’t his strong suit.

“RELEASSSSE ME AT ONCCCCE! I MUSST COMFORT MY MATE!” He screeched at the same time trying to thrash his tail to strike out at you.

“No comfort will come to your Cherry until we have fixed your behaviors.” You hummed, as you pulled on thick arm coverings and gloves. You approached the King’s cage and unlatched it, grasping around the King’s throat as he attempted to bite your outstretched hand through the gloves. A calculated move in order to direct him as you pleased.

You wrestled with the King for a while, rolling your eyes and smashing him against the table as he refused to loosen his bite. The King went limp for just a moment while you strapped him to the table with special restraints. His skull wasn't even cracked as you’d gone easy on him, it also helped that his breed was tougher than the pet variety.

Being strapped down by his neck made the king easier to handle, even when he snapped out of his daze and began to thrash again, this time though without the threat of fangs. It was easy for you to pin down his tail and arms down long enough to strap them to the table.

This was all just a show of force, to prove that she could do whatever she wanted to his mate, and he could do nothing about it. She needed him as violent as possible in response to threats to his mate, she needed him to stall in relation to his street taught values, if only so she could delete them.

You finished strapping him to the table, and picked up the remote to your mini shock collar, pausing for a moment and wondering if you should maybe start with pulling teeth first. However you needed a far more compliant King than you had currently, and it helped that the Cherry’s cries were beginning to grate on your nerves.

Looking over at the Cherry you sighed, it was still crying, smelly and pitiful as it cowered in the corner furthest from you and the King, too petrified of the violence to move. You waved the button in front of the king who hissed at the sight.

“DO NOT HARM MY MATE YOU WORTHLESSSSSS HUMAN!” He screeched, as you shook your head and pressed the button. As expected the sight of his mate in pain sent him into a frenzy, he spit, while you mocked him for his inability to do anything. You approached the cage of the Cherry intent on subduing the King in the most effective way possible.

“NOOOOOOO!” The King continued to screech. While the Cherry recovered from the shock cowered and begged for you not to hurt him. Of course, that wouldn't happen.

You carefully took the soiled Cherry out of his cage once more, and placed him next to the King, the King seemed to calm as the Cherry strained for its mate. You let them reunite for a moment, if only to grab a bitty sized dental gag and pry the King's mouth open. Once successful, despite the Cherry’s begging. You once more picked up the Cherry, and placed his hand into the King’s mouth, before carefully pricking him with the King’s fangs.

The unholy screech of the King was nothing like the ones before. His venom was incredibly effective, and on a creature as small as the Cherry its effect was seen immediately.

Pale faced and beginning to flush redder than normal, the Cherries tears became more frantic. He blubbered the same as normal as he tried to free himself from your grasp. Plopping him next to the King you pressed the button of the shock collar again and held. Looking the King straight in the eyes as it began to cry red tears. There was no understanding past the dental gag. But you knew well enough what was going on. A sinister smile graced your lips as you turned away from the king, taking the Cherry with you as you left the room. As far as the King knew, his mate was dead, dead by its own hand.

---

You returned shortly, having cured the Cherry from the King’s venom and stalled it in order to erase its memory of the training. Standard practice for once a bitty had been fully trained, the training would remain while the memory did not, no risk of blabbing to customers who really had no idea what was happening. It was necessary as while you trained the King the Cherry would bond with its new mother.

The King was still sobbing as you returned, and you used the lack of struggle to your advantage.

“It's a shame he had to die because of you.” You egged on, watching as the King seemed to deflate even further. You took that moment to put on your gloves and remove the restraints. The King didn't attack, and your smile was as venomous as the King as you removed the dental gag.

“WHY?” The King asked, and you couldn't help but chuckle, as you started to stroke its head soothingly, as you spit out harsh words. “That's because you are a bad bitty. A horrible protector.” The king flinched at that but immediately you turned it around. “But still so brave, and handsome.” Of course, the contrary information stilled the King, stalling him, and allowing you to reach for his AI, and stroke it. His eyelights buzzed a little, as you wiped away his need to monopolize his mate, his “charges.” There was of course more work to be done, but he would be too grief stricken to struggle. Just the way you needed him. You supposed it was about time to pull out some teeth.

---

By the time your bitty behavioral therapy was done, the King was a model example of a protection bitty. He was still a horribly bossy creature, but he no longer insisted on isolating his charges or displayed sexual desires outside of for his mate. He focused entirely on “protecting” and only grew violent when there was sufficient threat.

Meanwhile, the Cherry had not stopped crying for his mate until he met his new mother. He was of course still sad, but as most pet variety bitties are ought to do, the introduction of a new mommy or daddy tends to cheer them up instantly. Which was good, as the Chery, newly dubbed Sebastian, had sufficient time to bond with his new mother without the interference of a mate. The client learned easily to care for a Cherry, while also undergoing coaching from the rancher in order to be an effective King owner.

On the day that the King was to return to his owners care. The owner had been nervous, she had lost confidence in owning bitties, and while Sebastian had helped, it still did not erase the nervousness she felt even after 2 months.

“I’m not sure about taking him back.” She stated, holding the Cherry close to her heart, he was as usual, teary eyed, but at the words of his owner, he burst into hysterics.

“Nooo!!! Mommy please I want Mori back! Please let me see Mori!” He begged, rubbing his snot covered face into her shirt. The owner seemed to deflate at this, and sighed, rubbing her Cherries back in reassurance. While you marveled at the fact that he was still suffering from some sort of stockholm syndrome.

“We’ll just have to see for now.” She said, and looked at you for reassurance.

“You really don't have to worry.” You replied, voice chipper. “He’s nothing like he was before, you’ll be safer with him now than you would be without. He’s a model King, the perfect guard for any home.” You made your way towards the back noting the wariness of your client, but you stood by what you said, Moriarty was a model King, with all the coaching you’d given Shelby there was no reason to worry anymore.

Making your way into the back you spotted Moriarty in his enclosure, he was sunning himself as you approached. There was no sign of pulled teeth, skinned tails, or broken bones anywhere on him, and he only flinched slightly at the sound of your voice.

“Your mothers ready to see you now.” You sang watching the King light up and practically shoot to your outstretched arm. He curled himself around your arm, vibrating with anticipation at the prospect of seeing his mother again. You hummed in satisfaction as you made your way back to where Shelby was waiting.

The Cherry fell to the floor as he threw himself out of his mothers arms, he fell with a thwack, chanting Mori as he ran to you. The King very nearly pounced at the Cherry, he had tears in his eyes and seemed shocked and elated to see his mate. Although the Cherry's supposed ‘death’ had been erased from his mind he still had thought his mate dead, thus the tears. Before he could rush to his mate you held your hand up. “Stop.” You commanded, preventing the King who was practically vibrating from going to his mate. He was restless and voiced his immense displeasure. “YOU MUST LET ME GO SEE IF MY MATE IS HARMED!” He practically screeched into your ear, but still stayed still, causing Shelby’s eyes to widen in shock. She would have never imagined that the previously unruly and violent King would become so obedient, even if he was still incredibly bossy.

