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jamesdeniscouldnever · 1 year

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Alright, so hurt/comfort won the fic vote, so here we go! Written on mobile since my laptop is broke, so forgive formatting errors. Yall, this is so long. I got carried away. This is part one of a two parter, the other will take place in act 3.

Them. pt 1.

Summary: When Rolan fails to stave off the shadow curse after leaving to find his siblings in the shadowlands, he ends up more than a little bruised and lost. So, of course, it had to be them who showed up to save him again. It just had to be Tav.

Rolan wasn't quite sure where he was. Where anything was, now that he was thinking about it. The shadows and darkness that obscured the land around him made it hard to see if he was anywhere near moonrise towers or if he was truly hopelessly lost. He could feel frustrated tears pricking the corners of his eyes, but he quickly blinked them away and squared his shoulders, reminding himself of the whole reason he had come out here - Lia and Cal. He *Would* find them if it was the last thing he did.

He set off down the path once more with renewed determination. He would move the Heavens and Hells to find them. He would cast himself into Avernus once more if it meant they would be safe. If they could be saved...if they weren't already dead. What if they were already dead?

The thought has him stopping in his tracks and clenching his first. Damn this. Damn Thorm for taking them. Damn Zevlor for freezing on the group. Damn himself for going after the children first. And damn that stupid cretin Tav for playing hero at the grove and then leaving them to the darkness. If they had stayed with the group of teiflings, would they be in so much trouble now? Would it have changed anything? Would Lia and Cal be safe?

Rolan aggressively wipes away a tear that's escaped and is rolling down his cheek. He takes deep breaths to try and hold back a sob and looks around once more. He's stopped under a lantern, like the few that seem scattered around the area. Probably left by those long gone. Selúne's blessing keeps him safe from falling to the curse, but he's still grateful for the light. It gives him a moment of comfort. One that is quickly cut short by the sound of inhuman shrieks and groans. Rolan quickly whips around, a cold shard of fear running through his spine. Shadows.

4 of them, to be exact. And they're quickly inching their way closer to him, not willing to step into the light but also unwilling to let him escape. He immediately conjures the first cantrip he can think of - a ball of fire - and without thinking, launches it at the nearest shadow. It shrieks and evaporates into itself, leaving three still staring at him with their featureless faces. He grounds his feet and readies himself to take them on or die trying, anything but being dragged off into the shadows.

His focus is broken when the shadows move in, enraged by the fall of their compatriot, no longer afraid of the mere light of a lantern. Before he can even move necrotic claws are ripping into his flesh, horrifying shrieks and screams fill his ears. He's desperately trying to focus, to conjure something, anything, to free himself long enough to have a chance at a fair fight. But as the shadows advance and drain him of any hope he had left, he begins to give in. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he'd be with Lia and Cal again. Maybe he could stop constantly running for his life...

Just as he's about to finally stop fighting and let go, a blast from somewhere up the hill sends the three shadows flying back. Not yet defeated, but away from him. Rolan lifts his head. When had he bowed it? When had he fallen to his knees?

The first sight he's met with is *them*. Tav, in all their glory, advancing with both weapon and magic, a look of furious determination on their face. They make such quick work of the shadows that had almost taken him that he's almost embarrassed to have fallen to them. As the last shadow falls they whip around, immediately making for him.

"Rolan! Thank the gods, you're alive! Are you hurt? What in the nine hells are you doing out here alone? I heard you yelling, thank Selúne I found you in time."

He had been yelling? Their hands are flitting over him, not quite touching him. Their face holds concern, their brow pinched with worry. Why were they here? Why the hells did they follow him? Why couldn't he do anything for himself anymore?

"Damn it! Damn you. All I came here to do was to look for my family, and I can't even do that! Not without needing you to swoop in to save me," his voice catches and his shoulders hunch, his will finally leaving him, "and if I had that much trouble just walking through the woods...they're dead aren't they? Lia and Cal are dead."

Bitter tears leave his eyes before he can stop them. They had come all this way, survived so long! And for what? Just to be taken by shadows and monsters. To be taken by what resembles a child's nightmare. He's about to scream every foul word he knows when two hands cup his face. Tav now kneels in front of him, having joined him on the ground. They stare into his eyes with stallworth determination and care.

"Rolan, Lia and Cal are back at the Last Light Inn. When you told me where they'd been taken I set out immediately. Lied my way into the dungeon and snuck them out of a hole in the back of their cell, the others who were taken too. And some other friends of mine. We got back, and you were gone. Umi said you'd set off into the dark alone, and I immediately came looking for you. Gods, how awful would that have been? To get them out only to lose you?"

This whole time, they've been holding his face, trying to get through to him. He was vaugley aware of their thumb stroking his cheek. He wondered if they knew they were doing it. He felt a sort of numbness spread over him. Lia and Cal were safe. They were at the inn waiting for him. His family was alive. He doesn't speak, merely tries to struggle to his feet so he can run back there as fast as possible and strangle those two idiots for worrying him and then cry on their shoulders later that night in the privacy of their room. However, as soon as he puts weight on his feet, he finds himself falling back to his knees, Tav scrambling after him.

"Rolan, stop, stop! You're hurt. There's blood everywhere. Gods, have you even noticed? Those claws shredded you like an owlbears lunch!" They're fussing over him and trying to pull him back, now searching through their pouch for something.

Now that they've mentioned it and the adrenaline is wearing off, he's keenly aware of pain blooming over almost every part of his body. The blood soaking his robes, too. Fear strikes through him once more. Would he get back to Lia and Cal after all? Just as he's about to let doubt creep in, tav places one hand on his shoulder and holds a bottle to his lips.

"Drink. It's a healing potion. It's not enough to heal all your wounds, mind you, but enough to get you back to Last Light."

Rolan drinks without another word, the bitter taste sliding down his throat. The pain lessens. Small wounds mend themselves. He let's out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Thank you." Is all he can utter. Tav helps him to his feet and braces one of his arms over their shoulders. Slowly, they begin their trek back to he inn. Back to safety. Something feels odd as they walk. And it suddenly hits him what it is.

"Where are your friends? I've never seen you travel alone. are they okay?" He questions, wondering if their found family had fallen the way his nearly had.

Tav's face flushes just a little, along with the tips of their ears. Rolan worries for a moment that he's upset them, that their friends really are gone, before they pipe up in a voice that is laced with embarrassment.

"They're fine... they're at Last Light still, I imagine. I, uh...I wasn't kidding when I said I ran to find you after Umi told me you were gone. I don't think any of them were able to keep up with me." Tav's smiles a little sheepishly at him as they walk, and he feels his own eyes soften at them. They really were such a hero, weren't they?

They approach Last Light so much more quickly than he'd thought they would. He hadn't been very far at all...damned shadows must have had him walking in circles. Despite his embarrassment, he feels himself trying to pick up the pace as the lights come into view. He wants to see Lia and Cal for himself. He wants his siblings.

Tav complies, and they quickly approach, nodding at the guards who recognize them and moving straight to the main building. Sitting at the back of the room at the bar, he spots his brother and sister, looking just as worried as he had mere hours ago. Lia sees him first.

"Rolan! There you are! What in the hells were you thinking?! What happened to you?" She's a mix of angry and relieved, he can tell, and he wraps her in a hug before she can scold him and more. After a moment, he releases her and moves to grip his brother in the same manner. A bolt of nervous anger overcomes him he wasn't truly mad, but when someone scares you in such a way what else can you be?

"You're okay. What is wrong with you two?! I was worried sick, I thought you were dead!" He begins to bark in return. He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks to see Yav giving him a look.

"I was expecting a bit of a warmer reunion." They say with an eyebrow raised. He growls at them.

"I thought my family was DEAD. But... You're right. This isn't the time. I... thank you. For everything." He sighs before turning to his siblings once more, "Are you okay? Do you need anything to eat or drink?"

Cal smiles at him and grips his shoulder.

"We're alright, we promise. We're just glad to see you." And Rolan can't help but sigh, his bluster gone.

"I know. I know. I was just so worried about you."

"And we're still worried about you. Look at you! Covered in blood and bruises! You need to get that taken care of. Is there a healer in this camp?" Lia cuts in, angry little sister that she is. Tav smiles, that same kind smile they always have.

"There's not, but I know a bit about medicine. I could take care of it." They say calmly, as if afraid to trigger more yelling. Lia only smiles in relief.

"Could you? We'd be so grateful."

"Now hang on a moment, I never-" Rolan begins before a wuthering look from Lia shuts him up. He sighs and simply nods along, knowing she won't be pleased until he's well. Tav chuckles quiet before putting a a hand on his back and guiding him to one of the few bedrooms in the inn.

"Little privacy, yeah? I'm probably going to have to get your shirt off to bandage you up." Tav says with quiet encouragement. Rolan nods and finds himself sitting on the bed, pulling his robes over his head. Tav pauses when they see him, and for a moment, he swears he sees tears in their eyes. He looks down at himself and finds deep bruises and gashes covering his abdomen. He truly looked like he had been cast back into Avernus.

"What? Don't I look as handsome as ever?" He jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Tav blinks a few times, fighting the watery feeling in their eyes and smiling sadly.

"Of course. You always look handsome." They say it with such earnest that Rolan feels himself blushing with heat. Thank the gods for red skin. He goes silent and allows them to look him over, applying salves and bandaging cuts where they need to. They work with such gentle hands and a feather-light touch that he wonders at them. These same hands cut and slice enemies down without hesitation. He's rarely seen These hands not covered in blood. And yet, in this moment, he could mistake them for the touch of a healer or a nurse maid. He sighs despite himself when Tav's hands caress over a particularly sore spot on his shoulder blade.

Tav gives a gentle smile and laughs quietly, their fingers smoothing over the ridges in his skin without judgment. They finish and pack up their healing items and give him a gentle smile.

"You should rest now, okay? I'll get your brother and sister and send them up. Let them keep an eye on you." All while saying this, Tav is gently pushing him to lay down and drawing the blankets over him. He nods without complaint.

Tav smiles again and leaves the room. Moments later, Lia and Cal appear, fussing over him and continuing their scolding. They stop, however, when Rolan begins to cry in relief. His family is alive. He is safe. And it's all thanks to that stupid hero. His hero. Tav.

They hush and talk and jabber on as the night goes on, until eventually he falls into a peaceful half-sleep. He can hear the voices of his siblings but not discern what they're saying. His relaxes in the moment and welcomes the oncoming sleep. He thinks he hears a door opening and a third familiar voice joining the others. Who is that?

He is too far gone to wake and check for himself, but when he feels the unmistakable sensation of a cool hand gently pressing against his forehead as if checking for fever, he knows. Its them. He finally let's go and allows himself to give into a full sleep, but swears the last thing he feels before all fades to black is a mouth gently kissing his forehead. Them.

@illidariiii @potato-dragons @miwn8 @tieflingteatime

#bg3 #baulders gate 3 #bg3 rolan #bg3 tav #rolan x tav #rolan #tav

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archerinspace · 1 month

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Ice Queen & Lord Monochromicorn

Based on these cards, I wanted to give my thoughts on them since there was not much Fionna and Cake lore around the time the book was published (2016) and I'm forever searching for more. They'll be under the cut since this will get long but some of these things never cease to amuse me.

Note: All cards will be written out in text as well so if you have a hard time reading them, you can read them in plain text.

Fionna and Cake Marshall Lee and Prince Gumball Ice Queen and Lord Monochromicorn

THE ICE QUEEN Yes! We've come to the best part, baby! Winter's wrath incarnate! Absolute zero on wheels! Goddess of howling winds and lip-chapping, flesh-searing cold! White-haired and dazzling in her icy blue finery, she breaks hearts and crushes souls wherever she blows! What a dame! Far more intelligent and powerful than any other being in the fan-fictional Land of Ooh, the lonely Ice Queen longs for a companion worthy of her magnificence. Tragically, the closest thing she can find is that buffoon Prince Gumball, while the only being who could ever truly sweep the Ice Queen off her frostbitten feet is, well, me, Ice King! But that's not gonna happen, because I exist in the real reality, whatever that is! Oh, my Ice Queen, my fan- fiction figment of fabulosity, one day I shall freeze and shatter all time and space, pulverizing the very confines of existence into harmless snow- flakes, which'll float dreamily around us as we gaze into each other's beady black eyes, together forever at last!

I was NOT joking, he actively would just kiss/marry his self insert which is funny given the circumstances of "The Winter King" from 23 Fionna and Cake. Maybe Cake was onto something about all that.

Yet he continues to bully Gumball. He isn't entirely wrong though....

This panel is from the 2014 AT annual titled "Baby Cakes"

LORD MONOCHROMICORN This classy, sky-high playa plays loyal steed and best friend to Prince Gumball but is actually way cooler than the Prince because he can do stuff like hide inside a cloud, snap his tail like a whip, roll himself into a giant spiral, and speak Morse! I mean, he speaks in Morse code only! How cool is that ?? Like Prince Gumball, Monochromicorn shows exceptionally poor taste in females since he ended up with Cake, the skuzzy chubby kitty who has a bad attitude and can't even fly. I mean, what's that about? Lord Monochromicorn is jet black and cold gray and trails awesome thunderbolts through the sky wherever he goes, How great is that? This serpentine dude will make a fearsome addition to the Ice Queen's court, color-complementing some of her cool outfits and striking terror in the hearts of his former Candy Kingdom compatriots who used to ask him for his autograph constantly because he lied to Cake about playing in a ska band with me a long time ago and she told everyone.

I have no idea what hes on about anymore but as someone who thought Stormy's horse from Rainbow Brite was the coolest horse to have I can only agree with him that Mono is the coolest.

This does make me think his ideal fanfiction situation is Ice Queen is terrorizing Ooh with Mono while Gumball stands there and looks pretty, and maybe also Cake is there just thinking IQ is pretty and he's off playing board games with Fionna or something.

Admittedly I always found it funny Gumball is best friends and has the steed of a thunder war horse while looking like he has a skin care routine and all his braincells are focused on being whimsical and sometimes calmly concerning.

Why is he just making beef with these characters though I think he's truly lost it at this point.

#adventure time #fionna and cake #ice queen #lord monochromicorn

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kobblefort · 1 year

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Rushsly: Almost The Bottom

SPOILERS FOR ENDGAME CONTENT UNDER THE CUT.

Two miners into the depths: Zhasrca Foldcounselled and Nucra Framegarnishes.

Doors shut firmly behind them. I can't think of a worse omen than Nucra fondly remembering a conversation with his wife.

Up on the surface, a single thief is spotted approaching the fortress. Why now?

Cire Osokcat is caught by them as he heads out to dump some trash, but they breeze right past him... and he decides right then "I'm going to go fishing." Right after the drawbridge lever was pulled. I draft him into the military just so that I can specifically force him to move off the bridge in the vain hopes that he isn't caught in the mechanisms and lost.

He ignores the order, but fortunately runs off the bridge to chase one of the ratfolk down. Like an idiot trying to beat a train through a crossing so he can get to Joe's Crab Shack but ironically being saved by having some kind of road rage incident. Did you have to do this now, Cire!?!?!? The bridge is up, the ratfolk who made it in are targeted, and the one outside the base will hopefully walk right into our traps any second now.

The miners are literally still at work down at -116, cracking through gold vein after gold vein. The earth truly does run rich down here. Maybe this will all turn out completely fine. Maybe Rushsly will be the most grossly wealthy fort of all kobblekind.

Due to the fact that no scouts ever survived to come back and tell the ratfolk "hey don't go into the big-ass animal den," one of the thieves walks straight into the animal den.

It takes Ace Steel just a single swing to split one of the ratfolk's heads open.

His compatriot can only give a few seconds more of chase before being literally chopped in half by the swordmaster Shycla Zhizorsa.

The one who ran into the den is torn apart by the dogs before finally being finished off by a giant rattlesnake. The drawbridge is lowered once more so that the military might set upon the final thief.

Though he tries to run home, possibly to give the advice of "we really need to stop fucking with Rushsly," Ace Steel is faster, angrier, deadlier. Chopping off his arm, smashing his nose, knocking out his teeth, before one stab in the leg from Sheslas Spurnspread's dagger leads him to just plain run out of blood. And just like that, it's time to clean up. A waste of time, but an amusing one. The poor bastards, our constant enemies, fated to never even know what's below the surface of our fort. They have no idea of what we're on the precipice of, they wouldn't understand if they did. In another world, I feel bad for them, have sympathy for their plight, maybe even like them; in this one, I just want them out of our way. Adamantite will be ours.