The Cherry at your feet practically hugged your leg as he cried and pleaded for his mate to come to him, you stopped walking forward before your punted him across the room, and smiled warmly at Shelby even as Moriarty squirmed on your shoulders as he looked between his mate and his mother, frustration growing as he stayed put, as you were gesturing for him to.

The cries of the Cherry became background noise as you spoke to Shelby. “As you can see, he’s fully trained now. All you need to do is handle him like I taught you and he’ll respond appropriately.”

“YOU MUST LET ME DOWN NOW!” The king snapped, as he crossed his arms, still waiting for permission. Nothing could change his bossy tone, but he still could be trained to behave.

Your customer sputtered for a bit, before she seemed to snap out of it. “Oh… Um… Yes… Come here.” She said, and gestured with her hands as you’d taught her for her previously unruly King to come.

The response was instant, he practically lept from your arm, disregarding the Cherry, albeit patting him on the head as he passed, and basically leapt into the outstretched hand that his ‘mother’ had out for him. He practically purred at the contact with his ‘mother’, nuzzling her arm affectionately as he hugged her arm, shocking her while at the same time earning a smile.

“I AM VERY CROSS WITH YOU MOTHER! YOU DO NOT KNOW HOW MUCH I MISSED YOU!” The King stated, holding on firmly to his mothers arms as he stared longingly at the crying Cherry that was running and trying to climb up his mothers leg.

“I can see that.” She answered, smile wide and tears coloring the side of her eyes.

“NOW I MUST INSIST THAT WE COMFORT MY MATE!” He screeched, looking down at Sebastian with longing. Which in turn caused his owner to laugh and reach down to pick up the crying Cherry.

“There we go, the whole family’s together, Sebastian, Moriarty and mommy!” She cried, sniffling as Moriarty kissed the forehead of his crying mate.

“Thank you so much!” She cried, as she walked over to you and shook your hand. “I can’t believe how much he’s changed! Thank you! I can’t thank you enough!”

Grinning ear to ear, you replied. “Really, it was my pleasure.”

#bitty abuse #bitty torture #Psychological Abuse #psychological torture #king lamia #cherry bitty #shock collar #bitty rape #stockholm syndrome #memory manipulation #abusive realtionships

37 notes · View notes

rjalker · 3 years

Photo

[ID: Ten images, all different versions of the first, with the others cropped, with added text and diagrams to show different parts.

The main image is a simple digital drawing of a body of water that has been separated into sections using rocks, with part in the foreground with darker, deeper water than the ones next to and behind it. All of the water is brown, with the shallowest almost golden in color as the sun rises from the bare trees in the background, rising on brown hills. The edge of the sun is visible as a ball of white coming up behind the trees, and the sky is in a gradient from pink at the bottom, to green, and to blue at the upper edges of the picture.

The trees are casting long shadows onto the water.

The next nine images are cropped versions of the original, showing only the water, and the very bottom trunks of the trees.

The first three have black arrows drawn across the water. The first also has a dotted line drawn across the middle of the pond. The arrow goes towards it, then turns around to go back the way it started, and is marked, “they die”.

The second has the arrow going all the way across to the other side, and is marked, “you die”.

The third has the arrow go all the way across, then turn around and go back, and is marked, “you both live”.

The next version shows just the cropped image of the pond, without anything extra added. The next shows the pond, with green, yellow, orange, and red highlights added overtop. The outer layer next to the rock dam is marked green. the area further in is marked in yellow, further in than that is marked orange, and the very middle of the pond is marked red, then darker red.

The next three have sections of the lave outlined in black, and filled in with diagonal lines, minus the highlighted colors, but in the same area.

The green part is marked, “You’re fine”.

The yellow and orange part is marked, “turn around now”, with now underlined for emphasis.

The red part is marked, “yeah, you’re dead”.

The last image has a stick figure drawing of a small boat drawn into the middle of the pond, with one stick figure person in the boat, and another in the water. The person in the water is standing, holding up curved paddles shaped like bat wings. The person in the water has their arms lifted to the boat, shouting, “fuck you”.

An arrow points to the person in the boat, and reads, “he’s a peice of shit”.

Large text across the bottom reads in parenthesis, “not to scale, they’re too big but it’s a work in progress”.

End ID.]

The pond from the original Brain Worms dream since I found the original post and suddenly remembered exactly what it looked like!

It was part of a river that went through a forest, and part of it had been sectioned off with rocks to make a dam so that the water was deeper. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, the Serial Killer Dude (SKD) from my dream did that as part of his evil plan to kidnap and murder people.

The water in the deeper part rose to the edges of the rock wall, and went over a little at a time because of the current of the river, but never fast enough to get it back to its normal level.

I can only assume that SKD fucking with it like this is the reason that swimming in this area without already being bonded is now dangerous, but the dream didn’t elaborate.

The first set of rules - swimming to the middle and turning around, swimming across and getting out, and swimming across and then swimming back, are the normal rules for the magic, they didn’t change. Those apply after you’ve started to bond with a Brain Worm, when you’re in Stage 3™.

If you swim halfway out and then turn around, the Brain Worm’s mind will die, but you get to keep their body and your mind. So you can now leave your body whenever you want to go around as a Brain Worm, which would mostly be helpful for swimming. Your body will magically be kept alive while you’re not in it, so you wouldn’t have to worry about it drowning. When your body eventually dies of old age (assuming you’re actively using it), you can either go back to the pond and live with the rest of the Brain Worms, or you can find another host and hope they’re not going to kill you when they swim into the water. You could also just discard your body whenever you wanted, it’s not like you have to keep it. You are now pretty much immortal unless you’re killed, since Brain Worms don’t die of old age, they’ll just eventually lose their colors.

If you swim across the whole thing, and climb out on the other side, your mind will die, but the Brain Worm and your body will live, and they’ll get to keep your body if they want it, or they can just go back under water again. Same rules apply as above, they can keep or discard your body as they please, find a new host whenever they feel like it, ect.

If you swim across all the way, and then swim all the way back, you both get to live. Your mind is stored in their body until they die, so you can both leave your body and wander around as a Brain Worm, and you’ll both share control over both bodies, though when you’re not in your body it still goes into a magical coma/stasis. When your body eventually dies you can both leave to go back to the pond or find another host or do whatever, and if you do decide to find a new host, it’ll be the three of you instead of two sharing the two bodies, and on and on with however many hosts you take. There is no limit to how many people can be bonded at once, though if nothing goes wrong it takes forever, since most people are bonded for a normal human lifespan before their body dies and they decide to find someone else.