But god damnit, the bastards are so fucking persistent!! Taking no heed of their scouts' inevitable demise, after however many fucking raids they've already sent and failed, they spring another ambush upon us.

Susle, a potash maker (which is a job that actually matters in my fort for the first time since I started playing the game) is shot twice, once in the rib and once in the knee, but almost manages to evade his pursuer...

until he decides not to run straight in through the trapped entrance, and instead try to flee out into the woods.

By the time the kobbles start actually taking heed of the civilian alert, more of them are wounded. Ilzi Dwelltube, a clothier who must have been one of our newest arrivals, similarly just tried to run around between the trees instead of getting to safety just a few tiles away, and takes eight fucking bolts for his trouble before making it past where the ratfolk can pursue him.

Susle tries to crawl to safety, fighting so hard, harder than any kobble ever should, but...

It's no use. Susle does not live to see adamantite, and the ratfolk who took it from him just saunter around outside all self-satisfied over finally getting a single win over the kobbles. One of them wanders off, three more just kind of loiter.

We get our first beast from the third cavern layer, but it's not like it can get in, nobody even goes near the fortifications that peer into the third cavern, who gives a shit. Well, the least we can do is put down the three fucking rat bastards that remain before they can dare to get home to their shit-encrusted little hole in the ground and brag, and so our own militia are sent out through the long trap tunnel to put them down.

Arm cut open, head cut off.

The crossbow bolts that are not outright parried are still effortlessly blocked, bouncing hopelessly off the kobbles' heavy steel armor. Another head lopped off. Go for a hat trick?

Three heads. Yeah motherfucker. Hat trick. We'll do one big patrol of the entire map before sounding the all-clear and letting Susle be buried.

After a quick sweep, there's no more rats in sight. The corpses will just be left out there in hopes of being understood as a warning: see how far their heads landed from their bodies? That could be you. But it hurts to see Susle go, and on the subject of hurting...

Six scars now mark the poor clothier. He's fixed up well enough, but it's doubtless he'll be able to walk without a crutch again.

Cire, the doctor who is still erroneously listed as "guard captain," fares a bit better, though there's never anything good about a skull fracture, just things that could be worse about a skull fracture. He prays to Tulrac Dungsgalls, the god of death, disease, and deformity. Hey I like some triple D's myself you know what I mean heh heh ohhh yeaaah sorry. Just trying to add some levity to the situation I guess. One has to wonder if it is Tulrac's influence that will win over this fortress, or Dasël's - the god of rain and rainbows. I fear we are headed for death, though it would be nice if we didn't.

Before you ask, I didn't leave the miners trapped in the shaft this whole time - right as the ambush kicked off, I let them out to hang back and sit on standby with some drinks and snacks. They say you should basically never fight a war on two fronts - I don't know who says that, maybe nobody actually says that because it's obvious, and it's actually just the sort of wisdom you get clued in on by absorbing all sorts of other wisdom and hearing all sorts of other things, I don't know. Because sometimes someone will be like "They say blah blah blah" but then nobody actually says blah blah blah, it's not like a quote from someone, it's literally just them putting "common sense" into words. And on that note I've always thought "common sense" was bullshit. "Common sense" just means you made an assumption that ended up being proven right, and people who talk a lot about how "nobody has anyone common sense" tend to actually just be making a bunch of assumptions and putting themselves into a feedback loop of thinking well my assumptions were right before so they're obviously going to be right this time too. And I mean it's not actually hard to see how people get like that anymore, because nowadays media and journalism and all that shit is more about validation than verification. And that goes for everyone on every part of the political spectrum, I probably get my brain blasted just as bad being a Mao-appreciating-but-otherwise-agnostic anarcho-communist as like, your average small-business-tyrant Fox News conservative does. There's hardly ever any real investigations, that shit doesn't make money and nobody wants to fucking hear it when you tell them that thing they thought was wrong, they just don't, nobody in the entire world likes that besides the very small percentage of people so deeply committed to science or competition or whatever else that they can literally just shove their ego out of the way, that's only like 3% of people and they're busy winning fucking Super Smash Bros. Melee tournaments or fucking around with electron microscopes. Another good way to blast your fucking ego out of here is with psychedelic drugs like acid or mushrooms but as a big fan of both I gotta say doing acid makes it very hard to write. Anyway

Finally lifting Susle's lifeless body from the shade of a great citron tree, Ty Lovelyseduce finally carries him to his final resting place in a green glass coffin, just like the other kobbles we've lost. He will never see what comes next to Rushsly, whether riches or ruin, put suddenly to his final sleep just days before the world would change. But her thoughts as she lays him down are not of dread, fear, or pain. They're of optimism.

Adamantite is the perfect material: it can make near anything, from armor to clothes, from weapons to coins, light enough to dance in yet strong enough to protect - if the rumors are true, at least. And the promised days must be close, now, they have to be. Golden days of wealth and fame, where kobbles can live without fear of bolt or blade.

The earth must surely relent soon.

#dwarf fortress #kobblefort #df spoilers

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subtletruamadumping · 10 months

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Bright

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I entered an online writing battle for fun. With only 4 days to write a 2000-word story with a randomized genre, key element, and specific plot point, this is what I came up with. It's not necessarily my favorite thing I have written. I feel like there is a lot missing, but I was pretty nervous about going over the word limit. I have a few days left to work on it and about 400 words to work with, but I'm on vacation right now and my brain is dead lol.

Written November 3rd, 2023

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Elliot’s hair stood on end as the lights above began to buzz with uneven surges of electricity. That was a good sign. The fact that Harper still hadn't shown up was a bad sign. She would be here. Elliot knew she would. She did her best to squash that twinge in the bottom of her stomach that brought back all her past failed attempts. All the times she had put her trust in the wrong person.

Harper was different.

Elliot knew it.

She took a breath and rubbed her eyes to calm herself. The cool breeze, the only breath of air in the entire enclosed city, gently rustled her clothes. This space between, the official barrier between the upper and lower levels, was the highest up into the city Elliot had ever been. It was also the lowest Harper had ever been. It was where they had always met. This was the highest point Elliot had ever been in the city while it was the lowest point for Harper. This uncanny edge of both of their worlds bore all the stories they swapped, the problems and troubles they slowly revealed to the other, and the plans for how to show the city for what it truly was.

If everything worked out as they had intended, the two of them could pull off a feat that could have far-reaching effects on the entire city. It was a risky plan, but one that they felt confident could send a strong message. They wanted to turn off the lights of the city. Not all of them. An electrical error could be the cause of that. They had planned out specific rooms and levels that would remain lit, showing off the lower levels where people were living in poverty and squalor. The upper floors would be forced to pay attention and acknowledge what life was like for many of their compatriots.

Well, that was the plan.

The light flickered again, even going out for a brief second before coming back on. That must be why Harper was late. She needed to take care of her end of things on the upper levels and seemed to still be working on it. She should be here any minute. Harper wouldn't let her down. She never had, before.

As Elliot waited, her eyes shifted from one end of the empty space to the other. She was uneasy, unsure if they were being watched or followed. Even the thought of getting spotted by the security on the upper levels had marching around made her squirm. It was a good plan to tamper with the lower-level lights, first. After 9 every night, they were forced into a blackout, and no one would notice if certain wires had been cut or crossed. Not until the big reveal.

Elliot started as the door leading towards the upper levels gave a soft beep and was cracked open. Harper peeked out and took a quick look around before smiling when she saw Elliot. There was a smear of blood coming from her nose and a cut on her lip instead of her usually pristine face. Elliot blinked and hurried over in concern.

"What happened?" She threw her arms around Harper's neck after she came completely out into the hallway. "Are you okay? What did your parents--"

"I'm alright. Careful, the door." Harper reeled from the awkward weight and Elliot looked down to see her foot propping the door open. "We have to hurry. Dad found me messing around with the lights upstairs."

"Was your dad the one--"

"Hurry, we have to finish it. He's probably headed to the Governor's quarters right now with a million security guards." Harper wriggled her way out of Elliot's grasp and kicked the door open wider "Let's go."

"Will your mom--"

"It doesn't matter."

"But, your brothers--"

"That's over, Elliot." Harper put a hand on her shoulder and furrowed her brow in seriousness. "I can't go back to them, no matter how this turns out. Even if I hadn't been caught by Dad, there was no hope for me going back to that. This is my life now. Helping people who need it instead of turning a blind eye and pretending everything is okay. Maybe one day, they will understand that. Maybe this will help them understand. I chose to leave them behind to make a difference. Which we need to do. Now."

The long, white, sterile hallway that spread out in front of her made Elliot pause. The smell that bled from the more wealthy area washed over her, making her feel incredibly out of place. It was like nothing she had ever smelled down in the lower levels. The time she had first smelled it on Harper had been a surreal experience. Elliot clung to that little bit of familiarity to brace herself. Harper wasn't like the people she had met from the upper levels, which gave Elliot hope that their plan would do something.

It wouldn't fix everything, but it was a step in the right direction.

She walked past Harper holding the door open for her, taking her first-ever step into the upper levels. She didn't get to savor it at all. As soon as she was inside, Harper closed the door, grabbed her by the hand, and started hurrying down the hall.

The twinge in Elliot's stomach was building to full somersaults. The lights overhead were flickering more aggressively, occasionally plunging the girls into complete darkness for a few seconds at a time, their footsteps echoing eerily around them. When Harper finally came to a stop in front of a large, metallic door Elliot's heart leaped into her throat. She was staring at an electrical closet, the one that would mark their success or failure in this endeavor. She was surprised that it looked the same as the ones in the lower levels. Harper gave Elliot a nod and motioned for her to open it with her ID card. As the door clicked open, they both drew a deep breath.

This was it.

Elliot felt her blood roaring in her ears as they both stepped inside, closing themselves inside. Harper was the first to jump into action, but Elliot soon came out of her trance to help. The idea of Harper's dad having discovered they were up to something had replaced her usual apprehensiveness with a flurry of action. She would be in a world of trouble for these things, just like Harper was. They knew it was dangerous. They had known there was a good chance their lives would never be the same.

That could go both ways, though.

Things could change forever for the good. That was the point. Elliott could feel her pulse pounding as she worked, knowing this could be her last chance at justice for herself and everyone like her who had grown up on the lower levels with no chance at making their lives better. She and Harper occasionally bumped elbows in the tight space, but it didn't last too long. They had both done the brunt of the work separately. They were working in such a flurry of motion; that they were done before they realized.

"That's it?" Harper asked, still looking around and moving wires to make sure nothing was forgotten.

"I think that's it." Elliot said breathlessly, "I mean, we won't know until we see it, but--"

"Then, let's see it." Again, Harper took her by the hand. Now dragging her out of the electrical closet, it was clear where they were headed next. The ultimate darkness was only cut back by a beam of light cutting in from a window at the end of the hall that Elliot hadn't seen before. They ran towards the light, almost throwing themselves against the window as soon as they came to it.

Harper gasped out loud.

It was horrible.

It was beautiful.

The pitch black gave off a mournful and cold feeling. It felt like smoke closing in around everything, only beat back by the flood of light emanating from strategically picked windows. The big, wide widows of the worst of the workshops. The ones that had to be opened up when the machines started smoking so much that the workers couldn't breathe. Instead of an inviting scene to fight against the darkness, it simply punctuated the feeling of horror.

The dirty, dingy rooms clearly showing the squalor of the lower levels spent their days in were on full display. The rats and bugs that weren't afraid of anything scampered around. Elliot's own sleeping quarters were illuminated, her family willingly giving up their dignity to show the disgusting condition that was usual for the lower levels. Elliot was looking down at what they had done. Her poor mom looked up towards the upper part of the city.

She felt Harper squeeze her hand and looked over at her. She was still looking down, but her eyes almost seemed glazed over, unable to believe what she was seeing. Elliot had described it to her, but this was the first time she was seeing it with her own eyes. It was the first time most people in the upper levels would see it. A direct attack on the propaganda they had been fed their whole life.

Elliot had always thought they would never change. That nothing in the city could ever change. That it would be an endless cycle of suffering and shouting into the void, with no one to hear them. Harper had listened. Not only that, Harper had done something. Her family disagreed with her views and inflicted their own suffering on her because of them. It gave Elliot hope, however, seeing that there was a chance to get through to people who wanted and could do something to help. With Harper and people like Harper, by their side, the future could truly be…

Bright.

#my writing #writers on tumblr #writing #random bits #writing battle

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pdxbeerandmystery · 1 year

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A 15 year old, two 13 year olds, and an 11 year old have a mini party to help put up Halloween decorations. Including Big Ike here. Is it the beginning line of a joke? Are they siblings? Nope and nope. This is actually a plug for blended age schools. Many times, you find small schools like this in rural areas. Small populations and limited staff call for creative solutions. In some cases, like my youngest child's school, the grades are kept separate in most classes, but share recess and lunches as well as some blended electives. This is a fairly recent occurance. When our beleaguered county realized they didn't have the funds to repair our 3 elementaries, 2 middle schools and one high school, they came up with a crazy plan to combine their budgets and build one brand new school. In middle and high school grades, a specialized teacher -like science -might teach their subject to all the grades but in separate periods. In some schools -like the one I grew up in -the classes might truly be blended. In my school, kids were grouped across ages that might be three different grades in other schools by ability. This might be implemented due to small class sizes and limited staff (another school in our region does this: last year their "5th grade" has 6 students so they combined with "6th grade"). It also has some other advantages. My friends in school who might be a little behind in some subjects would still be in the same class with friends who advanced a grade on paper. Not only did they not feel as shamed for being "held back," but I think being side by side with their friends made it easier to catch up. I remember times when the math a friend was doing caught my interst and they showed me how to do it (proving in my head, and maybe to my teachers that I wasn't "bad" at math), then helped me figure out how to do whatever math process I was stuck on. Academically there's a lot of advantages to blended age schooling.

Oh but let's talk about socialization. I'm not sure why opponents glom onto this, because its actually an advantage of blended age schools. For starters, it more accurately reflects on, well, reality. Is your workplace rigidly seperated by age? Of course not. When you go out into the world, do you only interact with people your own age? Of course not. Imagine asking a grocery clerk, a new neighbor, a potential new friend their age first before you decide if you can interact with them. That's ridiculous.

Additionally, though, blended age schools help us connect with supportive people that we have common interest or needs with. What does that mean?

My school was on land that belonged to a tribe that the U.S. government had dissolved (they've since regained their tribal sovereignty. Yay!). Immediately afterwards, the school had been absorbed into the the local district and students were determined geographically. Although, I was from a different tribe, I got to attend a school that broke the usual demographics, with a population that was about 30% native. I grew up with my race supported and celebrated (with a few staff exceptions that the parents rallied around and got kicked out). Im still friends with some of my gradeschool compatriots, and shock and awe: some of them are white. These guys would be your stereotypical MAGA rednecks, I think, except they grew up in the same environment. Not only do they have racial sensitivity and respect, but when that subculture started to sweep the United States, and a few of them started to get swept up with it, they were able to have an intelligent conversation about it with myself and other more liberal friends, absorb information with a discerning eye, and make an informed decision to get the hell off that psychotic bandwagon. Why is a blended age school important here? Because even though 30% is a huge chunk, its not the majority, and if you cut it up into lesser chunks by grade, it loses power. Additionally, the younger kids grew up seeing first hand the older grade lead by example in regards to cultural respect and practice.

Those kids I mentioned above? They jokingly refer to themselves as "the baby gays," and have pledged to make us "the gayest county in the state." Imagine how they would have fared if they were isolated from the others, with no other queer kids in their age restricted "grade." Before they found each other, they'd been bullied, one had gone through a criminal court proceeding as the victim of a hate crime, and some had suffered anxiety and depression. Its still not all sunshine and roses but they found each other in blended electives and lunch periods. They're demanding a GSA now. I think they'll get it.

Gratuitous doggie pic.

#halloween #but really it's a TED talk #nontraditional schools #blended #indigenous #indian #racism #lgbtqia #homophobia #gsa #baby gay #skeleton #adhd shark post

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dearestaeneas · 2 years

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Calliope

No one knows when the book opened. All that is known, all that will ever be known, is that it did.