If you don’t get in the water at all, you both die. Sucks to be you.

The danger zones don’t exist normally, it’s only because SKD’s been fucking with the natural geography(?) of the pond. The river is meant to be flowing normally over top of the entrance to the under water cave so that they can get oxygen and nutrients and fish and stuff, but since he built a dam, he’s fucking up all kinds of shit in the water, and attacking them whenever they come to the surface to try and negotiate, so now they’ve started attacking whenever anyone or anything goes in there, since they’re being constantly attacked and their sources of food sabotaged. They’re pretty much under siege.

If the river were running normally, it would be perfectly safe to go swimming in their area, but while the dam is there, you’re more likely to get murdered in revenge since they can’t tell the difference between you and SKD. They aren’t able to just break the dam themselves because it’s reinforced with magic, so even if they all worked together, they couldn’t push any of the rocks out of place. And they could technically just leave through the cave, but if they can’t bring any supplies with them, they can’t survive the (very, very long) trip to the next city.

SKD is kidnapping humans, and chucking them into the middle of the lake so that the Brain Worms come to the surface to try to fight, and then he catches everyone in a magical net. This stopped being effective after the first time he did it, since the Brain Worms aren’t idiots and they aren’t going to swim into a trap twice. But he keeps doing stuff to piss them off, so the more hot-headed and inexperience's ones will be tempted to come after him anyways.

Quartz along with many other people got captured the first time he did his trick, and She Whose Name I Did Not Learn got captured much more recently, which she did on purpose so that she could find out what was happening to the ones he’d already taken and try to rescue them.

#long post #Rjalker does art #dream art #from 2019 #I found the original post and suddenly remembered exactly what it looked like #because I remember tripping over the rocks on the wall as an example as the dream was explaining the rules #Rjalker's Brain Worms #Rjalker does NaNoWriMo #Rjalker's OCs #Rjalker's Actual Book Universe #Mavis and Quartz #and her Brain Worm Quartz #Worm for Brains Mavis Werther

3 notes · View notes

euijin · 3 years

Photo

“gif coloring challenge: color a gif in a way that’s opposite of your current coloring style or with a process that you haven’t tried before. show the before and after, and include your current coloring so we can see the difference!”

tagged by @youngke tysm!! was lowkey hoping someone would tag me in this it looked fun and it WAS

generally my coloring focuses on making things more saturated since original videos can be super washed out, i also try to fix the skintone first and foremost and everything else kinda comes after that. i’ve said before that i just have like 20 different psds i combine and cycle through for my gifs and that i rarely make new ones, but i made new colorings for all of my “new” gifs! which is why they’re questionable i don’t think i remember how to make new psds anymore

the coloring i usually end up using is always vibrant but with colors on the warmer side unless there are bright blue accents. it also kind of has a green hue to it for some reason, i never remember what layer makes it do that. i also tend to turn down the brightness on whatever i’m giffing and make blacks darker. so! for the new gifs i made, i tried to do...not that.

i’ll put the process for each new gif under the cut if anyone is curious, it got kinda long so asdfasdg

i’m not sure who has done this already/was already tagged bc i’m really on and off tumblr so, sorry if i tag you and you’ve already done it! as always feel free to ignore this, but i’m tagging: @yenyuls @ddonghyun @minhos @wonstal @redvelvetcult @dwons @hyunsung @seungs @byonggon and anyone that sees this and wants to do it. pls say i tagged you even if i didn’t i wanna see!!

the top row is for a set i may or may not actually finish and post BUT i actually started with a curves layer which i rarely do for some reason. i color balance’d more blues in, then used channel mixer, which i don’t think i’ve ever used in my life, to get rid of some greens. i actually increased exposure for once instead of decreasing it, added a butt ton of offset compared to what i usually use (which is like, Negative offset sometimes sdfgdsfg) and what’s MOST FUN is that i have a cyan gradient map in there! it’s set on color burn 20% opacity, u can probably tell it’s there now that i mentioned it. i don’t rly like it but i don’t think it’s bad for something i would never usually do!

my challenge for myself for the second one was to barely touch selective color to fix skintone. i think ultimately i learned i do not know how to fix skintone without selective color! but i relied heavily on curves for this one, especially in just. tanking the blue curves, which effectively got a lot of that weird blue ghost lighting off her face. i also did something fun for this one where i turned down saturation on every color EXCEPT reds, which i’ve never done before. is that the same as just turning saturation on reds higher...? maybe...but i turn the saturation of reds higher all the time and wanted to do something different 😤 i wanted to use this one because as you can see i just completely tanked the magentas in the set i actually posted. i wanted to see if i could color around them effectively and i suppose i did!

for the third one, i specifically wanted to find one of my Trademark Blue gifs and make it Not! i don’t think i actually colored this one too differently than usual, because i definitely have used the “selective color to nerf a certain color into the ground” approach before, i just rarely do that with blues. aside from that, i also did more offset, relying more on curves, etc that i mentioned before but i cheated and used selective color to fix the skintone at the end which is why it actually looks better than the coloring i actually used for that set asdfsdgad i mean. arguably. i’m sure i could remake that set to be a lot better today using my regular approach.

what i learned: selective color is my crutch and use curves more they’re fun!! i also have no fucking idea how i get my usual coloring to look like that but i have a deeper appreciation for past carly’s psds now thank u queen

#text #tag games #*ccarly #me now: my usual coloring is kinda sexy actually #another tag game another day of realizing all i gif is hyunjin #this took me so long SDFSDGSDG #ok i have an animal crossing villager to hunt for now bye

13 notes · View notes

kat-hawke · 3 years

Text

Round 2

Stress and tension swelled as reports of Grimm began to dwindle, and the newfound funding opened more doors, which in turn brought their hurdles. Against Thea's wishes, the Director cut her day short and retired to the lower levels of the tram for the afternoon.

The scent of blood mixed with liquor and drugs in the brawl pub air, a calming and dangerous combination for the beast shackled within. Abstaining from the ring herself, Kat perched from a rented room above, trading the official attire for leathers and pulling the hair in tight braids to complete the façade of "Darah" that so many became accustomed to.

The fight below offered moderate entertainment but ended too soon for her enjoyment. At the far edge of the pub, the glimpse of a familiar elf caught her eye, heading for the stairs to the upper level. Nostrils flared with a heated breath as she retreated to the crescent-shaped sofa with a drink in hand. The Ren'dorei stood her up in the original agreement, but now she returns. She signaled for the bouncer to allow entry just as the elven woman approached with a motion of one hand.