We traversed its pages, explored its pop-ups, fought against its paper-thin monsters, kissed its two-dimensional Princesses. We acted. We were real, we were fake, we were neither, we were both.

I remember when she broke off. She wasn’t supposed to. I suppose I wasn’t supposed to follow her, either. Not that I did physically, mind you. But I know my mind was not meant to wander. I was not supposed to hope.

This is what I heard:

The Huntress did not have a name. The party she traveled with did not mind, for they were similarly lacking. In her heart, the Huntress named herself Calliope, and held to the 8 letters as if they were the ink in her veins that kept her alive.

Calliope dutifully fulfilled her role, even smiled at night as the party’s Bard sang around the painted fire, but always, when the fire became nothing more than embers, she’d stare into the night sky and wish and wish and wish.

The Healer was the first to raise suspicions about Calliope, although he of course did not call her that. These suspicions were echoed by the Bard, and the Mage. The Huntress, they whispered, was up to something. Perhaps her plan was to go rogue, to cut their throats and return to the King and sob after the loss of her friends. Grief can pay handsomely.

Imagine their surprise when the sun rose and the Huntress was gone. In her wake lay a note, stuck fast to a thick oak’s trunk with her smallest knife. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all it said.

Calliope, for she now truly was, disappeared into the woods. Her unbound hair streamed behind her as she ran, the knives strapped to her hips clunking awkwardly and joyfully against wind. She ran until her lungs burned most excellently, and collapsed on her back, staring into the canopy of leaves above her head. She allowed herself a breathless giggle at the thought of her compatriots realizing she’d stolen nothing from them, despite having every right to do so. They would have, had they been her.

But they were not.

Calliope sang as she wandered the woods, her voice stronger than ever. She hummed and whistled and belted as she made her way to the City. She’d find work. She’d find a Princess. Such thoughts bubbled up in her brain with alarming speed, urging her feet ever forward. It didn’t matter what she’d find, it was going to be found regardless.

She worked in book shops and bakeries, for Warlocks and Seamstresses, rescued Princesses and Princes, fought Ogres and Hydras. With time, she’d forgotten she’d ever been nameless at all.

Calliope. Calliope was a hero.

When she’d heard the Barman mention the ship, her ears perked up. Now that was an adventure she’d never had before. Calliope, for all her living, had never seen the Ocean. She’d forgotten all pretense of eavesdropping and devoured the Man’s words. Pirates, he’d said, were docked and looking for Crewmates. Brave Souls, they claimed to need.

Calliope could already hear the water rushing in her ears as he continued to speak. She found them the next morning, her hand outstretched and prepared for anything.

They were taken with her immediately. They sang with her, taught her to hunt for the Whales and Narwhals, some welcomed her into their beds.

Around the world they sailed, singing and fighting and hunting and stealing. Calliope’s body burned most excellently every night, her muscles aching pleasantly.

When the ship once again found itself docked, Calliope gratefully stepped on solid land, her legs wobbling like a colt’s. One of the Crewmen caught her, offering a supportive arm for just a bit too long.

She was the last to board the ship when it was once again time to set out. This was not the result of any kind of longing for land, but rather the opposite: Calliope wanted to savor the Sea. When she finally set foot on the Deck, a speck appeared in the distance. The Crew turned in unison to face it, for just a moment, before working with a speed Calliope had never seen before. She went from Person to Person, filled to the brim with questions, before the Captain finally smiled. Memories of the warm bed Calliope shared with her filled her mind despite the sudden chill in the air. As she looked around, she began to notice the blue tint that overcame first the Crew, and then the supplies, working its way with precision over everything. Frost kissed every Man, Woman, Neither, Both, barrel, rope, crate, plank. Calliope could not see it, but she knew the Barnacles on the Hull of the ship were also held in that loving embrace. Everything was.

Perhaps she was afraid. Perhaps she saw that the Gangplank was freed from the dock, and ran toward it before realizing it was too late. Perhaps she cried as the ship’s wood crunched most excellently as it rocked through the Sea, her fellow Crewmates becoming stiffer and stiffer. Perhaps she flung herself into the arms of the Captain, those very tears crystallizing on her cheeks as she looked over the Woman’s shoulder to see the New Ship coming closer and closer.

But I do not think this is what happened.

I think she watched her home freeze with the utmost wonder. I think she saw her breath stream from her mouth and nostrils and giggled at the sight of it. I think she delighted in the crunch of ice beneath her boots. I think she stood with her Crew, becoming stiffer and stiffer, as their ship sailed further and further, and watched with excitement as the New Ship came closer and closer.

I hope she found what she was looking for. Or, if I were to truly be honest, my greatest sin is not that I hope she found what she was looking for, but that she continues the battle of finding it.

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7of-hearts · 3 years

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beauyasha week day 4: soulmate au

went with the red string au, mostly because i wanted to play with the idea of yasha being reborn when she gets her wings. took way longer than i thought it would, but enjoy!

Beauregard Lionett doesn’t have a soulmate. No red string binds her to another when her eyes slip closed. And she’s fine with that, almost prefers it, because she’s used to being alone. Better not to burden someone else with my shit, she tells herself on lonelier nights, curled into her bunk at the monastery. Easier to be alone, nobody to worry about but myself.

_____

It doesn’t take long for the topic of soulmates to come up amongst the Nein. Jester leads the conversation (naturally), eyes sparkling as she recounts how she and Fjord realized they were “tied together by fate,” as she puts it. It takes about five seconds for Beau to zone out, ignoring the conversation in favor of downing her whiskey.

“What about you, Beauregard?” Molly’s looking over at her with that ever-present smirk. “Where does your little red string pull you?” The rest of the group turns to her in an instant, and Beau wants nothing more than to disappear.

“Fate’s bullshit,” she says after a minute. She doesn’t wait for them to respond. Instead, she pushes her chair back and marches over to the bar. Orders a shot, then another, slamming them both before making a quick retreat to the rooms they’ve rented for the night. As she walks past her compatriots, Beau swears she sees something akin to understanding in Yasha’s eyes.

_____

It’s only after Beau finds out about Zuala that she considers talking about her lack of a soulmate. It brings back that look in Yasha’s eyes, mingles the understanding Beau found there with the sadness she now knows Yasha carries. They’re sitting on watch, silently staring at the dark expanse outside of the dome, and Beau can’t stop glancing over at Yasha’s hands. There is so much for her to worry about, but instead, she keeps thinking about whether or not the barbarian carries a broken red string with her.

“Hey, uh, Yasha?” She’s hesitant, trying to tiptoe her way into this conversation. The taller woman doesn’t respond, just cocks her head to the side, shifting slightly to face Beau. “You remember when Jester was asking us all about soulmates? Molly asked if I had one, and I just didn’t say anything,”

“Yes, I remember,”

“Well, truth is I don’t have one. I’ve never had one of those little strings around my pinkie when I close my eyes. And I keep thinking about it because, y’know, your—Zuala. I know they’re very different circumstances, obviously, but I kinda get it. In some weird, small way,” Beau has to cut herself off for fear that she’ll keep rambling, might reveal too much to the woman beside her.

At first, Yasha only hums in acknowledgment, and Beau worries that she’s offended the woman. But then,

“Thank you, Beau. When she, uh, when she died, I didn’t truly know until later. She told me to run, when they found us, and so I did. They caught her, and I ran. It wasn’t until much later that I looked and saw that the string was broken. They captured her, and I ran, like a coward,” Yasha’s looking down at her hands now, and Beau can’t help but let her gaze drift down as well.

“You aren’t a coward, Yasha, you’re a survivor.”

_____

When Beau jumps off the cliff, she fully expects to hit the water. Eyes closed, braced for the impact. She doesn’t expect Yasha to actually try and catch her, and she certainly doesn’t expect the feathered, celestial wings flapping behind them when she does. She can hear the rest of the Nein (read: Jester) clapping, but all she can think is Holy shit. The rest of the conversation is lost on her, too enraptured with the angel still holding her and the gentle flap of Yasha’s wings.

And then they’re flying, fully flying, and Beau wraps her arms around Yasha’s neck as they ascend. Beau doesn’t think she’s ever seen Yasha look so happy, so free, and she doesn’t realize she’s staring until Yasha catches her doing it. But then Yasha’s smiling at her, and she’s smiling back, and they are fucking flying. They’re over the waterfall now, flying above the illusory cliff, both too distracted to notice as Yasha’s wings start to beat a little slower, fading moments later.

And then they are falling, falling, falling, back down towards the cliff Beau had just lept from. Beau just grabs Yasha’s hand, navigating them towards one of the larger pools. This time, she does hit water, Yasha splashing into the pool a millisecond later. And Beau’s brain is so overwhelmed, so caught up in Yasha, that she doesn’t notice the tiny red string wrapped around her pinkie finger. It’s only later that night, all of them cramped into Vilya’s abode, that she sees the string as it stretches out towards Yasha’s sleeping form.

_____

They don’t talk about it, not at first. Beau doesn’t want to pressure Yasha, and Yasha doesn’t know how Beau feels about her. But it’s there, that undeniable line tethering them to each other. And though nothing is said, they gravitate towards each other. Just small glances and reassurances here and there. Until Yasha decides to write Beau a poem, and it’s probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for her. And it’s just like before. They have so much to worry about, but Beau’s thoughts keep returning to that little red string and the woman on the other end.

So Beau asks her on a date. A real date, because she wants to do this right. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so nervous. But it’s perfect, the best night Beau’s had in a long time, because it’s Yasha. The woman who loves her, the woman she loves in return. Her soulmate.

#critical role #cr2 #the mighty nein #beauyasha #beauyasha week #beauyashaweek2021 #beauregard lionett #yasha nydoorin #my writing

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kikyozoldyck · 4 years

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ENTROPY

PAIRING: senju tobirama x uchiha!reader SUMMARY: the gradual decline into chaos WARNINGS: swearing, degradation, dirty talk, cheating, cunnilingus, mildy dubious consent (just bc verbal consent isnt given),

"Even a simpleton could see the way that Senju dog looks at you."

Madara's smooth, dry voice stops Tobirama just before he rounds the bend to the corridor hosting your medical ward. His spine locks, jaw clenching with unease.

"Dearest elder brother, I feel it prudent to remind you that he is a married man." A short, meaningful pause, your voice lilting through the torch-lit air. "And that his wife is employed at this very hospital."

Madara scoffs, and Tobirama's gut churns.

"It is how the Senju are," your brother spits, his voice echoing gently throughout the unusually silent halls. "A Senju has no true lover, as a beast has no true mate. Why do you think he and Hashirama differ in appearance so?"

Fists bunched at his sides, Tobirama rounds the corner, his shadow breaking harsh and abrupt against the torchlight.

"Lord Senju." You blink at his entrance, only mildly startled, your dainty hands falling from Madara's newly healed abdomen, your chin rising. "Are you in need of medical aid? I was just finishing with my brother. I shall be with you in a moment."

"It would seem I injured my shoulder in the last battle. Thank you," Tobirama nods, then, not knowing why he feels the need he calls you by your first name.

(Or perhaps knowing why but being unable to admit to it.)

Madara stands, eyeing Tobirama with barely contained fury as he does so. Your fingers twitch in empty air as you turn your gaze toward him. "Elder br—."

"Watch yourself, Tobirama." Madara's voice comes out low and tight. "That is the Lady of Uchiha with whom you assume such audacious familiarity – my sister."

"Of course, Madara." Tobirama inclines his head in deference, but there's an air of boldness to it. "I wouldn't dare presume familiarity with anything of yours."

"Elder Brother," You say again, your voice soft and warning, this time laying a hand on his arm.

Tobirama glances at the motion with a knowing smirk, before his gaze alights on you once more. "Apologies for any transgression, my lady."

Something in the way his mouth forms the words seems strikingly inappropriate — brazen in its fondness. You have to tighten your grip on Madara's arm to keep him from lunging.

"Touch my sister — even look at her again with those foul eyes of yours — and I'll have your head, Senju, do you understand me?"

Tobirama blinks steady, unfazed eyes at him. You suck a sharp breath between your teeth, "Madara, please."

Madara snarls once more, his tenebrous eyes purposely set to Tobirama's, letting the silence speak for him. He takes his leave before any of you can say more.

A steady silence pervades the corridor in his wake, the flicker of torchlight licking heat at your backs.

"Sit, Lord Senju." You finally tell him and gesture to the newly empty cot, "remove your coat as well."

He shrugs out of his coat, folding it over the backs of one of the empty chairs, and takes a seat.

"Thank you for your aid, Lady Uchiha." He says as he does so, "I imagine you have been quite busy as of late and are eager to return home."

"It is no detriment. As I have said before, you are my compatriot, it is my honor and duty to assist you. Though, as your compatriot, may I offer you some advice?"

Tobirama blinks at you, catching the unbidden heat in your eyes, the slight flare of your nostrils, the heavy rise, and fall of your chest.

"I welcome any counsel you may offer, my lady."

"As thrilling as it may be to a brain as small as your own, you must stop goading my brother on." You tell Tobirama, pausing for a moment, hands moving to smooth over imaginary wrinkles in your skirt, "one day, he will strike you down where you stand. He's killed better men for less."

"Lady Uchiha, I must admit I am quite flattered by your concern." Tobirama narrows his eyes, a rare smile finding itself on his lips, "but you may rest assured. I'd sooner fear my own shadow than your elder brother."

"You jest," you frown, stalking off to the side and crossing your arms, "but every morning when he wakes, he lights a candle in hopes for your death."

"And you?" He asks, his voice heavy with something unfamiliar even to himself, "Do you light candles with such morbid intention?"

"No. Why would I?" You huff your incredulity, arms uncrossing as you stalk back to him. "The war is over, our two sides have become one. Battle prowess such as yours would be a shame to lose."

"I killed your brother. That is why Madara despises me so, is it not?"

"It is." You concede, "but I have come to learn the reason Izuna has died while you live, and it has granted me peace."

"And what, may I implore, is this reason?"

"The souls of good men are the finest spoils of war."

He stops, rears back. "Am I not a good man?"

You seem to hesitate a moment, mouth opening and then closing.

"No. Lord Senju, you are not."

"May I inquire what lead you to this conclusion?"

"To begin," You step closer, and gesture towards the space between you, "you are here with me feigning a medical emergency instead of with your wife, in your marriage bed."

"And why," It comes out more like a warning than a question, and he can see how your shoulders straighten at the tone, "do you think that is? "

You look off to the wall. "Honestly, my lord, I am unsure. I do not presume to understand the intricacies of your marriage. "You reply as he stands, your eyes drifting cautiously back to his.

His chest hums with his frustration as he steps even closer, close enough to reach out and grasp you if he so pleased.

(Does he?)

"What does your dearest elder brother say?" he snaps, sneering the familiar phrase with vitriol so acute he can taste it on his tongue.

He can see the muscles in your throat work as you swallow. He's close enough to you to hear it.

Tobirama runs a hand through his hair roughly, his jaw tight with aggravation. "Surely, you have sought his counsel on the matter?"

You seem almost ready to speak it, and then something passes over your face that he doesn't recognize. You're stepping back, out of his proximity, head shaking, and he moves before he can stop himself. He grabs for you, catching you by your arms and dragging you back against him.

He's just so tired of this quiet, violent game between the two of you.

"Tell me," he growls, and the feeling is heady in its fervency.

You stare him down, mouth a harsh frown. You don't resist his hold — though you both know you easily could — you don't ease into it either. “He says that you lust after me."

(Distantly, he understands that it's shame he should be feeling, perhaps regret, maybe even indignation if it weren't true.

And that's the hindrance, though, is it not?

Because it is true.)

Somehow, it's only keen anticipation that fills him. Were he a good man, he'd stop right now — this very instant — and return home to his wife, slip into their bed and never think of this night again.

(But were he a good man he would have never deemed to so fervently crave what he shouldn't in the first place — namely you.)

Tobirama draws a slow breath in through his teeth, glancing down to your plush, parted lips for a single, illuminating moment. He almost curses himself because when he looks back up, there's the imperceptible widening of your eyes and the gentle quickening of your breaths.

He pulls you tighter to him. "What else?" he bites out, because fury is easier, fury is an acceptable smokescreen. And he finds that wrath is an effortless cover for desire.

(He doesn't let himself think too long on why that is.)

"Lord Senju, you are being —"

"What else?" he barks, suddenly aflame, and he isn't sure whether it's ire or desire that truly lights his bones this time.

"What is the matter with you?" You squirm in his grasp, scandalized. "Unhand me right now, you scoundrel."

But you aren't looking him in the eye, and your struggle is half-hearted at best.

(If he looks closely, he'd be able to see the faint dusting of pink coating your cheekbones, the girlish flutter of your eyelashes, and the tight curl of your shaking fists.

But he can't.)

He's too busy watching how torchlight catches along your collar bone above the modest cut of your yukata. "What else?" he rasps out, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. He suddenly realizes this was a mistake, a mistake he can't find in himself to undo. He's glancing back to your face, catching the sharp cut of your widened eyes against his own.

"Nothing that is of any importance to you." You arch against his hold.

"Now, Lady Uchiha, we both know that is untrue." Tobirama scoffs, stepping into you. You stumble back with the motion, and he follows. "Tell me what depraved things your elder brother whispers in your ear about me."

It's a challenge, he knows, and even still, he's alight with anticipation at the prospect of such vulgar words staining your lips. His cock stirs even at the thought, his control wavering dangerously as he holds you, presses into you, guides you slowly back to the cot.

He watches as something steels in your gaze, and you stop your backward tread, mouth firming into a thin line.

"He says it's your Senju blood that gives you such unsanctified cravings."

Tobirama barks a laugh, the fervor high and vibrant in his tone. It overtakes him. "My Senju blood, hm?" His hands flex along your arms, sliding lower, slipping toward your waist with more surety than he's touched even his own wife with. He's delirious with it suddenly – this potent hunger, this violent fury. As he watches you glower up at him, he thinks that perhaps he isn't the only one. He thinks this because you don't voice your protest when his hand settles at your midsection, his fingers gripping at your waist like a threat. "Then what is it, Lady Uchiha, that grants you your own…unsanctified cravings?"

You push at his chest, your outrage splashing along your cheeks. "If you think that I would crave an unprincipled miscreant like yourself, then you are truly twice the fool I thought you were."

"I assure you, I am not stupid." Tobirama's fingers curl into the fabric of your yukata, holding you flush against him. "And though I may not possess the demon eyes of your clansmen, I am far from blind. I've seen the way you look at me. I've felt the way you covet me. Deny it if you please, Lady Uchiha, but the truth is known."

You bare your teeth, your wrathful hiss breaking against the heavy air between you like a deadly promise. "I have never —"

"Never what? Never entertained the idea?" His hands are trembling fiercely at your sides, his lungs struggling under the weight of his own aphrodisia. "Never touched yourself to the thought of me? A married man. The same one who slaughtered poor Izuna."

"You truly are a bastard," your eyes narrow dangerously.

(The snarl that leaves him has your mouth parting, your throat flexing beneath a soft whine, one so sweet he fears he will fall down dead if he never hears it again. He wants to catch the hitch of your breath between his teeth and drag his tongue long and slow against your untouched throat until you're whining low and breathless at his ear.)

He wants it so violently he's shaking with it.

(It's such a pretty little picture. The Senju Lord. The Uchiha Lady. Surely this was his brother's intention when founding Konoha was it not?)

"You needn't be ashamed," he breathes just above your mouth, walking you back until your legs hit the cot, "it is only natural for a whore like yourself to be plagued with such…sordid thoughts."

You stare him down with a heat so intense that it has him hardening instantly.

"That is why your brother frets, isn't it?" he whispers lowly, like a threat, like a promise he's spent too long trying not to break. "Any dutiful brother would, what with a sister who lusts like a bitch in heat."

(And here's the truth of it all:

You never say no.

You never still his hands — though you so easily could. You never do anything but mold into his embrace — even when you're glaring at him so malevolently. Even when you're holding the cut of your words behind a practiced tongue.)

You lick your lips, ignoring the avidity with which he watches your mouth. "Lord Senju." There's still anger lining your tone, still, bite behind your words. But there's something else there too, isn't there?

"Your brother has declared me a beast," he slips a hand boldly up your side. His thumb brushing the edge of your breast so barely it could be called a mistake. His fingers sweep languidly along your collarbone – a thrum of possessiveness to the motion. "So perhaps I shall fuck you like one, hm?"

You gasp against him, your body rocking into his zealously even as your nails dig crescents into his arms with your indignation. He holds his hips to yours, his desire apparent. You don't quite collar the moan that leaves you when you bite down on your lower lip. A beast he may be, but you're the one gripping him to you. You're the one not letting go.

It sets his skin ablaze, his body racked with instant heat, a coil of desire anchoring low and sharp in his gut. "Lady Uchiha," he says on a dangerous exhale, the hand along your chest dragging up your throat to grip your jaw in his haze. His hold is firm and unrelenting, his fingers digging into your skin. He brushes a thumb along your parted lips, eyes trained to the motion. He pants raggedly above your mouth. "You never quite told me what your brother has accused me of – what vile thoughts I must entertain." Another swipe of his thumb.

You drag a heated breath through your lungs, chin tilting high.

(And it really is an easy guilt to bear, he thinks – this desire, this shameful hunger. Easier now that he can see the same sinful need in your eyes.)

Tobirama licks his lips, his thumb pressing harder at your bottom lip, the edge of your teeth grazing his skin and your tongue — your tongue, right there —

"Or will you tell me that a lady of your stature cannot repeat such utter filth?" Tobirama groans, dipping his thumb just past your lips, feeling the wet heat of your breath splashing across his skin. "That this prim and proper little mouth of yours could never speak such blatant obscenities, hm?"

Something darkens in your eyes. A sharp clarity – a single flare in the shadows of the medical ward, and — instantly — Tobirama knows there is no going back now.

Slow and sure, with your eyes never leaving him, you press your tongue to the pad of his thumb at your mouth, your lips parting in invitation. You never blink. The groan that leaves him echos through the empty room, his hips bucking into yours unconsciously as he dips his thumb into the heat of your mouth. You take his thumb between your lips, curling your tongue around his knuckle and sucking long and slow, drawing back until you release him with a dull pop.

He's staring at your spit-shined lips, transfixed, panting, drunk on his own arousal.

"He told me that beasts such as yourself take what they want."

It's all the confirmation he needs.

The hand along your hip moves to the obi of your yukata, tugging impatiently.

Your hands slink deep into his hair as you move your mouth to his cheek, your breath hot and wet at the shell of his ear. "He told me that you'd part my legs without hesitation – that you'd take your fill again and again and again."

Tobirama snatches the loosened material of your yukata from your shoulder. Tearing holes in the diaphanous silk in his hurry to press his mouth to your bared shoulder with a feral bite. You throw your head back, a keening cry breaking from your lips.

"What else?"

"He told me you'd fuck me without restraint."

In a single, furious swipe, he drags the torn fabric from you, leaving you in your hadajuban. You step from the fabric easily, and then your hands are pulling at his breastplate shirt, helping him loosen it, dragging it over his head, and then doing the same with his tunic. His hands still halfway through, unlacing his breeches, his cock straining against the fabric. You grab him by the face, leveling your gaze to his, your flushed chest rising and falling so quickly he's lightheaded at the motion.

"He told me that you'd ruin me for any other man — mark me in ways too vile for me to even fathom."

It overtakes him – this insanity, this desperation so stark and vibrant it lights his tongue with delirium when he kisses you, hard and needy and wrong. So wrong, it's got him crashing into you. His large hands dug into your hair, teeth-gnashing against yours, tongue hot and wet in your mouth as he falls into you. He collapses you to the cot, a fumbling mess of limbs and gasps and yes, please god, yes.

He's already rucking up your hadajuban. Already palming at your thighs, shoving his hips so roughly between yours that the cot creaks beneath the strain.

"Say my name," he pants against your bruised lips, licking at them like a starved wolf.

You arch against him, one hand dug into his hair, the other fisting in the bedding at your head.

Tobirama snarls into your mouth, biting down on your lip, rutting into you, his cock achingly hard against the slip of your underclothes. "Say it," he demands again. This time harsher – this time with the kind of desperation that has him bracing his forehead to yours, panting at your mouth, gripping at your hips with bruising fingers.

You dart your tongue out to taste him, licking into him, up along the roof of his mouth, and slowly back out. He wraps a hand around your throat, urging you face to the side, his teeth sinking into the skin just below your ear. You keen at the brutal swipe of his tongue along your sweat-soaked skin.

"Say it," he releases your neck with a hiss, fingers scrambling for your underclothes. He drags them down past your knees, and you raise your hips instinctively, letting him claw them off of you.

Your voice catches in your throat, arms sliding around his shoulders to keep him to you. Finally, you whisper: "Tobirama" Then, his fingers are dipping into your cunt so abruptly and unexpectedly that you arch off the bed like a strung bow, mouth parting in a silent cry.

Tobirama groans your name into your neck, fingers sliding out just enough to plunge back in, swift and brutal. Again and again, without mercy. "How wet you are." He hums, appreciatively, "is it all for me?"

"Yes," you whine, tongue flicking out against his ear. Tobirama growls into your skin, fucking you harder with his fingers. You cry out, a broken sob catching, nails digging into his shoulder blades, his scalp.

Tobirama pushes his cock into the mattress for some relief, for any kind of relief, aching and tight and breathless. "Will you — will you allow me to taste you?"

You nod dizzily, and then he's dragging his body down the length of you. His mouth setting kisses over your shoulders, your collarbone, stopping for a moment to bite softly at your nipples before trailing down your stomach. Before you can even breathe his name, before you can also process the pressure of his palms pulling your dampened thighs apart, Tobirama buries his face between your legs and swipes his tongue slowly up your soaking cunt, harsh and firm and greedy. He moans into you with abandon, desperate to be deeper, to have you rutting against his mouth like an animal.

"Fuck!" You shout, one trembling hand latching onto his head instinctively. His hips jerk at the sudden break in your composure, at the breathless grunts leaving you.

He opens his mouth over your dripping cunt, dragging his tongue up and down your slit once more, sucking at your folds, your clit, lavishing in the ambrosial nectar that seeps from between your thighs. He moans into your heat with a hunger that shakes you. Rutting into the bed in time to his licks, eating you out like a man absolutely fucking starved, your slickness coating his lips and cheeks, his chin drenched in your juices.

He tongue fucks you so roughly, so sharp and hard and ravenous that your hips are arching up off the bed. You chase the heat of his mouth, grinding down on his tongue, the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing lost beneath the gush of your slickness. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you into him, keeping your cunt flush against his mouth, his tongue licking you up with a deep-seated groan, drowning in your harsh pants.

He's completely and utterly lost in you, so absolutely soaked from your sopping cunt, the taste of you, that pungent, slick taste of you and he can't get enough, can't fuck you deep enough with his tongue, and so he dips two fingers into your heat, groaning at the broken sob that drags from your lips, curling his fingers tight and sharp, anchoring you through the violent shudder that racks your entire body, teeth catching on your clit, pushing deeper, eating you out so loudly and obscenely he thinks he may just cum from the sounds as you fuck yourself on his mouth. You twist your fingers in his hair as your thighs tremble at his ears, and he has to look up at you, has to watch you fucking his mouth, wild and shameless and so sinfully wet he's close to drowning in you.

He has to see if you're watching as this Senju beast eats your cunt with hunger so savage he could cum into the bedsheets right there.

Tobirama catches your gaze through the sweat-damp fringe of his hair, your eyes sharp and brilliant and intent on his own, your bare chest rising and falling heavily, your lips bruised from where you've bitten them too harshly, and he watches as your head falls back against the pillow, your hips arching higher, angling off the bed, and the sheets are soaked beneath you, and yet somehow, through the haze of his own mindless moans, and the broken, breathless whines spilling from your mouth, and the slick, loud flush of his tongue along your cunt, over and over – he hears it.

A murmur at first – hesitant, low. And then louder, surer, until he recognizes the sharp edges of your voice, your begging, your fervent commands.

"Fuck me, Tobirama. Please. Oh, Gods. Oh, please." A desperate groan leaves you as you curls your fingers in his hair, grinding against his mouth shamelessly. The sheer vulgarity of the words coming from your mouth makes his cock unbearably harder. "Fuck me like the beast you are. Please."

Tobirama stops abruptly, his breathing ragged, fingers going still where they're buried in your cunt, coated in your slick, arousal. You howl at the interruption, arching impossibly sharp, clawing at his scalp, your gaze whipping down to his. "Why have you—" you pant, eyes gone wild and unfocused, cheeks flushed. "What are you —"

You blink down at him, your face going pale as you realize what you've said, and Tobirama stares at you, still impossibly hard, still ready to finish you off with the brutal swipe of his tongue against your trembling cunt, until he catches the firm press of your lips, the sharp glint in your eye as you keep your heated gaze to his, the way you pant without shame, without regret.

You won't take it back.

And suddenly — blindingly — Tobirama realizes that he doesn't want you to.

Something splinters in him, clawing its way out his throat, thrumming dangerously through his veins. He slips from you, ignoring the way you whimper in his absence. His hands fumble for the half-done laces of his breeches, dragging them down his thighs, his cock springing free, already seeping at the tip, already harder than he's ever been. "Come here," he snarls, one hand hooking around your ankle and dragging you down the rickety cot.

You yelp at the jarring motion, moving to rise but got his mouth is on your breast, smearing your slick over your flushed skin. His teeth scrape a nipple so sharply you cry out before he clamps down on you, sucking eagerly—his other hand palming at your other breast roughly. There is no forgiveness in his touch, no mercy behind his tongue. Your whines only grow louder.

"Tobirama," you pant, tugging at his hair, "please."

He moans long and low along the slope of your breast, his tongue swirling over your nipple once, twice, almost languidly, before releasing you. You have only a moment to catch your breath, reaching for him, but he only shoves your hands away, grabbing at your thighs.

His hands dig into your hips with a savage need as he tugs you, turning you to flip over, one of your calves dragged over by his calloused palm. He's urging you, guiding you, steadying you as you stumble along with your knees, your hands bracing against the sweat-drenched sheets, and it's a graceless claw of limbs as he yanks you back against his throbbing cock, your palms slipping along the bedding, the wet slap of skin jarringly loud in the room, his following groan drowning out the blood rushing in his ears.

(Distantly, he recognizes how pliant you are in his hands, how eager your moans, how you allow him to touch you with all the sinful ferocity he's denied himself these many moons.

He knows now – even if you'll never say it – he knows now he isn't the only one.)

Tobirama winds one hand around your hip, and then further, fingers fumbling for your engorged clit. You bite off a shriek as he pinches the nub, bucking into you from behind. You push back into him seamlessly, tilting your head back so that your sweat-soaked hair catches along the back of your bitten neck, spilling over your other shoulder.

"How could I ever deny a request spoken so earnestly?" he growls along your shaking spine, fingers slick along your folds. He bends over you with a fierce single-mindedness that blacks out any other thought but heat and wetness and you. Tobirama drags a greedy palm down the length of your back, curving over your ass, kneading the flesh, fingers bruising as he bites down on your shoulder blade. "It would be my pleasure to fuck you, my lady, in fact, I believe I may be honor-bound to do so."

You cry out, arching against him, pushing your sodden cunt into his hand.

"You like that, don't you?" His cock slides against your folds, coated in your slickness, so fucking hard it's near painful. He pushes the tip into the heat of your cunt, a sharp breath sucked between his teeth. And then you release a huff of impatience, reaching between you to wrap your delicate fingers around the rest of him, hurriedly guiding him into your dripping cunt.

Tobirama releases a low, shuddering groan, buried suddenly and deeply inside you, his teeth catching along your spine. "You are so, ngh, warm, so tight." He pulls nearly completely out, a heated hiss breaking through his barred teeth, before plunging back in, slamming into you so hard you rocks with it, a soft gasp clawing its way out of your lungs. He places a hand along your back and pushes you down, one of his knees nudging yours apart until you fall near flat to the thin woolen bedsheet, braced on your elbows, his other hand trapped between your cunt and the cot. He grinds into you, even deeper than before, rubbing at your clit desperately.

You groan his name – a wet exhale breaking against the sheet by your face.

"You like a beast between your legs, don't you?" he growls above you, lowering himself until his chest is pressed flush against your back. "What would your brother say were he to walk in now and find his darling sister being so thoroughly debauched?" he gets out on a choked gasp. His hips crashing into your own, "and by the man who killed Izuna, no less."