Serelia brushed past the massive bouncer, strutting into the room without cleaning from her last fight. Unceremoniously, she dropped a hefty leather-bound tome onto the coffee table beside Kat's feet. The covers dyed black as midnight, a large embossed 'H' the only image upon the face.

"So far, this seems to be useless to my situation. Not that I needed much more confirmation that my former employers were all bluster and no impact. I see you survived the Scourge incursion Darah?" A flicker of a smile touched the elf's lips, "rumors that you're hard to kill remain true."

"Ya' canno' kill that which does no' truly live," Kat scoffed before casting her gaze over the tome.

Her lips twisted in disgust at the embossed emblem, letting the hum of dissatisfaction roll in her throat before silencing it with a sip of whiskey.

"Yer former employers were always fluffers- show ponies. Like rotted apples painted red. Look real good from th' outside but real shite beneath the outer layer." She sucked her teeth in spite. "Wot do ya' expect when ya' ask a child playin' with mommy's toys t'perform a job fit for an experienced adult?"

Serelia drops onto the other part of the curved section of the couch, and her empty eyes turned towards Kat. "That all measures up. I thought I'd seen all the bluster nobility could muster in Silvermoon, but at least they backed it with power. Human nobility is an oxymoron the way it's used here." She puts feet up, crossing ankles on top of the book, hands folding in her lap.

"Nobility," Kat mocked, "please. At best, these want-to-be imbeciles are glorified harems, no'-so-secret adultery, and the pompous new-bloods thinkin' they can demand respect. They wouldn' know noble if it bit 'em on the ass."

"Needless to say," Serelia continues, "my other possible source didn't lead anywhere useful, and so once more I am before you, where I should've stayed from the start."

"Sometimes we have t'learn th' hard way that we were right the first time, luv'." Kat's statement comes with a sly grin, her arms stretching across the back of the cushion as she studied the adjacent elf. "Should have listened, could have saved yer self some precious time. Who knows how much more rooted or detrimental things 'ave become in that poor judgmen'."

"I hadn't planned for a scourge invasion to disrupt our schedule. The Void does seem to take at an increasing rate," the elf grunted, shuttering her gaze for a moment. "I'm ready to bargain. What cost is your help, and where do we start?"

Glancing out over the fight pit, Kat chuckled, amused at the situation. She felt less inclined to offer her assistance now.

"Remind me again wot it is I am to assist ya' with?" Masking the sarcasm, Kat toyed with the elf.

Serelia's expression doesn't betray her feelings on being asked that again.

"My eyes were damaged by a Warlock's Felfire. The Void overtook my vision to...repair them. I now see the world like a storm of chaos, where every possible reality is overlaid atop one another. I wear glasses," a hand rises to slightly adjust them on her nose, "enchanted to help filter it to some degree, but I can only use it to adjust the things that I gain confidence are true."

Wagging a finger in the woman's direction, Kat clicked her tongue in an uncaring manner. "Ah, right. Right. And ya' don' know wot yer child truly looks like because of it all. Such a shame, really."

"I do not," Serelia replies, expression and tone darkening a bit at the reminder.

Drawing a deep and sardonic breath, Kat sank into the plush cushion of the couch, shrugging faintly.

"T'be quite honest, luv', things have changed since our last exchange. My needs and desires are a myriad of ever-shifting webs to suit the current situations of the world. T'bring my goals to fruition, of course." One thumb rand across the fingertips as another hollow hum rang out.

"Here t'bargain ya' say? And pray tell, wot exactly do ya' have t'bargain with that is of interest t'me?"

"Service," Serelia replies. Exhaling a breath and feet returning to the floor as she sits forward, clasping hands together, elbows resting on the knees. "I am, perhaps not to your degree, but relatively proficient and moving between spaces in the Void. You've already seen me fight several times now."

She paused to lock eyes with the Director.

"I don't want to work for the crown, but I'll work for you."

Deliberately, Kat yawned and waved a hand at the proposition. Everyone wanted to offer this, and after years of broken promises and missed deadlines, she found that people default to that which is easily untracked or collected upon. Her patience with the meeting began to wane.

"Did the bouncer let in the rabble again? I thought I was in th' company of one I granted an audience to." Sarcasm hung from every word, unimpressed by the offer.

"Same offer I hear time 'n time again, luv'. 'bout fifty-fifty if they make good on th' word, but yer gonna need t'try harder than that. Ya've heard the stories. I can fight m'own battles."

Serelia's lips tighten into a flat line. "I've heard the stories," she agrees, "I'm offering what I have. If it's not enough, it's not enough. Spent my first dozen decades in the military; combat training was my life. I've nothing of monetary value. My skills are the thing I own to give."

Kat's eyes shut, and her head shook slowly. "Blind in more ways than one, I suppose."

With a quiet breath, she looked to Serelia again. "We'll call it a favor owed, then. Maybe in time, ya'll find somethin' of value."

Serelia, visibly annoyed by the counter off, opened her mouth to speak but clamped it shut again. An irritated tone rumbled from behind the pressed lips before she conceded in a simple agreement, "A favor owed then."

"I knew ya'd be smart about it, luv'. Had ya' left and came back a third time, I may no' have been quite as generous. Simple economics; supply and demand." A wicked grin pulled across Kat's lips, the teeth poking through. "Ya' understand."

"Be easier to establish what I could supply if I had any idea what you demand." The elf retorted. "You're right. I'm blind. I come from a rigid structure that likely put me into a set way of thinking. I'm missing corners and other avenues. If you think I've got something you want, then let's hear it, but I don't know what your angle is right now, and games around wants are exhausting to play."

"If it weren't for my daughter, maybe I would walk instead of play, but if games are what it takes, then that's where we are. So. A favor owed."

"Ya' don't play much poker, do ya'?" Kat muttered.

"There is no game t'play, luv'. Ya' agreed, and that's all I needed. Ya' want control over th'power, and I can give it to ya'. But remember; wot is given can also be taken away."

"It won't be," Serelia replies as if stating a fact. "Regardless, price has been agreed then. When and how do we start?"

"Depends," Kat answered as her fingers drummed upon the cushion. "Do ya' want control or freedom?"

Serelia's lips curved into a crooked smile at that. "What a question..." she hesitates only a moment before completing her answer. "Control."

Kat's head inclined and rolled to the side ever so slightly as she stared curiously at the elf.

"Too many eyes and ears here. Need somewhere quiet. Secluded. Are ya' familiar with Elwynn?"

"I am," Serelia replies. Her posture eased slightly at the suggestion of resuming this conversation in a more quiet environs.

"Good. Wander in th' woods east of Goldshire after sundown." Kat instructed, keeping her eyes on the elf as the last of her drink was down.

"I'll find you."

"Deal." Serelia agreed with a throaty chuckle, standing to her feet and motioning to the tome.