"Fuck you," you spit, glaring over your shoulder, gaze heated and dark, "what, ngh, what of your wife? What would she say if she found you reveling in the taste of my cunt? I somehow doubt you fuck her with half as much ferver."

"You would be correct. My wife is no whore. Therefore, she needn't be fucked like one." Tobirama bites down on your shoulder, silencing you but for your moans. "You, however…"

In a pique of indignant fury, you push uselessly back with your weight on your elbows. Even as you arch into him, even as you suck your lip tightly between your teeth and moans.

Tobirama drives into you with a punishing pace, his cock slamming into your slick cunt as he rubs at your clit, his hand still caught between your body and the cot. "You need it. It is truly all you are good for. How long have you wanted this, whore? How long have you wanted me buried so deeply in that tight little cunt of yours, that pretty little Uchiha cunt – it is so full of my cock, so fucking — nggh. Only I can satiate that starving little cunt of yours, you know that, don't you? Only me. Only my Senju cock can make you feel this way." Tobirama winds a hand around your throat, fingers clawing up your jaw, searching for the wet heat of your mouth, again. His weight bears down on you fully, pressing you completely into the cot, into his fingers, the pool of your slickness drenching the sheets and his hand alike, and it's like he can taste you again, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth with his moan. Two of his fingers curl over your lip, your ragged pants hot against his flesh, and you curve your tongue around his fingers instinctively, taking them into your mouth.

He fucks you even harder then, the groan dragging from him. His teeth sink into your shoulder, as he nearly cums right then as he grunts out your name. "Yes, that's it. You would take my cock between those pretty wet lips just as eagerly, would you not?" A breathless grunt escapes him when you suck that much harder on his fingers. He drags a struggling breath through his lungs, dips his tongue to the mark of his bite at your shoulder. "Of course you would. I suppose the only real question is where you would have me cum? Would you beg me to paint those lovely breasts of yours? Your face? Or would you, perhaps, have it down your throat? So that you may swallow it all up? "

You hum around his fingers, your cunt drenching his other hand, and he can feel you tightening around his cock, his pace ruthless. "That's it, whore. Louder for me. Let the whole village hear you. Let them all know how the pious Lady Uchiha so eagerly spread her legs for me. Let them know how you let me cum inside you — like only a beast would. Come on, let them know how that pretty little Uchiha cunt aches for me and me only. How absolutely fucking soaked you are for me. Louder. I want them all to know when I cum inside of you."

You rut against his hand, your tongue sliding between his fingers with every thrust of his cock inside you.

"You're so tight, so wet – so fucking wet – allowing me fuck you this way as you suck my fingers.” The graze of your teeth along his fingers is warning and promise in equal measure, and he can't stop the rush any longer, can't stop it even if he tried. "I want you to cum for me. I want you to cum around my cock. I want to hear you scream when I spill inside you when I fuck you like the beast I am," he snarls at your ear, rubbing out an orgasm from you so hard. So violent, you actually scream around his fingers in your mouth.

You buck back against him viciously, one hand ripping the sheets from the bed with trembling knuckles. At the same time, the other reaches back for him blindly, nails digging into his hip, holding him to you. He's buried inside you so deep, his vision inks black for a terrifyingly delicious moment.

Then he's cumming with a roar. His breathing is hot and choked against your matted hair, panted out in broken grunts as he spills and spills and spills, fucking you even still, feeling the slick, hot gush of his seed seeping from your cunt as his thrusts even out, slowing with his exhaustion, until it becomes a languid, breathless rut against you.

Your moan is long and low, your voice hoarse. You squirm beneath his crushing weight, and Tobirama barely has the sense after such a furious orgasm to slide off of you. His fingers slipping from your mouth beneath a trail of saliva. He feels you jerk and shudder when his other fingers pull away from your overstimulated clit, dragging your wetness over your hip as his hand retreats.

Tobirama's chest heaves, his breathing sharp and ragged as he blinks back to clarity. He glances down at the tattered remains of your yukata. The Uchiha fan the stares back at him from the ultramarine fabric he's now defiled beyond repair. He turns his head to watch you, finds you staring steadily at him, your flushed cheek pressed against the bare cot, your sweat-soaked hair plastered to your neck and back. You're breathing ragged as well, cheeks flushed, fingers curling into the air.

Something startlingly like possession flares in his gut. He reaches for you, fists a hand in your hair as he drags your mouth to his, taking it roughly, licking into your mouth with a selfish sort of need. He breaks away panting, eyes fluttering open to watch you. He keeps his fist in your hair, his mouth close to yours.

You wind a hand up to his jaw, curving your body into his, and there's something covetous about how you splay your hand over his sweat-drenched throat.

"You should return to your wife, Lord Senju." You tell him, the promising flex of your fingers along his neck all he needs to understand.

He nods, eyes never leaving yours. "Yes, and you to your brother, Lady Uchiha." he agrees, pressing his mouth back to yours. He kisses you hard and slow, shifting over you, trapping you beneath his weight, one hand already hitching your thigh up around his hips.

-- entropy is also a rlly great song by daniel caesar

#anyway this probably sucks im not good at writing maledom #tobirama senju scenario #tobirama senju imagines #tobirama senju x reader

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highordinal · 3 years

Text

When a Man Dies, It All but Fades to Black

“Give me the scythe.”

Kayn raised a brow as Jarvan stepped forward, the emperor’s arm extended outward. Although he didn’t feel threatened, he simply rolled his eyes; what a ludicrous request from the other. Now where had he heard this line before? Ah, yes, with Nakuri when his mind was clouded by Rhaast’s false promises. With the Syndicate that were lured in by the entity’s calls.

He had heard this all before but for someone so pure of heart, someone who cared not for the domination of the galaxy, someone like Jarvan, to demand this wretched steel from him… He must admit, he was taken aback. It was concerning and it left the Ordinal a little miffed. Had Rhaast been gossiping behind his back? Fraternizing with those around him and feeding them lies? It was impossible, with how loud and brash the dark star was, Kayn would have heard it.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, your majesty.” The Ordinal finally stated with a slight upturn of his lips; his voice shrouded in its usual sarcastic tone.

Rhaast screamed in the back of his mind, threatening him with a fate worse than death if he relinquished him to the emperor. Ah, so the demon wasn’t playing his usual tricks then? So then why was Jarvan so intent on obtaining the scythe? So many possibilities to ponder, but not enough time to narrow down any suspicions. As much as he respected his emperor, there was no way his naïve mind would have picked up on his little escapades throughout the galaxy. His tracks were covered flawlessly, those who dared to spill his secret were dealt with swiftly. He had put precautionary measures in place after every step he took, always making sure he had an alibi or a plan B.

“Kayn.” Jarvan’s tone became darker. “I will not ask again. Give me the scythe.”

Hm? Oh, right, his emperor was demanding something from him. With a dramatic sigh the Ordinal placed his hands on his hips, glancing off to the side. “As much as I would love to indulge your request, my emperor, I’m afraid I simply cannot deliver.”

The brunette’s frown deepened, azure eyes narrowing at his subordinates' defiance. He huffed before taking his polearm and slamming its end onto the metallic floors. A loud clang resonated through the room, afterwards the doors to the chamber were pushed open and a line of soldiers streamed in, cutting off any means of escape. After them a familiar, colorful crew stepped into the chamber, causing a momentary look of shock across the soldier's features.

A smile spread onto the Ordinal’s face, a curt laugh he couldn’t control passing his lips as he turned to look over his shoulder. “You called my own men on me?” He acknowledged in disbelief, golden irises trailing back towards the royal. “And you even sought aid from Demaxia’s wanted fugitives?”

“You left me with little choice.” Jarvan answered, earning a scoff from his friend. “This hurts me more than you would know, Shieda-”

“Oh?” The soldier cut in, turning to gaze at each of his men, “You call me in here under the false pretenses of friendship, demand I hand over my weapons, and then you cage me like a deranged beast using my own soldiers? Oh Jarvan,” He sounded amused, “You truly know how to break a man’s heart.”

“Enough!” The emperor shouted. “You have abused my trust for years, and it all started with that damned scythe. If you do not wish to lose your station, and by extension your reputation, you will hand over that weapon.”

“Reputation.” Shieda echoed, “As if something like that matters to me anymore. I’ve sacrificed everything I’ve worked toward to keep this weapon out of the hands of those that would use it for evil, and frankly I think I’m doing a rather swell job-”

“You think killing innocent people and harvesting their Ora is a swell job!?” Jarvan finally snapped, taking several steps forward. “You have done nothing but commit heinous deeds behind my back, hiding behind the excuse that it was in the name of the royal family! I never permitted such deeds and yet- yet you hid behind my name and tarnished Demaxia’s image!”

The Ordinal twitched, anger swelling in his chest. “Nothing? You say I’ve done nothing? While you sat there looking all pretty on your golden throne I was the only one scouring the galaxy doing your bidding! I conquered for you, negotiated for you, killed for you, and you say I’ve done nothing!?” His throat was hoarse with raw emotion, his shouts straining his vocal cords as he seethed in anger. “That blood is on my hands, not yours.”

“No.” Jarvan hissed through clenched teeth, “You wanted domination. I wanted peace. I’ve had enough of this- guards! Reprimand Ordinal Kayn and strip him of his weapons.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, boys. You know full well what I am capable of.” He laughed wickedly as they stalked towards him, “You’re no match for the one who trained you.”

Kayn watched as they continued to advance forward, their weapons drawn, beginning to circle him as if he were an animal. And perhaps they were right. A primal urge to kill awakened within, one hand reaching up to draw the scythe sitting snugly against his back. Rhaast hungered for rendered flesh, something the ordinal was all too willing to provide.

“Oh, Rhaast.” He sang sweetly, “It’s time to play.”

“Yeeeess…”

A low rumbling shook the room; frantic eyes darting around the space in confusion and fear. Jarvan yelled over the commotion and readied his weapon, quickly closing the gap between himself and the Ordinal. There was no use in hiding Rhaast’s sentience now, and so he decided to embrace it.

Hearing the clanking of armor behind him, Kayn dropped low just in time to dodge the emperor's spear. He deftly kicked the royal’s feet from under him, watching as the bigger man stumbled to the floor, barely able to catch himself. As the soldiers began closing in all around, the Ordinal jumped back to his feet and raised Rhaast, swinging the neon blade in a wide arc. Those who blocked the attack were pushed back, those who didn’t had a nice new gash across their chest.

It was at this time that he noticed the crew of the Morningstar begin to act, Captain Yasuo unsheathing his blade, the crazy girl pulling out a plethora of guns. He sneered at them before turning his attention back to the fight.

One by one they got up and charged him again, only to be knocked back down into pools of their own blood. A few of them managed to get a few lucky hits in on the Ordinal, but those were nothing but minor scratches that healed up instantaneously due to the Ora running through his veins. He ducked under steel, weaving his way through the men with a grace so deadly they dropped like flies.

As he regained his footing he felt a presence appear beside him, a white blur rushing past. Thinned steel was brought down upon him, giving him mere seconds to react. After dodging the slash, flittering gold locked with the Captain’s hazel irises.

“Lookin’ a little tired there, Ordinal. Might wanna throw in the towel before it's too late.”

Annoyance bubbled within the Ordinal and the Captain smirked, unleashing a flurry of blows before Shieda could put some distance between them. He managed to deflect most of the attacks, however, a well placed strike caught him off guard and he staggered back.

“RAAAAH!”

Kayn’s head shot towards the thundering stomps as Malphite dashed toward him. He cursed under his breath, diving out of the alien’s path. Before he could recover the barrel of a gun was shoved in his face. Looking up he saw the crazy girl tightening her grip around the pistol, an apologetic looking grin on her face as she pulled the trigger.

The Ordinal swiftly evaded the shot, shooting his hand up to grab her wrist. With a tug and a twist she grunted in pain, the gun falling from her fingers. Using his weight he yanked her down, jumping up and spinning around to drive the butt of the scythe hard between her shoulder blades.

“Oh just kill her already!”

Kayn raised Rhaast and readied to strike the ginger and end her pathetic existence.

Seeing his crewmate’s peril, Yasuo maneuvered himself toward the Ordinal and set forth a wall of cyan energy, forcing the man to back off. Kayn ended up being pushed back into a precarious position, yet again surrounded on all sides. He was feeling sluggish, exhaustion starting to lock his limbs into place. He panted heavily, blood and Ora spattered across his uniform. His hair had been cut loose and hung disheveled over his face.

He waited until the foot soldiers pounced before emitting an animalistic snarl and hoisted Rhaast, heavy in his hands, up and tore through his former compatriots. Rhaast reveled in the bloodshed, and for a time Kayn did too, that is, until he saw the faces of his more recognizable men staring in disbelief as their own Ordinal raised his hand against them.

He shook his head, he shouldn’t be thinking of this now, they decided to get in his way so they are to face the consequences. And yet his memories of his time with these soldiers flooded his mind. Images of his senior disciples goofing around during training, taunting their master as they sparred, enjoying the merriment of bonded brothers.

The thought made him hesitate.

Rhaast noticed immediately, “What are you doing, fool!?”

But it was too late, Kayn felt a ripping sensation in his side as Jarvan drove his spear into his flesh. The Ordinal shrieked in pain, twisting partly around and jamming the butt of the scythe against the other’s clavicle. A delightful crunch emitted after it impacted the royal’s body, yet the other stood firm, instead gritting his teeth and leaning all his weight on the Ordinal, driving the spear further in.

“N-No!” He gasped, the searing throb caused one of Kayn’s arms to lose its grip on Rhaast, the weapon clanging against the tile as his now emptied hand came up to try and push Jarvan's off.

Captain Yasuo had strode forward and plunged his blade through the Ordinal’s thigh, rooting him in place, another soldier piercing his other calf. Golden speckled sanguine spilled from his mouth as he watched the soldiers take advantage of this moment of vulnerability. One sprinted forward and slammed his boot against Kayn’s hand, breaking some fingers and knocking Rhaast completely to the floor before they all forced him onto his knees. The others surrounded him, guns aimed directly at his head.

The dark star howled in fury, reverberating on the cold tile as Malphite callously swatted him away from the Ordinal's reach.

Kayn thrashed around as much as he could but the steel only cut further into his skin, drawing more blood which drained his energy further. He was starting to become lightheaded, his breathing becoming ragged and labored, lungs struggling for purchase from the pain.

“Let me go! I’m not done- I’m not-” Fear overtook him as he continued to strain against the emperor's hold, Ora streaming from his eyes and down his cheeks.

“Shieda.” Jarvan pleaded against his ear, “It’s over. It can’t control you anymore-”

“Unhand me! Only I can handle the power that thing wields-!” Kayn protested, his voice shaky as he choked back reddened sobs.

“That thing has killed many of our own and has brainwashed you!”

“No!” Kayn screeched, “With the voice of Ora we can become unstoppable! Finally the Empire will have the strength to carry out what it’s always dreamed of-”

“Listen to yourself Shieda!” Jarvan cut him off, desperation evident in his tone, “It has blinded you with delusions of grandeur- the Empire doesn't need that power, you don’t need that power.”

The emperor freed one of his arms and slowly wrapped it around his old friend, pulling Kayn’s back flush against his chest. “Please… It’s over…”

When a man dies, it all but fades to black. But when someone like him succumbs to fate, why does he see gold? It’s dull, unimpressive and looks worthless, but it’s gold none the less. The excess Ora pulsating through his veins- he watches as it trickles down his skin from open wounds. All that hard work was wasting away, all those souls he’d collected scattering back to the earth. Rhaast had even gone quiet, stewing in his own frustration for having entrusted his life to such a feeble mortal.

“Why did you stop me?” He asks, voice low and raspy. He began to shake, the Ora withdrawing from his system so quickly he body couldn’t keep up. He leaned his head back against Jarvan’s shoulder, lolling his head slightly to look into his eyes. His injuries were numb, head dizzy and vision unfocused. “I finally had the strength to give you everything.”

“Shieda…” The royal’s face twisted in pain, “The day you became Ordinal and stood at my side- that was when I realized I did not need anything more.”

Kayn’s body went slack at his words. The soldiers backed off and watched as their emperor cradled their Ordinal in his arms, slowly removing the spear protruding through his flesh.

“You will live, Shieda,” Jarvan demanded, “We will destroy that scythe and you will live. We will make the Empire prosper through our own means, not that of monsters.”

Live. Prosper. No, not any longer. He had thrown all that away in the pursuit of power, and now he lays incapacitated before his men who have lost all respect for him. Everything he had worked for, his station, his pride, gone in the blink of an eye. It was a risk he took and it backfired. Surely Rhaast blamed him for being unable to fulfill his side of the deal, and surely his emperor held some resentment for his actions. His plans were put to a stop before they ever truly began- how humiliating.

“Live.” The word tasted bitter on his tongue, “And what could I possibly live for now?” His words were hollow, devoid of fire.

Jarvan stayed silent for a moment, hands pressing hard against the gaping wounds in the other’s side. “We will find a reason together, but for now, live for me.”

All the Ordinal could do was scoff before his vision became spotty and he was forced to shut his eyes. The sounds of shuffling feet filled the room as soldiers filtered in and out, medics being called and special units moving to carefully collect the cosmic weapon. At some point he was removed from the emperor's warmth and onto a stretcher, but his body shut down before he could comprehend any more.

His vision faded to black, but it was not the reaper he saw on the other end. No, He was still so stubbornly alive, denied the sweet release of death and forced to live among his sins. He didn’t want that, and yet when an angel bathed in light extended their hand towards him, he foolishly took it.

When their hands touched, his eyes fluttered open and he was greeted by a blindingly white room. He felt a hand clasped over his own, a welcomed warmth contrasting heavily from the plethora of frigid needles piercing his skin, syphoning out the extra Ora in his body.

A muffled voice spoke beside him, although he was unsure if it was addressing him or not. Blurry shapes passed his view, coming closer for a moment before disappearing again. As his eyes adjusted to the light, a figure came into his line of sight, Jarvan, who sat loyally at his bedside with a gentle smile.

“Shieda.” The other said his name so sweetly, so full of relief that his heart throbbed, “Good morning.”

The Ordinal exhaled slowly, careful not to aggravate any of his wounds and reached a bandaged hand up before resting it against Jarvan’s cheek. No more words were said, just tired eyes coming to a silent understanding. He might never be granted the title of Ordinal ever again, but knowing Jarvan's generosity he still may be permitted to advise on the sidelines. Even so, he wouldn’t be permitted to do that so soon.

It would take time to heal, and probably months of therapy and reflection, but it would happen. Slowly but surely it would happen, and as his emperor demanded, he would live. No matter how much he struggled and protested, he would live.

#drabble #tw: blood #tw: fighting #can you imagine not posting for 2 years #and then getting the inspiration to finish a draft #this isnt a comeback or anything i still barely have time for this anymore #i just wanted to write this and share it

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365days365movies · 3 years

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May 10, 2021: Blade Runner 2049 (2017) (Recap: Part Two)

Said I’d talk about artificial humans in sci-fi, so...

There are a HELL of a lot of examples of artificial humans in science-fiction, as well as the ethical and philosophical concepts that their existence raises. Now, your definition of “artificial” may differ from medium to medium. At its base form, these are humans that are not born, but made. I’ll be talking fleshy organic humans, not robotic ones. The most common of these is, of course, clones.

A clone, strictly speaking, is a genetically identical copy of a pre-existing organism, in this case a human. While this isn’t technology we’ve applied to humans as of yet (due to the NUMEROUS ethical problems and questions), we have done so with animals, mostly sheep and cats. It’s actually a good way to de-extinct certain species, and we’ve already done experiments with that. Of course...that has its own concerns.

Keeping up the Jurassic Park reference streak! Anyway...

There are a FUCKTON of examples of clones in science-fiction, but since I’m a massive comic book nerd, I’ll use Superboy. The genetic combination of Superman and Lex Luthor, Conner Kent is one of the most prominent clone superheroes. He’s not the only clone of Superman, of course. He’s not even my favorite clone of Superman, to be honest...

Bizarro am the worst. ME WILL LIVE ON THAT HILL.

Oh, and let’s not forget THE most prominent artificial human in comic books PERIOD. I don’t care what her origin in the movies is, that’s never been my favorite version of Wonder Woman. Making her a demigod robs her of something important, in my opinion.

...Should I make a comic book blog? Shit, thinkin’ about it.

OK, before I do that, these are just my favorite examples. Fact is, there are FAR too many examples of artificial humans to go into, whether they’re built, grown, sculpted, conjured, or a chemical reaction with an extra ingredient in the concoction.

And look, I could go on all day about this, but we got a long-ass movie to get back to. SO, lets jump back in. Part One is here!

Recap (2/2)

Understandably exhausted, K returns home, confused and conflicted. However, he’s greeted with a surprise from Joi: a prostitute! Namely, this is Mariette (Mackenzie Davis), one of the girls who approached him earlier. Joi’s called her here in order to be “real” for K, the effect is impressive, if somewhat...off-putting. Still, while K obviously didn’t need this to be happy with their relationship, Joi might, and Mariette’s all on board.

And it doesn’t take K terrible long to get on board, either. As both Mariette and Joi strip, it makes me wonder...how much does this subscription service for Joi cost. There’s no goddamn way this is free, right? Like, how exclusive IS this AI? And they cut from that scene to a Joi commercial, where we hear that Joi becomes anything you want her to be, and does anything you want her to do. But something tells me that...well, that it’s not quite so simple.

Once the night is over, Joi tells Mariette to leave, and not nicely either. Mariette leaves, rebuking her on the way out as well. K, meanwhile, knows that the Blade Runners will soon be coming after him. He’ll be going on the run, and Joi wants to go with him. And so, they put her inside of a remote device, while deleting her information from the main apartment console. This gets the attention of Luv, who head over to the apartment to figure out what’s going on.

K goes to Doc Badger (Barkhad Adbi), who analyzes the horse for him. It’s discovered that old radiation can be found there, and that amount and kind of radiation can only be found in areas where a dirty bomb has been set off. This would be in the desolate and weird-ass ruins of Las Vegas. While nobody lives there at this point, K and Joi go to check it out.

An IMMENSELY frustrated Luv, unaware of K’s discovery about himself, goes to confront Joshi about K’s whereabouts. Luv berates her for being afraid of change, and tells her that she “can’t fend off the tide with a broom”. Which is a great line. However, as Joshi is no use to her at this point, Luv just straight up kills her. Which, I’m sure, will go over well with the whole “Replicants aren’t dangerous” thing.

Meanwhile, in Vegas...shit is WEIRD. First off all, the desolate wasteland is full of statues of giant sexy wimmin, and I mean GIANT statues. Beneath one of them is a series of beehives, which K goes into to get a hand of beeeees. After that, he goes into an abandoned hotel/casino, rigged with tripwires and booby traps. OK. What.

So, somebody’s using this place as a hideaway, despite the entire city being destroyed by a dirty bomb, and probably extremely radioactive. K searches around and finds it empty. He begins to play a piano, hoping to draw someone out. He ends up drawing out a dog, as well as the inhabitant of the hotel.

Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford), baby! Quoting Stevenson’s Treasure Island and holding K up at gunpoint with dog at side is the original Blade Runner himself, Rick Fucking Deckard. God, I love this. Deckard hunts K down throughout the casino, where we see some trippy holograms, and the future of Vegas stageshows (probably).

The two fight, but eventually call a truce and decide to get a drink at the bar. K gets to it pretty quickly, and confronts Deckard on his potential child with Rachael. He confirms that Rachael was indeed pregnant by him, but he had never met his child. Which was the plan, to be fair. He wanted their child to be protected, not hunted down and eventually dissected.

Sometimes, to love someone...you gotta be a stranger.

To an old Frank Sinatra song, a forlorn K (now calling himself “Joe”) looks around, and sees carved wooden animals that resemble the horse that’s haunted his life and memories so much by this point. Which makes sense, considering the foil unicorn from the previous film. Neat little tie-in there.

But paradise is not all it’s cracked up to be, as someone soon comes to find both K and Deckard, despite the fact that K came alone. Although, now that I think about it, Joi may not be one that you can truly trust. Deckard and K try to escape their pursuers, but are caught pretty quickly. In the process, K is injured, but manages to get up in order to fight back. However, this is Luv with these people, and she beats K down EASILY. Turns out that Luv is actually an enforcer, rather than just a secretary. And when Joi awakens from K’s device to ask her to stop, well...she kills the device, and she kills K. In the process, she also takes Deckard away, leaving K behind. Fuck.

K wakes up, only to discover Mariette standing over him in the Las Vegas wasteland. She takes care of him as he wakes up, also stitching up with wounds from the explosion. She tells K to trust her, as well as her compatriots. One of them is the hooded woman from earlier, a Replicant named Freysa (Hiam Abbass). An old friend of Sapper’s she saw the delivery of the child, the “miracle”, and also hid the child away, as it was a symbol that the Replicants are more than just slave, that they are their own masters.

Freysa is building a revolution in order to free the Replicants once and for all. And I’m hard-pressed to disagree with their cause, not gonna lie. However, this comes at a price. In order to prevent Wallace from killing the cause, K must prevent Deckard from leading them to Freysa. They must do what they can until they can reveal the child to the world. For she will be their leader.

Fuck.

Understandably COMPLETELY crushed at this revelation, and more confused than ever, K collapses. Freysa tells him that they ALL wish they were the one, and they all believe. It’s at this point, that K realizes exactly who the Hybrid is: Dr. Ana Stelline. The horse from earlier, it turns out, did in fact belong to her, and she planted her childhood memory with the horse in K’s mind as a Replicant. Damn. DAMN! That’s why the memory moved her so: because it was hers.

Meanwhile, Deckard awakens to a separate nightmare: Jared Leto telling him how he feels about him. After all, Deckard helped to create the first Replicant-human hybrid. He asks him for his help in obtaining the child, so that the key of Replicant reproduction can be further unlocked. And he proceeds in convincing Deckard by playing audio of Rachael and his first meeting (from the first film, of course).

Niander fucks with him further, by suggesting Deckard was summoned all those years ago specifically to fall in love with Rachael in order to father a child with her. But despite all of this, Deckard refuses to give up any of his information. And so, Niander pulls out his ace-in-the-hole...and it’s a real shitty thing to do to a man in mourning.

Damn. Dude rebuilt Rachael, tries to tempt Deckard with her, FAILS, then lets Luv shoot her in the head. Fucking power move, and fuck Niander for playing it. Dude is a DICK. Meanwhile. that one visual from every single ad of this movie is happening, and I can FINALLY use one of the 8000 GIFs of it, goddamn.

Not gonna lie, it’s an iconic appearance, so I get why it’s so famous. Anyway, K considers a suicidal option, now that he knows the truth. However, before we get to see the final decision, we get to see Deckard being taken back to LA for interrogation by Wallace. However, to prevent him from potentially leading Wallace to the secret of Ana Stelline, K suddenly appears, opening fire on their ship.

The craft is downed, and K exits the car to engage in a firefight with Luv. He appears to win, but Luv isn’t killed once she’s shot. The two have a fistfight out in the rain, and Deckard waits for water to slowly kill the craft that he’s still inside of.

As expected, Luv handles herself well, and despite a number of close calls, she JUST. WILL. NOT. DIE. Damn, she’s resilient. However, despite K, Luv, and Deckard all nearly drowning in an INTENSE fight between the Replicants, an enraged and crazed Luv finally eventually drowns, ending her threat for good.

K saves Deckard from the sinking ship, and agrees to stage his death, allowing him to meet his daughter for the first time. Once at her facility, K returns Deckard’s horse to him, knowing that it was a gift from him. He tells Deckard that his best memories all come from her, implying that this makes him similar to Deckard’s son, which he picks up on when he asks if he’s OK.

Deckard goes to meet his daughter, and K hangs out on the stairs outside. He feels the snow fall on his hand, and he just...watches it all fall around him. He sits, and he watches it all. And meanwhile, Deckard meets his daughter for the first time.

...Can I just say...GODDAMN!

That movie was absolutely stellar, and it’s definitely landing in the high ‘90s for me, calling it now. I...wow. Seriously. Amazing.

See you in the Review!

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theshipsfirstmate · 4 years

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Agents of SHIELD Fic: All My Best Kept Secrets Are the Ones I Didn’t Know I Had

post-SHIELD 7x06 and also post-Agent Carter season 2. peggysous -> daisysous.

doing my best to tie up the loose ends that get Daniel from Peggy to Daisy, because I, like many others, could not have imagined shipping him with anyone else and then the last few eps of SHIELD have taken a sledgehammer to my feelings. so, just like this ship, idk where this came from, but here it is.

Title from “Something in Common” by Dawes.

All My Best Kept Secrets Are the Ones I Didn’t Know I Had (AO3 - wc: 3218)

After Peggy went back to New York, Daniel told himself to take it easy.

And he tried, he really did. He even said it in his head, sometimes, the way Jack had: “Take it easy, Danny boy.” The wise-cracking agent had never stopped teasing him, even after they had become something resembling friends. But he was gone now too, left behind in a past that didn’t feel as distant as it should.

They’d had all of one day together, he and Peg, before everything went to hell. She had kissed him -- in his office, of all places -- and he had reveled in it for a few blissful moments before sending her away with a matching grin on her face, so he could pick her up later that evening for a proper date.

He’d planned on Musso and Frank -- had been carrying around the image in his mind for longer than he’d admit to anyone -- but after he picked her up and saw that mischievous flash in her eyes, he’d called an audible, turning the car south on Western, guessing she’d be up for something a little more adventurous. He was right, she was taken with El Coyote from the moment they walked in, wide-eyed and grinning at everything from the margarita glasses to the friendly waitress who’d winked and called him “Blanquito.”

Looking back at it now, he’s almost glad he doesn’t remember too many more of the details. He doesn’t remember what they ordered or exactly how long they’d sat and talked in that booth. He just remembers the warmth of her eyes, her hand in his across the table, the way she seemed more relaxed than he’d ever known her to be. Those were the things to hold onto.

He’d dropped her off with a gentlemanly kiss at her front door -- and a less-than-gentlemanly follow-up when she’d tried to convince him to come in for coffee. His only regret now was not taking her up on the offer. Not so much for the obvious reason, just to give them a few more easy hours before it all came crashing down.

Because when Daniel returned to his own front door that night, there was a patrolman — one of the new guys, whose name he had to read off his badge in the dim porch light — sitting on the stoop, waiting for him.

“Thompson’s gone,” the kid said. “Never made it on the plane. Signs of a struggle in his room. And a lot of blood.”

The next week was non-stop, chaos and panic and a wild goose chase that had led them everywhere but to Jack. A sinister cloud hung over the entire office, and the spectral whispers of the one name no one wanted to speak aloud echoed in the desperate silences. He and Peggy barely had a chance to look at each other, let alone talk about anything but the latest scraps of evidence, and when it was all over, well, there was no relief there, either.

He’s never gotten used to funerals, and having a hand to hold this time didn’t make it that much easier, not with the weight of failure pressing down on them both.

Thompson had fought hard, that much was clear when they’d finally found him. But it wasn’t enough. That was Daniel’s biggest fear every time he thought about the facts they had been able to gather, every time the unspeakable name echoed in the confines of his restless brain. Cut off one head, and two more take its place -- would they ever be enough to fight it? Would it ever be easier?

__________________

“You know it truly is nothing to do with you, don’t you?” Peggy had asked him, eyes turned down to the table between them, to the cups of coffee untouched and growing cold. This time, Daniel didn’t reach out for her hand. He listened to the buzz of the planes taking off at the Lockheed Air Terminal down the road, and wished it were enough to drown out the whole day entirely.

“Peg, you don’t have to do that,” he’d muttered, feeling childish. “Spare me the pity, I-”

“Daniel,” she’d interrupted, in that tone that left no room for questions. “I’ve never pitied you, and I certainly don’t intend to start now.”

He stared back, silent. That was the problem, you see, with the goodness of a heart like hers. There was no artifice, no way to crack back in a moment like this one. As miserable as it was, he was going to have to sit here and take it.

“Please,” she’d continued, softer, still barely looking at him. “I want to say it. I need you to know.”

He’d huffed out a breath through his nose and aimlessly fiddled with the tiny pitcher of milk. “OK.”

“I want to say…” she had started, stopped and gathered herself, then started again. “I want to tell you that you deserve so much more than what I can give you.”

He’d hated hearing the cliche, even as he weighed its truth. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was that he deserved, but hadn’t he known it would be this way from the start? Hadn’t a part of him always worried that there wouldn’t be room in her heart for the kind of life he wanted to share?