"You want to burn this useless book of 'shadowmancy' or whatever they called themselves, or shall I?"

"I want that book." Alyssa chimed into the conversation before Kat could respond.

Kat ignored the dagger-bound soul, partially annoyed at the interruption and slightly concerned with how much environmental awareness she gained from within the blade.

"Shadowmancy? Fer fucks sake... There ain't no such thing. Buch of fuckin' wanna-be's." The Director spat, rolling her eyes at the tome before waving off the Ren'dorei.

"I'll do more than burn this amateur level bullshit. Trust me."

"Good riddance," Serelia nods as she turned to exit the rented room. "To the whole family."

[ @serelia-evensong ]

#ic #rp #Void-Stained Knuckles

15 notes · View notes

smearsyd · 3 years

Text

Safe in Your Arms | PCY | Bonus, A/N

Lee Seoyun had scars.

Perhaps she had been saved from physical scars, but they were visible enough to her. Thick reminders stood out in her mind that made words like worthless, not good enough, not grateful enough, unloveable, feel like a second skin. She didn’t think she was capable of healing— her parents had told her that she would always be broken, and weren’t your parents the ones who were supposed to know you the best?

So years ago, when Seoyun tragically spilled her hot chocolate all over the front of poor Park Chanyeol’s winter sweater, she was expecting severe backlash— not a forgiving smile and definitely not a new friend. Muchless, Seoyun never in a million years would have imagined that Park Chanyeol would soon be falling in love with someone like her. To be the person who made her, for the first time, feel safe in his arms.

This is Seoyun healed, despite her scars.

characters:

+ park chanyeol (exo), you as lee seoyun (because names are important)

what to expect:

+ christmas + boyfriend!au + fluff and romance

length:

+ 3 parts, bonus drabbles + 25kish in total

warnings:

+ sensitive topics + mentions of traumatic past + smut on part two

read it here: (updating… stay tuned)

+ part one + part two + part three + bonus + masterlist

author’s note:

+ The bonus drabbles are different than I originally planned, but i hope you like them REGARDLESS!!!

if you want to be tagged, please reply to this post!

@bbhmystar @itsmesa @yeolliedimple @uwukyungs00

Authors’s Note (Bonus Drabbles Below):

The idea came to me at the end of what I would unfortunately have to claim as a rather shitty day. It was late, I was tired, I remember that my hands were shaky and I could barely see or breathe. I didn't want anyone to hear me so I got in the shower, something that I've found is just easier. Moments like these can only go three different ways, I've found. The first is that I begin to blame myself, which I know isn't the best thing to do and I would recognize that if I could just think. The second is that I simply, or maybe not simply, stop— stop everything. The more numb, the better. The third thing, or option I suppose, is to stay calm and realize that everything is going to be okay. It always is eventually. Thankfully, I've been resorting to the third option more than the other two. This night was no exception either.

Showers, I think, have a magical power. They make you smell nice, they enable you to sing, and they help you think. Sometimes, though, they make me think too much. And so I found myself thinking, depressing really. I thought about everything I've gone through, everything my friends have gone through, everything my family has gone through, and I asked myself why. Why do we do the things we do even though we know there is really no other purpose than existing? I have never been one to become existential in my way of thinking, but at some point one does wonder if their life will mean anything in the long run.

Of course, I have no answers. I picture that the sky would laugh at us if it could. But while I was thinking, I did have one thought that has been lingering for quite some while. Although, I know deep inside of me that my life, or anyone else's for that fact, doesn't particularly matter, it makes me feel more me while in my skin to think that I could make some kind of difference to another person's life. To think that maybe they didn't have to feel as I did, that they could learn from my mistakes. It's a big assumption, I know. But if there is anything I want to do with my life, it would be to help people, because all in all, everyone needs someone to lean on.

This obviously isn't possible for me— to let everyone lean on my shoulder— but maybe instead I could do something else, something more personal, more solid, and more guiding than what my mere existence could provide. That's where writing enters, very dramatically I would imagine.

Reading to me has proven to become a singular savior, my favorite characters became best friends, their worlds like a secret backyard I could escape to when I felt unwelcome in my own home. I would see through their eyes and live a thousand lives. I felt from them, learned from them, grew from them. If I could somehow become that provider for others than I too could become happy, with myself and my life.

This story is merely a stepping stone, a singular moment explored and told. It doesn't even scratch the surface, but it makes it all worth it if even one of you understood, related, felt, learned from, smiled, laughed, cried. Any of those and it mattered, because the world is a place where all of that is running short.

I hope my readers know that life is more than those bad moments in the shower. That people are worth more than mean comments and hateful words. That times passes and things do get better. Life is what you make it, so make it worth it because there is only one of you and only one life to live.

Love a lot, everything if you can. Take risks, as long as you aren't harming others or yourself. Hug your family and best friends more often. Talk things out when you are angry; don't assume anything. Check on your strong friends. Drink more tea and take more baths. Don't forget that you can say NO. Don't forget that you are worth everything and that you are just as important as everyone else. Most importantly, don't stop struggling to find your happiness. Just like Seoyun says, "she's been climbing for a while, but that in itself is enough for her."

10 Months Later

“Are you sure you want this?”

“Baby.” Came Chanyeol’s concerned, but strong voice from the other side of the wall.

Seoyun was on the verge of ruining her makeup, if she hadn’t already, and her dress was so heavy she wasn’t sure anymore why she chose this one.

“Of co—”

Seoyun cut him off. “—I mean I want this, and I know there is no reason to panic, but I am and I’m so sorry because our wedding is literally in like thirty minutes, but Chan—”

Chanyeol cut her off. “—Take my hand.”

Huh? Came her confused reply. Only moments ago, had Chanyeol’s mom rushed from the bridal room like the world was ending when Seoyun burst into tears over a simple comment the makeup artist had mentioned about men getting cold feet.

His mom had promptly gotten Chanyeol and dragged a pitiful Seoyun from the floor like a suburban type superhero. She had forced him to stay on the other side of the hall before leaving them be, their backs less than a foot apart, yet separated through a thick layer of plaster and wood. Of course, Seoyun could simply step around the opening of the hallway, but then he would see her, and everyone knows that the groom seeing the bride before the wedding is bad luck.

But then a hand appeared from around the edge of the wall, his hand. Seoyun stared at it without moving for reason she wasn’t even sure of, her own shaky hand hesitantly coming out to wrap around his after careful deliberation.

There was silence when they met. And then a light twinkling feeling in the pit of her stomach began to bloom as his thumb rubbed soothing circles on her palm. She rolled her shoulders out and a deep breath was exhaled from her lips. Was that the feeling of relief, she wondered?

“Feel better?”

She almost felt ashamed to say yes, but she knew he understood with or without a wall between them.

“You know I’ve been ready for this since we both said I love you for the first time, because I do love you and I know without a worry of a doubt that you make me happy, and loved, and god Seoyun I thought last night in bed was confirmation enough… I mean I basically came so quic—”

“—Chanyeol!” Seoyun gasped, hitting what little of his arm she could see. “Your mom is just down the hall!”

“I mean I’m sure she knows we have se—”

Seoyun hit him again, but this time, she couldn’t help but let a few giggles slip from her mouth. “Last night was good,” she admitted.

“The best.”

Then they were both laughing, their quiet chuckles not as quiet as they thought they were, cascading down the halls and filling them both up with a giddy kind of love neither of them knew they were capable of. And when they died down, and only smiles remained, his hand was still in hers. Reassuring and so Chanyeol-like that she was beginning to wonder why she worried in the first place.

“So, you don’t have cold feet and you aren’t going to take one look at me walking up the steps and run?”

“Who even said that?”

Seoyun sighed, not wanting him to make a scene or be upset at a probably innocent make-up artist. “Just answer the question.”

“No baby, no cold feet.”

“Good,” came a familiar voice from Chanyeol’s side of the wall, “because the groom has to get to his place now.”

The best man, Baekhyun, popped his head around from where Chanyeol’s hand was, his bright smile comforting to Seoyun. “And I assume you have a few things to finish yourself before you officially get married. You look beautiful by the way,” he added around a kind eye smile.

“Hey,” Baekhyun was pulled forcefully from her sight, “if I can’t see her than you definitely can’t.” Chanyeol huffed.

Baekhyun was already egging him on, their hands separating as Chanyeol went to hit him again. “Too bad, so sad.”

Seoyun listened with a smile as the boy’s voices faded from her hearing until all that was left was her and her light heart.

She can do this, she’s sure of it.

2 Years Later

There were many things in life that Seoyun once thought she hated, but perhaps she was beginning to realize that they were merely things of her past that she thought were unhealable. And as she stared at them now, Chanyeol fast asleep on the couch, his mouth gapping open and their beautiful daughter wrapped tightly in his arms, her small fingers still stuck in a lock of his once silver hair turned naturally black, she knew that the things she loved in this world quite outshined the things she had still yet to heal from.

She found herself kneeling to sit beside them, her eyes roaming over her forever family with disbelief. Did she truly find happiness? Her heart knew the answer to that, and a delicate smile took over her face.

It had been two years since they married, seven since they met. It seemed, in a flip of a coin, that nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed. They looked somewhat the same, despite maybe a few shining hairs and a crease here and there, they still smiled the same though, hugged the same, loved the same. The world around them kept spinning, life went on, but she was sure now that they were forever.

It was then that Chanyeol’s eye cracked open to peer over at her. With no words, he simply leaned his head a little closer and pouted his lips out for a kiss. The act was easy, oh so easy, and so routine for her that she had almost forgotten how much she loved his tenderness; how the first thing he wanted when he woke was not to be left alone, not to seek out food or a shower, not even to wake their daughter, Boyoung, instead it was her— as simple and un-simple as that.

Her stomach erupted in a blossom of fluttering wings and a breeze so soft, she found herself guided back to him as if there was nothing more important to life than that. Their lips met, a soft pillowing of sleepy petals and she sighed at the taste of home.

“It’s almost the first, Chan,” she whispered into him. “You fell asleep yet another year.”

“It’s too hard to resist.” He mumbled back, his words like kindle being flamed to life. “Her soft snores always lull me to sleep.”

“And you’re getting old.” Seoyun smirked, which he flatly ignored in favor of his daughter, reaching down to grace her with a light kiss on her small forehead. She loved watching the two of them; Boyoung was just like him, her big eyes and goofy laugh, and you definitely couldn’t refute the mischievousness that oozed from her like a gift from her father.

“She has your sleeping habits for sure,” he remarked with a fond lift to his lips.

“She is a daddy’s girl.”

Chanyeol’s eyes sparked with that same twinkle of mischief and she knew he was inching to make some kind of crude remark, but before it could grace her ears, distant, but loud throes of rejoicing could be heard from outside.

It was midnight, and fireworks were cascading through the sky like shooting stars. They had made it another year together, and a full one year with their daughter.

Seoyun stood from beside them and padding gently to the window, peering out at the light show with wide eyes. It was snowing ever so slightly and the blue lights still hanging from Christmas made everything look bathed in a pure glow of halo. It was beautiful.

She felt Chanyeol’s form brush up behind her, and a small head fell gently onto her shoulder. Boyoung’s deep chocolate eyes, the same as Chanyeol’s, gazed into hers’ with a sleepy yawn and a huff from being woke up. She blinked slowly before drooping back into a peaceful sleep.

“Happy Birthday baby,” Seoyun whispered, eliciting a half-dreaming smile from her.

“And Happy New Year,” Chanyeol added, coming to wrap his arms around her waist.

The three of them stood as fireworks ushered in another year of love and healing and simply being together. She doesn’t think there was any room to hate within the little, but strong family they created.

There wasn’t anything else she could wish for.

thank you for reading

please like and reblog if you enjoyed :)

please remember:

+ do not plagiarize

+ suggestions are open

visit the masterlist

come chat with me

find me on asianfanfics

#smearsyd writes #exowritersnet #exosnet #exo #exo series #chanyeol series #Park Chanyeol #exo drabble #chanyeol fanfic #Chanyeol x OC #exo romance #exo fluff #exo fanfic #completed #mywriting

15 notes · View notes

werezmastarbucks · 4 years

Text

Whitmore Guy: Damon finally has it

Whitmore Guy masterlist

word count: 1508

music: i really wish i hated you by blink-182

Damon stood at her desk pressing his palms hard into the wood. She was so nervous she couldn’t stop scratching the surface of it. She felt like she was being torn apart.

“Prick”, Damon spat out, for the third time in thirty seconds. Stefan sucked the air in through his teeth.

“Something’s up”, he said, the voice of reason. Damon finally let go of her, looking away. Y/N felt like she was being tested. Of course, she was. Of course, the oldest Salvatore was suspicious. She was, too. It was not the time for guessing anymore. It was very clear Mal was not who he pretended to be.

“I told you he smelt like freakin’ trouble from a mile away”, Damon hissed, ignoring his brother. Elena opened her mouth and then closed it.

“What?” Y/N snapped, “that’s bullshit. Absolute lie, Damon. You were the one who said he was plain, you thought I was just obsessing over him because he was cute!”

“Hard truth is, all of us felt like there was something about him, but we were busy with other stuff”, Caroline contributed.

“We do have more serious issue on our hands”, Stefan tried to steer the conversation into the right direction again. Everybody looked at him. Ric sighed and dived deeper into his chair with wheels. It moaned miserably under his weight.