“It’s not for the reason you think,” she’d insisted, before he could come up with something to say in response. “I promised myself….When Steve died, I promised myself I would keep up the fight.”

She hardly ever said his name aloud. It didn’t ruffle Daniel as much as he expected, but it did make him speak up.

“I’m in it with you, Peg. I hope at least you know that.”

She’d nodded, and then she’d finally looked up -- and he immediately wished to God she hadn’t. Because there, behind the sheen of barely-restrained tears, was their ending.

“All we can do is our best,” she told him, not for the first time. “And I think we both know this fight is going to take the best we have.”

He nodded and swallowed against the lump in his throat he was starting to worry might be permanent.

“But this... It’s too much for me, Daniel. I can’t lose you too.”

A bitter part of his brain pointed out that it was ironic, to say that as she walked away. But he tamped that down, and told her the only truth he could find that felt like it wouldn’t make things worse.

“I’ll miss you, Peg.”

She had reached out then, squeezed his hand fast and tight, telling him the same before swiping beneath her eyes. And then, she was gone.

Easy.

__________________

Daniel had tried, he really had. In his brief moments of free time as they watched the Hydra trail dry up hopelessly once again, he went on a handful of absolutely mediocre dates with the sunny blonde who worked the front desk at the local library and the brunette waitress who left her number on his receipt at the diner. He even let the guys at the office set him up once with a busty redhead who was so forward he spent the next week trying to suss out whether or not they’d paid her.

But there wasn’t anything there. There wasn’t anything anywhere, it seemed. With every interested woman he met -- and there were a few, he didn’t mind saying -- it was the same as it had been with Violet. Perfectly fine, perfectly nice, perfectly room temperature. In another lifetime, maybe he could have convinced himself that’s what it was supposed to feel like. But not now.

And then one day, he walked into his office on a top-secret S.H.I.E.L.D. base, and met a girl from the future.

There was something about her, right from the beginning. She was beautiful, there was no denying that, and he saw something familiar in the mischievous glint in her eye — he’d been able to clock her CIA lie on its face, though it was just one part of a larger, much more confusing puzzle.

At first, he thought his reaction to her was just part of the chaos -- excess adrenaline at the prospect of seeing Peggy unexpectedly and the frantic and unexplainable events that followed. But then it didn’t go away.

She kept surprising him, that was familiar too. Comforting, almost, in a bizarre, backwards kind of way. She saved his life on the train — he’s always had extra respect for a woman who could throw a good punch. And he hadn’t missed the shadow that crossed her face when he mentioned all the things that Hydra had taken from him. There was even more to uncover, he was sure of it. Even finally learning her first name, Daisy, had him furrowing his brow at the dichotomy.

But there was hardly time to dwell on it. He’d expected to drive out of that futuristic aircraft and never see her, or any of her compatriots, ever again. He’d deliver his package to Stark, go home to an empty house, and wake up tomorrow to throw himself back into the work.

The next thing he knew, he was staring at the familiar eagle on the wall, and Agent Coulson was telling him he was dead. Like it was that easy.

__________________

He tried to throw himself into the fight immediately — he’s always been aware of the liability of dead weight and there wasn’t any time to stumble around and gather his bearings if he was going to be useful in the team’s mission to stop the Chronicoms.

Still, he would catch Daisy watching him, warily, like a timer on a bomb. She teased him in the clothing store, elbowing him playfully when he stopped dead at the “modern” 1970s fashions, but when he met her eyes, there was something more insistent looking back at him. It was like she was asking him a question neither of them could put into words, sizing up whether or not he was going to run, or stay, or fit, or break, or...something.

He tried his best to not to give her more to worry about. So he wouldn’t be the one to extract Hydra from S.H.I.E.L.D. in the ‘50s -- as it turned out, there were plenty of other ways to save the world. That was the core of the mission he’d signed up for from the start, and he felt more at ease the more he realized this was a team devoted to the same cause.

But he wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, that made him step up behind her in that underground bar and call her “sweetheart” -- maybe the same misguided sense of chivalry that got him a dressing down after he made Krzeminski apologize to Peggy in the briefing room back in New York. Mercifully, Daisy had gone along with his ruse, surprising him again with a palm pressed to his chest and a conspiratorial grin in his direction.

And he hoped it was duty again, not the memory of that smile, that made him insist on accompanying her to hack into the base. After a confrontation with the scruffy kid with the dark circles under his eyes, he was more aware than ever that this team was just barely more adjusted to their circumstances than he was. But that still didn’t quite explain his growing desire to stay at Daisy’s side.

What he was really looking for, if he’s honest, was a bit of solid ground. What he was wondering was if the feeling in his chest would turn out to be fleeting, if the quaking he’d felt when she touched him was because of her powers — or if it was something else entirely.

Because it seemed like something he never felt with Violet or the librarian or any of the rest. It seemed like it might be something he’s only felt once before. And it’s just his luck that it comes wrapped up in even more danger.

He tagged along just the same, watching her back and trying to learn on his feet about all the things she could do in addition to making the earth shake. She could break into a computer network he can’t even begin to comprehend, she could snap a crystal clear picture of him on that thin screen she said was a telephone, she could quirk an eyebrow at him and make him forget, just for a moment, that his life had descended once again into supernatural chaos.

“You look OK for a guy who just aged 20 years.” She teased him a second time as he marveled at the photo, and his stomach flipped all the way over to melancholy. But he wasn’t totally honest about why.

His heart ached at the thought of Peggy getting the news of his “death,” but the biggest goodbye of all, Daniel had realized, was to the man he used to be. However lonely and lukewarm he thought his life had been, he hadn’t been prepared to lose it so suddenly. There was possibility there, and promise to mourn, and the uncertainty about what lay ahead now had given him a rose-colored rearview mirror to look back at all he had left behind.

But when he told Daisy that this might be his last stop, she had simply turned back to her computer, assuring him their current dilemma was just a minor setback -- “Without us, it’s way worse,” she said.

She said it like she’d already accepted him as part of the team, like another thing she knew that he didn’t was that he hadn’t lost himself to the ether of time travel. She said it like he belonged.

It made the decision seem easy enough.

__________________

When the Malick kid’s goons bring her back, when he sees her limp and bloodied, slumped on the floor beside him, he has another flash to his past -- Peggy lying prone, impaled on a mean-looking length of rebar. He had learned that night how strong she really was. Not just because she had survived, but because she had let him see her at her weakest and most terrified, had let him haul her into his arms and onto his couch and into focus for his fiancee, who he knew would be able to see right through it all.

He had blown up his entire life just for the weak, grateful smile they shared when they realized she was going to be OK. And it had been worth it.

Daisy doesn’t seem the type to let someone stroke her hair either, but Daniel tries to stop himself from drawing any more parallels right then and there. He keeps checking her pulse point like an excuse, and hopes it’s a fair trade-off that he agrees to tell her the story of his rescue.

He doesn’t like to think about Stevens much, about the way he’s carried the potential of that pesky man's life with him every day since he woke up on that stretcher. That’s what you do when someone dies for you. You have to live for them.

That makes him think of Peggy again -- and then, unbidden, of Steve Rogers. He remembers the stories they used to tell about what Captain America was like before the serum: skinny, frail, half a dozen 4F rejections under various pseudonyms. He thinks of that kid, plucked from the life he was supposed to live and thrust onto a pedestal that must have felt completely untenable at times -- given muscle and then immediately handed the weight of the world.

And now there’s Daisy, with these powers. The kind of strength good men would covet and evil men would kill for. And like him, she’s left behind whatever life she had in order to fight her way through space and time and try to save humanity.

Peggy was a woman who ran headfirst into a storm without giving so much as a thought to an umbrella. Daisy, he’s learning, is the storm itself.

So he talks to her, and he keeps talking. He tells her things he’s never told another living person. In fairness, he thinks, he’s technically known her almost 20 years.

He tells her about survival, certain she already knows. He tells her about warfare, a different type than she’s seen, but with a common enemy. He tells her to fight -- and when she shows him the shard of glass she’s snuck back to him in a bloody palm, he knows the way his heart thuds could be just as dangerous as the psychopath in the other room.

Daniel’s always been good at waiting for his moment, and mercifully, it comes not long after Daisy slips completely into unconsciousness. He shifts away from her on the dirty floor to avoid risking further injury, and he readies himself like he had in the trenches.

When the time comes, he fights, just like he knows Stevens must have fought to get him to safety. They catch a lucky break when the earth-rattling powers prove to be too much for Malick to handle, and he carries her back to the ship, leg aching all the way, remembering the stern nurse in the field hospital who had looked down her glasses at him every time he’d complained about the throbbing.

“It’s the beat of your heart, soldier, remember that,” she had snipped as she doled out his meds. “If nothing else, it means you’re still alive.”

The team meets him at the door to help Daisy into their med bay, and when Agent Simmons mutters something that sounds an awful lot like “Not again,” something else twists inside Daniel’s chest. Shrugging off his own first aid until she’s been attended to, he takes a seat by the door to stay present but out of the way. Maybe some small part of him hopes that when she wakes, he’ll be a familiar face.

If he’s honest, he’s never thought about living to see the end of the 20th century, never even considered it. He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. director with war injuries and more than his fair share of close calls, it would have taken nothing short of a miracle. But he doesn’t think twice when the scruffy kid -- Deke, he remembers this time -- tells them they’re about to jump again. He's not sure when he changed his mind, but it’s been changed, nonetheless.

“I’m where I need to be,” he says, as the soft beeps of Daisy’s monitor assure him that if nothing else, she’s still alive.

Easy never felt quite right, anyway.

#first mate fic #daisysous #sousy #daisy x daniel #agents of shield #agent carter #daniel sousa #daisy johnson #peggy carter

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jonismitchell · 4 years

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A track by track review of 1979’s reputation, one of the most critically acclaimed pop/rock albums of all time. Dive into enigma Taylor Swift’s hits with top reviewer Alice Lam… and maybe find a fresh perspective on these old songs.

PRELUDE: This prelude sees Swift angrily repeating ‘people like a show’ while compatriots at the recording studio read negative headlines aloud. It is a sonic mess with a loud guitar backing, hitting a mix of sound that effectively portrays both chaos and clarity. It is not a song but a minute long intro, at the end of which the sound cuts out, Swift stops whispering, and there is a silent moment before she whispers ‘reputation’ and the album begins.

SO IT GOES: “We’re on the precipice of a good time,” Swift sings on her album’s opening track. She brings clever detail and confessional songwriting to a story of lovers who meet in a bar and quickly turn on each other, holding and losing in tandem with the crashes of music in the background. This is Swift’s first proper rock song, and it’s clear that she’s chosen the best of the bunch in terms of producers.

DON’T BLAME ME: While largely overlooked on its original album debut, ‘Don’t Blame Me’ quickly became a classic after the theatrical performance it gained on the accompanying tour. In it, Swift screams about “love making her crazy” at high notes she had previously never attempted in her career. It is widely regarded as one of the greatest examples of her vocal performance, even if she didn’t quite have the range of certain soprano peers.

I DID SOMETHING BAD: This sardonic ode to the witches in Salem has a distinctly powerful and feminist quality with Swift’s biting lyrics. While a first draft of the song features snippets such as “I never trust a narcissist, but they love me” and “this is how the world works, you gotta leave before you get left,” the final version serves as a scathing critique of men in general. This was a recurring theme in Swift’s late work.

THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS: This Gatsby-esque experiment in camp brings Swift at her melodramatic best, biting subtly at the celebrity feuds most thought she would address more directly. Even though the song claims that Swift is enamoured with ‘looking for her Daisy,’ one gets the sense that she could rather be curled up in a corner with a book and the lover she toasts to.

LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO: A sharp pivot from the giddy laughter of the previous track, Look What You Made Me Do shows Swift as vengeful and scorned. As her voice soars over the lyrical density of the chorus, the accompanying strings evoke images of a scorned goddess in tandem with the Nine Muses and Aphrodite references. This came later, but as Swift herself would say: “there’s nothing like a mad woman.”

INTERLUDE: This largely instrumental interlude starts with a continuation of the strings in Look What You Made Me Do’s outro, but fades from that rage and intensity into a simple melody on the acoustic guitar. As the strumming continues, one can hear Swift say “isn’t that so pretty to think? That all along, we were going somewhere?”

GETAWAY CAR: While the kingdom established lyrically in the first half of reputation is fraught with fear and change, this nearly perfect pop song takes place in an extended metaphor of running away with a lover. Swift seems to know the relationship won’t last (“should’ve known I’d be the first to leave, think about the place where you first met me”) but revels in it all the same. At the very end of the song, you can hear Swift’s car actually pulling into a motel. This song is a fandom favourite and of the most well-known Taylor Swift songs.

CAROL: Although Swift never explicitly confirmed the subject of the track, its title and lyrical content suggest that it draws inspiration from the 1952 novel ‘The Price of Salt.’ It drew hot debate in coming years due to the fact that it is explicitly sung about a woman, (as was 1982’s ‘betty’) but was dismissed alternately as a male perspective and a fictional story. Nevertheless, the emotional details of the song prove Swift’s salt as a songwriter.

GORGEOUS: This acoustic song set at a bar goes through the drunken emotions of meeting someone and being instantly attracted to them. “I go through phases when it comes to love, I’m nothing that you want, but can I just say… you’re gorgeous,” Swift almost whispers, tentative in this first declaration of love despite her reputation. This is the first truly stripped song on the album and is beautiful in this regard.

DELICATE: Picking up exactly where ‘Gorgeous’ left off, ‘Delicate’ deals with the growing emotions of a relationship complicated by outside measures. “My reputation’s never been worse,” laments Swift, but brightens as she sings “so you must like me for me.” With equal measures of misery and hope, ‘Delicate’ is an oft-covered tribute to first love.

END GAME (ft. Lorde): Swift collaborated with Ella Yelich O’Connor (more commonly known as Lorde) for this track about believing that your lover is the last one for you. Originally cut with rapper Future and singer Ed Sheeran, Swift was forced to politely explain to the former that she “did not want to ruin her status as a talented artist by including Ed Sheeran on a track.” The version that was recut with Lorde featured backup vocals from future and the indie singer’s trademark incisive metaphors.

DRESS: Yet another ode to falling in love with your best friend, the breathy and sweet production brings a classic love song to the table. The hook drew attention for being decisively more sexual than Swift’s prior work, much to the artist’s surprise. “There’s a reason I put ‘So It Goes’ at the beginning of the album,” she told AMK Magazine in 1980. “Did people not get it?”

KING OF MY HEART: The second half of reputation alludes to a new kingdom with the lover, but none so explicitly confirm it as this acoustic celebration of Swift’s unnamed lover. Using an extended metaphor of pieces in a chess game, she declares that she would die to keep the secret of her love and that she believes it is “the end of all the endings.” Fans celebrated the heartbroken songstress’s supposed happy ending in 1979, but quickly fell to pieces once Swift confirmed her breakup on 1982’s folklore. Still, no one knows who this song was about.

DANCING WITH OUR HANDS TIED: Building upon the secrecy theme, this song features Swift, her guitar, and a trembling voice that packs in syllables as if trying to finish so the owner can cry in a corner. Indeed, rumours claim Swift cried extensively before recording this song. It’s easy to see why: the trial and tribulation of loving someone in spite of deep fears is never better rendered than in this miserable song about almost-lost love.

CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT: “My castle crumbled overnight,” sings Swift, “I brought a knife to a gunfight.” While slightly more produced than the last several offerings, ‘Call It What You Want’ is a calm love song about moving past fears of what those might say. Swift finally casts aside her bad reputation and invites listeners to comment on her supposed relationships, almost casting the audience an eye roll in the comfort of a stable love.

NEW YEAR’S DAY: The album closer is a simple piano offering, but features beautiful lyrics that are played consistently on January 1st. “Please don’t ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere,” Swift entreats her lover, acknowledging her fears and her hopes in the same breath. It feels almost too private to listen to - and in a way, that seems exactly as Taylor Swift wants us to do. reputation makes it clear that no matter how much she tells us through her music: we still won’t know her at all.