“What is it?” Bonnie asked. They were all gathered in a circle, as usual; each on a random place that they favored the most, like birds. Y/N sat at her desk, and Damon stood in front of it, like a sore in the eye; Stefan stood afar, guarding the door and listening to what’s going on outside. Elena was prepped against a bookcase, the very bookcase that was ruined because of Damon. Caroline sat in the armchair with her legs crossed, and Bonnie paced around the place, as if spreading some rationality and witchy powder.

“The FBI guys left couple of days ago with no explanation, but today we saw their car again”, Damon said, still bitter about something.

“Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“That people move around? What a horrifying picture”.

“I think they believe Damon’s been killing all those people”, Elena said and looked at the darkened Salvatores’ faces. “First, it’s the bodies in our yard. Then, they all attack him and Stefan at the bar. Now, the neighbors when Damon’s in the house next door”.

“You could as well tie them all down with Y/N”, Ric said, “the vampire refused to feed on her like she was… compelled”.

“Only an original can compel other vampires”.

“It can be a matter of siring”, someone noted.

Her face was burning. There was a broken puzzle in her head. The pieces just didn’t fit. Every time she felt like she was almost there, Matt came to her mind, and the chain was ruined. There was one vital thing she was missing, and she couldn’t reach it. Her head was messed up, and she knew who was to blame.

“What have you done, Damon?” she asked. It came out much harsher than she intended; Damon even leaned in a little, surprised.

“What? What’s that?!”

“What have you done to me in Georgia?”

Caroline saw Stefan shift a little with the corner of her eye, and she couldn’t ignore it, no matter how much she wanted to.

An uneasy shiver washed over all of them, at once. A weird thing happened: the company slowly looked at each other, observed each and every one, and fell silent.

“Do you feel weird about Georgia, too?” Elena asked, and looked at Stefan for help. She searched for support. Stefan was her safe haven. Stefan looked back and his face was bleak. They all knew then, at that moment, that something had happened.

The look of being lost has stuck in the room forever. It was there even many years later.

“Ever since Matt died”, Caroline said, rubbing her left knee, “I’ve been feeling like… like we gave up on his murderer. I mean, did we ever find out who did it?”

Damon was looking through them. He was wandering somewhere outside, Y/N could tell. His eyes went pale aquamarine, and she could swear he knew something. But then again, she had the same feeling about Mal.

At the thought of how he kissed her, she almost went paralytic. He was wrong, he was bad, he was dangerous. He definitely had something on his mind, and then, when they kissed, when she let him hold her, the world shrunk to the size of the little room. It was dense, and clear, like little cosmos. It was lukewarm, the thick air, and there was a mystery about it. She knew it was her place, but it felt so alien. It’s like he was from another dimension. Tearing violently from the layers of universal paper, jumping where he wasn’t supposed to be. He felt like… the end.

She tilted her head and felt her neck tense up. She rubbed it hard, listening to them discuss Matt’s death quietly. Fuck it, she’s thought about it hundreds of times, it leads nowhere. She voiced that.

“What do you mean?” Elena asked. Ric was watching her.

“There’s a gap, okay? Something happened between the time we found Matt’s body and the moment we left Georgia. I don’t know where you were on the eleventh of November”.

“What do you mean?” Stefan asked. Damon pierced her with his eyes like she was a prey.

“Fucking hell!”

His yell was like a cry of a dying bear. It was so abrupt that everybody jumped. Even the vampires. Salvatore was fuming. He was going out of his skin. As he left the office, bashing the door on the wall, startling the people in the corridor, he nearly bit through his own damn tongue. The parasite! The plague, he will never get rid of it. No matter what he does… he doesn’t even remember the bastard, but he still feels so tired. So exhausted like he’s been fighting him all his life...

Stefan followed him, catching up with his brother effortlessly, and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“It’s time to tell, Damon”, the younger Salvatore uttered bravely, knowing perfectly well that touching Damon when he’s that furious is way too dangerous. Damon didn’t shrug his arm off, surprisingly. Instead, he looked deep into his brother’s eyes. His jaw moved. They both looked out into the dark parking lot space, and the moon.

Stefan waited.

“Mal”, Damon said slowly, and it came out like poison was behind his cheek, “is short for Malachai”.

Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He wondered how he could be so dumb while so old. And man, did he feel old. Stefan blinked, his grey jaguar eyes flickering in the twilight of the street lights.

“I don’t know what that means, Damon”.

Damon let the air out through his nose.

“You’re one of the lucky ones. Let’s go, we gotta move. I’ll show you the letter”.

_________________________________________________

Back in her office, she was looking at her distraught friends feeling like she was betraying them. Because, while she knew she couldn’t be with him, she couldn’t stop thinking about Mal. She couldn’t stop herself back when Martha was alive, and when she died, and all this time while she suspected him, a part of her was determined to find out the truth, while craving him. He was the first person to understand her, actually, in a long time. She was thinking that maybe if she just… takes him away, away from Mystic Falls, whatever’s on his mind won’t be a threat to her friends at least. Mal didn’t go together with Mystic Falls, he was different. He was like a virus. They had to be separated. These people were in danger while he was around, and not even Bonnie knew that, because that was a gut feeling of completely different origin.

She looked at them, the faces she knew as well as her own, people she loved for almost all her life, and felt guilty for loving him so much it made her brain glitch. It made her want to elope. It made her think he’s got all the answers. She felt that, not knowing, that it wasn’t the first time.

She went home that night and dived straight to bed. She hasn’t seen Mal for several days and was too proud and too uncertain to call. She didn’t think it was because of the kiss – he seemed too eager about her at all times. It must have been more sinister. She almost called him from bed, laying on her side, but terminated the call at the last second. She decided to just message him instead, just to know he’s somewhere out there, existing. Whatever he’s doing, she wanted him to know she will not rest.

“Where are you?”

That’s pretty nice, she decided, a cry in the night. Not too specific, not too needy. She looked as the screen of her phone faded to black, and the room went dark, with only the pale white light from the street lamp highlighting the things in the world. The old oak, the window sill, the dark mount of the forest far away.

She got her answer pretty quickly when she heard his phone ding with notification.

#kai parker #kai parker imagine #kai parker x reader #vampire diaries #damon salvatore #tvd imagine #vampire diaries imagine #Legacies #whitmore guy

44 notes · View notes

ash-rabbit · 3 years

Text

Abitc: Chapter 9 cuts

Before I go into why what's below was cut, I'm going to preface this by saying that due to how I write:

This is not beta read, I send the chapter their way when it's done. And I haven't given this my own layer of gratuitous edits. I edit as I write, usually tweaking lines and moments to better flow to where I want to go, sometimes this includes gouging out 2.5 pages of writing.