BONUS SONGS (2015 CD RELEASE)

SYLVESTER SKY: As of 2015, no one has seen Taylor Swift for more than thirty years. (“Good for her,” grumbled Goran Stelkoff, longtime correspondent at AMK Magazine.) This so-called new song was played by Swift at several clubs in 1980, although never to more than a couple dozen people at a time. This nearly-flawless recording is a rare find. The lyrics are classically Swiftian, filled with anxiety for the future while revelling in the love she enjoys at present. “We’ve got to get back to that Sylvester sky,” she croons, wondering at a heaven where she and her lover can exist without fears. It is a thematic companion to the album’s ‘Dancing With Our Hands Tied.’

BOTH SIDES NOW: Citing this as one of her favourite songs from the moment it was released, Swift covered Joni Mitchell’s ‘Both Sides Now’ dozens of times on her reputation tour, presumably as an ode to her new perspective of fame. Several quality recordings have been spliced together here to form a haunting effect. As you listen to this song, imagine Swift sitting on a stool in front of her legions of fans and strumming a guitar, quietly singing the lyrics she knew by heart.

#arden speaks #taylor swift #70s icon taylor swift #jjddkd hope amy + anon enjoy!#reputation

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rotten-games · 4 years

Text

Shroud | Calyssa

Last one. It’s arguably the best of the lot at least imo. Happy Halloween guys.

The flame cracks and roars the in the dark of the cavern, bringing heat where there otherwise is none. Even now, sitting as close to the fire as you feasibly can the icy chill is pervasive inside your unfitted armour. Your companion seems to have no such trouble, shifted well away from the heat as if it hurts her. You’re not accustomed to company down here in the nothingness; any mortal soul has a tendency to get swallowed one way or another here, whether it’s by the darkness or some monster. Indeed, you started with friends, once, now you don’t have any.

You eye the woman warily. She shows up every now and again, stomping in from out of the darkness and usually with armour bathed crimson with ichor. Indeed, when everyone else was dying around you—or leaving—she always showed up at your camp one way or another. That axe of hers, buried in the dirt once had a twin but how she lost it she never tells—one day she had two strapped to her belt, and the next it just… was gone. Your gaze drifts back to the flame and your suspicion fades. She’s become somewhat of a staple around here, really, the only source of company you’ve had for… Gods, weeks, perhaps even months. Time passes strangely here, there’s no use counting the days.

She’s quiet—always so quiet—but it’s better than being alone. At least if you get ambushed you have someone at your back.

As you stare at the calloused palms of your hands you hear the shift of rusted armour, a dragging against the dirt as your companion settles just a bit closer. Even then, you can’t see her from underneath that helmet of hers, can’t see what scars carve secret symbols into her flesh only she could understand—and you know she has scars, you do too. In this place, to have an inch of skin untarnished by a blade, or arrow, or magic is abnormal. In this place, pain is normal. You realise as she starts fiddling with her one remaining axe she’s sharpening the metal to a jagged edge, the whetstone produced from a satchel at her side overused and all but broken but you quickly realise she isn’t watching what she’s doing, no, she’s staring at you.

“May I ask you something?” Her voice feels hollow in the dark but in the moment it’s the best damn thing you’ve ever experienced you can’t help but lean into it like a caress along your cheek. She doesn’t wait for a reply, toying with the edge of her axe as if she’s tracing the rim of a teacup. “What do you hope to gain from this?”

The question floors you like a suckerpunch to the gut and you genuinely take the time to think about it because at the end of the day… you don’t know. Was it for the gold? The fame? You could have left when your last compatriot died—and by the Gods you should have—because you think your need for fortune and pretty titles died with him. Now… now you suppose you’re just curious. The spire at the center of it all looms in the distance; it’s so close now you can practically taste the answers. For all your suffering, for all the deaths, for the shroud. For every monster and friend turned mad by the ever-looming doom that makes its home down here you hope to find those reasons.

“And if you don’t find the answers you seek?” She clears her throat, “I mean, if at the end of the road all you find is an abandoned tower, what then?” Another hit, even if she doesn’t mean it, makes you bow your head. Your own fingers are toying with the blade by your side now, considering it. Would you keep going until you did? Would you turn back? You feel your heart clench, wrenching in your chest like a violent stab, stab, stabbing. You don’t have the resources to do either at this point. The tower is where you stop for better or for worse. Sucking in a breath you glance at your suddenly curious companion and try not to let the despair show. “Listen, you’re not like the others. You can just turn around—I can give you my rations, enough to get back to the surface—and you can just go.”

You have to huff out a laugh or else you might just cry. You wish it were that simple. And… also… What about her? You’re met with laughter, something bitter leaking into her tone, and bile crawls up your throat. Gloved hands clench at her axe and for one brief moment it almost sounds like your companion is hyperventilating. The laughter dies and the flame dims. It feels like an omen.

“I can’t leave.” Is all the reply you receive, then she goes quiet for a long time. Wrapping yourself up tighter in your fleece blanket you feel an icy breeze buffeting your cheeks. Eventually she mutters, “And if you do find the answers, you won’t be able to get back. And… if you die before you even get to the spire?” Then you’re dead. It’s the end of the road for you anyway. What’s one more death in a cavern of murder anyway? “I’m sure you have people who—” The platitudes fall from her tongue and she simply shakes her head. “I… don’t know if you have people on the surface. I can only wish you luck.” You thank her.

And you’re both silent until she leaves before the flame truly dies.

You don’t see her for some time after that. You fight through the darkness towards the spire and with each passing moment, each passing hour or day or week, you get closer and closer to the spire and what it contains within. Yet she never appears. At some point you sit yourself down and resign yourself to her death. You mourn in only the way you can down here; it’s private and it’s quiet, and you never shed tears. And then you slaughter the creature that sneaks up behind you, drawn to your camp by the flame that keeps you warm.

You move on. And eventually you’re at the entrance to the tower. It’s silent, only the distant drip, drip, drip of water splashing onto the ground from up high somewhere. A sprawling staircase leads up to other floors, but there are no rooms, no offshoots to other areas that might give you some clue as to why it’s here. No, there’s only up. And so you heed the call. The stairs go up, and up, and up for Gods know how long, yet you don’t tire, you don’t get hungry. You just… keep going. There are no floors to explore only the staircase and its path, some parts are crumbling to dust, leaving you with gaps to jump to just to reach further. If you feel, if you make a mistake, you will die from this height.

Only when you do begin to tire do you seem to make it to the second floor, the final floor, and you’re met with nothing. Nothing, that is, except a familiar set of armour and an axe at its side. Fat droplets of water fall from the ceiling and create a puddle, cutting the tension with its grating sound. For some reason it’s bubbling. “I told you to leave,” The woman murmurs, sounding as weary as you do in your soul. She’s not facing you, but her helmet is off and atop her head are messy brown waves. You ask her if she’s alright. She doesn’t respond. “Do you even understand why this place exists?” You don’t answer, just to see if she responds then. She doesn’t, just continues on. “Do you even understand what it’s like to dedicate yourself to someone, to sacrifice yourself to someone only to find out the sacrifice was in vain?” Finally she turns and it’s then you realise why she kept that helmet on. She wasn’t a soldier or someone who came with you, or even a veteran fighter, no, this woman is undead.

She was your enemy all along.

Her grip tightens on her axe and that bitterness from the last time you shared a fire together leaks through and into that torn ragged face. It’s all messy flesh and bone, no evidence of the once-human inside the shell of a body that keeps on walking. Just anger. Just bitterness. Just… sorrow. The puddle has started to coalesce into a solid shape, something rising from the thin surface like an island on the sea. Eventually it forms into a… figure. A woman bathed in silk, and she steps towards your past camp companion and wraps her watery embrace around her. There’s a veil that obscures her own face, the dress dragging across the ground as if she can even touch it.

“I’m sorry.” The armoured woman mutters, and stiffens as you ask her why she’s even doing this. Shaking her head, she takes out her axe and flexes her gloved hand. “Because I am compelled. Farewell, traveler. I enjoyed our time together.”

And with that the woman and her specter lunges.

#Calyssa #short #lmao i never have and never will know how to make a proper name #Rott #rott game #regrets of the traitor game #interactive fiction

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forestfanders · 4 years

Text

Birds of a feather

A long list of injuries on the page, and a longer list of potential responses to their trauma. Working out how to treat the pair of tiny humanoid avians was going to be a challenge, but it is one Logan is determined to meet.

whump, hurt/comfort and dehumanisation <3 wingfic

tw: animal abuse, mention of burns and neglect

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Virgil had been scared when they had put him on a metal table.

The room outside the carrier box was so different from the clutter of the house where he had lived, where there were always piles of clothes to hide in and crisp packets to steal from. Here was sterile white, the smell of cleaning chemicals and other animals strong in his nose, and there were people, people above him with nowhere to hide.

They had picked him up carefully, muttering reassurances as hands almost as big as his entire body enveloped him, pinning his wings and arms to his body in a secure grip. At least they didn’t touch his chest, still unbearably painful from the collection of burns blistering there.

There was a sharp pain in his leg and the world went fuzzy round the edges. He closed his eyes briefly to lessen the weight of sleep that was bearing down upon him, and next thing he knew he had woken up alone and in a cage.

He was clean.

He smelled like chemicals, which he hated, but for the first time in a long time, he was actually clean. Not only that, but someone had wrapped his burns in clean white bandages.

It was warm, and he was surprisingly comfortable, lying on his side, his wings carefully tucked behind him, a woven blanket soft against his cheek. He almost considered letting the fuzz in his head drag him back down into sleep.

No. He shook it off. He had to check out his surroundings, had to find… oh shit where was Roman? He hadn't seen his compatriot since they had both been bundled into their respective boxes in the house. He wanted him, wanted the plucky sod to watch his back, so they could creep and survive together as they had for so long.

It took a couple of tries to roll to his feet, and his head pounded in protest. He stumbled sideways, only to fall over again against some cool ceramic. A bowl of water. He stuck his face in, the cool liquid helping to wash the cotton wool out of his head. He noted with some small alarm that his wings had been bound to his back, preventing any attempts at flight. It didn’t change much, as he hadn't had the energy to fly, but it concerned him why anyone would want to take his flight from him.

They want to punish you. Your owners got sick of you being bad and have sent you here. You will never see Roman again. They took Roman away.

Somewhere in the room, a cat started its whining mewls in response to the clack of footsteps in the hall outside. Then of the door swinging open and the sounds of two humans moving into the room. Virgil looked around wildly.

There was nowhere to hide.

Still, he scrambled into the corner furthest away from the cage door, and scrunched himself down. Maybe if they could see he was sorry they might leave him alone.

The humans approached the cage.

“Hey baby, you're awake quickly!” a human smiled gently at him, “ I betcha feeling pretty out of it though?”

Virgil stared at him blankly.

“Try not to overload him Remy.” The other human had a little ball of reddish feathers and bandages tucked into his arms. Roman. Virgil felt sick.

Remy fiddled with the lock on the door, and the bars swung open. Virgil started to shake.

“I am just going to put your little friend in here with you. No need to be afraid.” the bespeckled human gently laid the other avian down on the blanket, before retreating and closing the door. The lock clicked, and Virgil felt some of the tightness in his chest lighten. Concern won over caution, and, watching the humans carefully, he tottered forwards to his companion, and clumsily patted his face. Roman did not even stir.

“We gave him some…” “sleepy juice,” Remy supplied, “...some sleepy juice to take away the pain for a while,” the human explained, “he won’t wake up for some time, but you are both safe here. You should get some rest too.” He watched Virgil, seemingly watching for a response. But Virgil couldn’t speak: his throat closed up at even the notion of making a single sound near humans.

He folded his legs beneath himself, and started to smooth some of his sleeping friend’s feathers.

“He seems well enough, and shows no aggression towards the other avian,” the bespeckled human spoke softly to his colleague, before turning back to Virgil, “We will be back to check on you in a couple of hours. Rest. You are safe here.”

And with that they left.

He was tired. Maybe he should rest. He had got permission to sleep here, so perhaps no one had to keep watch for now? His head pounded still. It was safe to rest his eyes right?

He was asleep again within minutes.

---

Name: PRINCEY AND ANXIETY

Species: HUMANOID AVIAN

Colour: RED/BROWN (Princey), BLACK/GREY (Anxiety)

Circumstance: CONFISCATED FROM OWNERS, OWNERS INCARCERATED

Notes: brought in by law enforcement after a property search lead to their owners arrest for possession of class A drugs. Both have been clearly neglected for some time (underweight and signs of physical abuse) and both display a high degree of fear towards humans, but are not aggressive.

According to their previous owners, they were illegally purchased approximately 5 years ago as pets for children, but their ‘bad behaviour’ made them undesirable as ‘toys.’ This is a common fate for their species.

Princey is capable of speech, but ‘has not spoken in some time’ and Anxiety has not been heard to speak.

Injuries: CIGARETTE BURNS TO CHEST AND WINGS varying degrees of healing suggest injuries gained over time, MALNUTRITION, CUT REQUIRING STITCHES (Princey only) gained evading capture immediately prior to admittance at clinic. OBSERVE FURTHER FOR VITAMIN DEFICIENCY AND BEHAVIOURAL PROBLEMS.

Treatment plan:

Logan blinked in surprise as emotion choked in his throat. Upon identifying the feeling, he found it to be rage.

Of course animals do not act like toys. Of course something as intelligent as avian humanoids would need substantial enrichment to maintain a healthy mental state.

Treatment plan.

He could treat the physical wounds just fine. It was the psychological that would be the problem: those wounds could only heal with a substantial amount of love and patience. The rescue center, with its bustle of people and animals coming and going was certainly no place for sensitive and traumatised individuals to be making a recovery. But finding owners with enough experience to properly care for avian humanoids would be hard, and with the added issues of trauma… No. The future of this pair would be a cage in a quiet corner, slipping further away from the chance to socialise with anyone other than each other.

There was a knock at the vet’s office door.

“Lunchtime Logan!...what’s up? You look upset.”

Logan cursed Patton's ability to read his emotions in a way that no one else was able to, even though it was exactly that that made him the perfect in his role as public outreach and animal therapy liaison.

“Patton. It is uncommon to see you on the vet’s side of the center. Do you not have a community care group in today?”

Patton smiled,

“They left at 12. Anyway you are avoiding my question!” he put his hands on his hips, “You do realise it is nearly 1?! "

"Right. I was just finishing up this report.” Logan kept his voice smooth. Patton looked over his shoulder.

“Princey and Anxiety? Who the hell calls their pet Anxiety?”

“I think it is less of a name and more of a… common moniker.” Logan covered the rest of the page with an arm, “You don’t want to read this Pat.”

“That bad huh?"

Logan ran a hand through his hair. Patton had a big heart, one that sought to fill everyone who left their doors with a little bit more joy than they came in with, be they animal or human.

“I can sit with them till you're done if you want someone to socialise them.”

“I don’t think they would appreciate that.” Logan's voice was soft, and Patton cast his eyes downwards, “and besides, they are injured and need to rest.”

“Alright. You finish your report, then we'll go get lunch.” Patton gave him a little smile, and sat in the spare chair, fishing his phone out of his pocket. Logan wrote up the basics of a physical care plan, stalling on the long term therapeutic suggestions. After a few minutes Patton spoke up again.

“It says here that avian humanoids are generally as intelligent as a 5-7 year old child.”

“Depends what skill you are measuring. But yes, they have complex verbal language abilities, social dynamics, and reasonably good problem solving skills. And as a result, they need quite substantial enrichment.”

Patton looked at him incredulously.

“Why are they even sold as pets if their needs are so complex?”

Logan pursed his lips in disapproval.

“They are status symbols, and can be well trained. Advocates of their continued sale believe that the licensing laws around them prevent their abuse. Whether or not that is the case, these individuals were illegally imported, and have no prior papertrail.” Logan fiddled with his watch strap. “As with most neglected social animals, these two are likely to have significant behavioural problems that will deter potential adopters, preventing them from ever truly meeting their social needs…I am...truly unsure as to what the best way forward is for their long term emotional care.”

Patton laid a gentle hand on the desk, not quite touching Logan.

“That sounds really difficult to deal with. Maybe you can tell me more about them over lunch, and we can work something out. I do work in therapy after all.” he gave a smile, “Between the two of us, I am sure we can give them a future.”

---

please leave comments! I crave validation XD I am planning a couple more chapters of this

masterlist next chapter

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #whump #infinitesimal!sides #wingfic #emotional h/c #tw animal abuse #tw neglect #birdsofafeather #BofaF

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