Anyway here's why I cut 2.5 pages.

It simply took too long, chapter 9 is already 15 pages (7650 words). This would come in around pg 9, and I don't think I could have concluded it in any satisfying or timely way. I'm not going to have a 10,000 word chapter unless it's the ending of an Arc, ala ch 6&7 which was split into something more easily digestible. And my intentions went off the rails by Elias electing to make an especially stupid decision. It halts the progression of events, and doesn't tell us anything that's pertinent. It feels like filler, especially if I followed this thread to it's end.

And most important of all I don't like it.

He skulks into his dark office, slips his throw over his head and tosses his blazer to his right. No use putting this off, but a harmless Leitner was a rarity in itself. Though, there was a copy of ‘Goodnight Moon’ that was liable to be harmless. So long as it didn’t blow up the moon it should be fine.

He walks back out and ignores their raised eyebrows as he tugs the blanket tighter. “A copy of ‘Goodnight Moon’ will be our choice of reading, I’d recommend that three of us should hold an artefact that can counter a theorised side effect of the book.” He pauses, waiting for any sort of reply.

“The children’s book?” Sarah exclaims, followed shortly by a yelp as someone, likely Rosie jabs her. Michael’s much too polite for assault.

“I don’t- I can handle a proper demonstration.” He can hear Michael’s frown, but Elias doesn’t care for any larger risks then necessary.

“It was at the top of my list for Rosie’s training.” Elias scans the shelf for the slim volume, it sits beside Jon’s ‘Mr. Spider’ which is as poor an omen as any. “Leitner’s are something of a different animal, and if any of you would like to guess what wild effects the book can have, please go ahead.”

“What is the Moon’s destruction?” Sarah’s amusement sits thick in her voice, coating her words in a playful lilt.

“We don’t have an artefact for that.” Elias laughs. Saying goodnight was a form of goodbye, that would be loneliness? Or maybe he was overthinking it and it would simply turn off all the lights. It’s been awhile, and he can’t just run off to a bookstore to check. “I’ll mark you down for the removal of light sources.” A ‘Hand of Glory’ or other objects that dealt with sight, Beholding as Mikaele and Jon preferred to call it, seemed an easy counter. Though would any fire starter suffice? Hm, best to pull one of those down as well in case they needed to dispose of the book. Reality warping was a possibility, the pseudo erasure of things could be untwisted? If anything it would act as an interesting third control, though perhaps, the reader would be a separate subject, and they’d need a pure control for the best observable results.

He grabs the book and doubles back to the table, scratching out his theories on a scrap of paper.

“Fine- um- it’s a children's book, and those are uh fantasies.” Michael starts, and while he’s on the right track, ‘Goodnight Moon’ is hardly a fantasy. “So I guess that if it does do something it would be drawing the fantasy out here?”

“Reality warping.” Elias nods, seems there’s a general consensus on this at least.

“There’s no guarantee that it’ll be anything like the original, we’ve had cases where whole sections were rewritten in a gruesome parody.” Rosie says, and that’s a fair point as well. “For all we know it could be a- I don’t know a way of disappearing someone.”

“I’ll mark that down as carnivorous literature.” Elias sighs, before holding the page out towards Rosie. “Do you think there are other types of artefacts that could counteract any of our theories?”

“What if the reader is stuck? Do we have a magical bucket of water, or do we just slap them in hopes of breaking the effect?” Rosie asks, though she knows the standard protocol, passing the paper to Sarah. Right of course, the Archives crew wouldn’t know.

“We remove the book while wearing gloves, or set it on fire.” Arson tended to solve most problems, not all of them unfortunately, but enough to be an easy fallback.

“And in the worst case scenario?” Rosie presses, slipping between the shelves, her movements are purposeful, her two weeks alone must have been productive.

“I suppose we can give Gertrude a warning, just a ‘If you don’t hear anything from us in, say twenty minutes, assume the worst.’” He shrugs, before frowning, right then. “Not it.” He’s had enough of management for one day, and if he’s lucky a large enough mess can be a tidy excuse to escape Wright later.

“Not it!” Michael and Sarah chime.

“I- how old are you people?” Rosie huffs, stepping back into the open research area, arms full of misc objects that Elias only vaguely remembers. Hng, he’ll probably just use the monocle in his office, it was dependable and the side effects weren’t any different then his normal brand of paranoia. Assumedly of course, it’s been a while since he was without a buffer, supernatural or otherwise.

Rosie grumbles as she kicks off her heels, pulling out another set of shoes, black and lowheeled with little bows on the toes. Another set of shoes? Where on Earth? Why?

“I’ll be back, don’t start without me.” And she flits off towards the Archives.

“Right then, we can parse out who does what.” He drags the blanket further over his head as they turn towards him. “I need to fetch something from the office but I’m sure you can decide between the two of you who’s better suited to reading or acting as an observer.”

He traces his eyes over the small office, now where did he put- Ah, there it is, wedged under his desk. He pulls out the damaged monocle and watches as it swings like a pendulum, the cracks catching the light with a peculiar shine.

He hasn’t tested the object since, hasn’t had the occasion or much cared to. Would the effects be amplified or would it be rendered completely null from damage and what he can only assume was something amounting to overuse? Only one way to find out. He wedges it into place, slipping his blazer back on so he can safely notch the chain through the lapel hole. Elias keeps the blanket on as he shuffles back out.

Michael and Sarah seem to have come to a conclusion and it would seem the power of the lens was only magnified by the incident. He sways under the sight of it all, there’s a sort of afterimage of thousands of eyes winking in and out of existence across the room. Bile rises in the acrid tangs of burnt coffee and curdled cream, this was unexpected.

He needs to sit down. Now.

So he does. Practically collapsing on the spot as he gathers himself beneath the throw, dragging it over his eyes. The world goes dark and he breathes, short and quick, a cold sharp breath that mingles with the burbling nausea.

He wraps his fingers around the chain, and tugs. Once, short and light, it doesn’t budge. Twice, more forcefully, a stern yank, nothing. His breath quickens. He grabs the frame of it and tries to pry it away with trembling hands.

It doesn’t budge.

Fuck.

Right then.

“Good news everyone,” he says, swallowing his tremors the best he can, hardly a waver apparent as he digs his nails into his thighs. “We don’t need to test the Leitner.”

“Are you, er alright?” Sarah asks.

“The bad news is, we have a different artefact issue.” he tugs the blanket down and regrets it immediately as a thousand eyes bore into him and find him wanting.

Don’t get sick, don’t get sick, don’t look them in the eye and- he fumbles for a cigarette.

The nicotine does nothing and he finds the sick rising faster.

#abitc #my writing #ehh ://

3 notes · View notes