#a tarnished copper boy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

edgelordfinalboss · 10 months

Text

🌊OF SHARP STONES🌊

SECTION ONE: OCEAN

POV: Kimora

Chapter: Chapter One

Fandom: The Lost Boys (1987)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Blood, Violence, Witch hunting, Witch burning, Witchcraft, Trauma and Character death.

Summary: A coven of witches living on the beach of Santa Carla have to deal with the death of their leader after a lethal witch burning that leads to the bounty hunting of both them and their romantic partners, the notorious lost boys of Santa Carla. Yet, something more terrifying lives in Santa Carla and it's the spirits of those killed by the hunting, begging for revenge.

Note: Please Like and Repost! It would be much appreciated. Thank you so much!!!

Playlist Link:

"Yes!"

I swing my hands in the air, stealing the water vapor from the atmosphere with little more than a thought and the pain of overexertion. A flare of white forms in the air, creating a cloud that aims itself toward the well-toned girl only a few footsteps away. Her hair, long and the deep shade of coconut is mixed with pure white highlights that shimmer and shine like the works of a very bad glamour magic attempt.

Her familiar, a chow chow lays in the sand, watching as the event unfolds between us.

A clap and a whistle from one of my biggest fans forces me to bite back a smile as I barely get away from the witch's hand. She's fast but I'm stronger and bigger and the only way that I'll win this battle is to use that to my advantage.

Eyes the color of a rare blood moon gleam at me as the cloud slices through her weapon, a wand made of pine wood and tarnishing copper. I arch back as she darts at me, her fist outstretched for my jaw but only finding my shoulder. I wobble backwards but stay afoot, moving away from her next blow.

Reaching for her wrist, I bury my nails into her skin and drag her onto the sand with a snag. The girl's eyes widen, the red glamor leaving them for her natural hazel with a blink and a yep for help.

"Conclude!" The referee, a young girl about seven years old runs to stop us, her raven black braids flying behind her. Her eyes, two large brown balls of light look between us with worry.

"Heard, Zefra." I say, offering my arm to Hannah, the sun-kissed girl who drags herself up from the earth.

"You owe me another wand." Hannah grins, dusting herself off. "You might have won the fight, but I won a new stick."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." I snort as she reaches for my arm.

Before I can jerk away, my knees give away and the scorching ground burns my arms with unrelenting viciousness. Hannah says something under her breath as I lay in the sun with Zefra asking me a hundred times if I'm alright.

"I'm fine, Zefra." I huff as my skin starts to sting. "Just disappointed in myself."

"But you won." The dark-skinned girl looks at me with a soft sadness.

"I know."

"Then why are you disappointed?"

"Because I'm not perfect. One day I will be but right now, I'm gonna give myself hell until my form is undefeated."

"I thought you were great! And that cloud! You aren't even a storm witch and you did that with ease! Maybe you could teach me, Kim!" Her hand finds mine and I pull myself up to give her the illusion that her strength has grown.

"Maybe I'll be your mentor when the time comes."

Her smile grows so big that it makes my heart leap in my chest.

"Maybe you'll find your familiar too." I stand up as she says the very thing that I've been trying to forget.

Even after the horrible event of the destruction of the bluff's coven and the death of Ruth, my coven's leader, my familiar hadn't come to me. Things had gotten worse for us witches, as we had been forced to reduce our training and day-to-day lifestyle.

Even the waters had become agitated, forcing the human dominations to ban the surfers and the fishermen from taking to the waters. The spirits of the bluff's witches ran to the sea, finding comfort in the waves but even within the cobalt, their anger bubbled and raged.

Rightfully so.

"Yeah, maybe." I dust myself off with one hand and keep her hand in the other as we cross the beach towards the gathered witches.

"What do you think they'll look like?"

I shrug. I always imagined the creature would be bigger than the common snake, fox, or rabbit.

"A bloodhound."

"Why?"

"So I can hunt down those men who killed our friends. I want to hunt them like them like the animals that they are."

I don't tell her about the plans that Paul and I had conjured only a few nights after the tragic event. About the ideas that the rest of his lair mates and my coven had thrown in. It shocked me that even the vampires had felt the rage that we had, but alas, Max knew that an attack on us would mean an attack on them.

"Oh. Aren't you scared?" Her bright eyes warm my soul.

"Yeah, but we all are. We have to be to survive." I say, wishing that I could be as strong as the words coming out of my mouth, to be as sure as my steps.

The water hisses from behind me, smacking into the stone wall of earth rising above the waters. Jutting rock shelves hang like swords on a shelf, protecting the upper world from the crashing waves. The saltiness of the ocean fills my every sense, stinging my nose but reminding me of the magic that lives within it.

Zefra looks up in fear as the waves retreat without a body in tow, their hunger for revenge left unquenched.

"How can we please the spirits?" Her small voice asking such a big question catches me off guard.

I don't know.

"No one knows."

She holds my hand tighter as we walk closer to the gathered covens.

"Maybe they're hungry." She whispers.

"You think so?"

The small girl shakes her head. "I know so."

I freeze at her words but before I can clarify just what she meant, she breaks away from me and runs to her coven leader, a pale woman with a heavy amount of black eyeliner and lipstick, her eyes hard on me with something that ranges between distrust and curiosity. Then again, who could blame her?

Any good coven leader would question my motives. It was I who had found the charred remains of the witches with a vampire companion. It was also me who had been too wrecked to help place the bodies to rest before the humans could stump on our sacred lands and destroy what was left of not only our but their dignity.

I wave and dip my head low in respect.

The coven of the twilight hour.

The symbol of a half moon on the leader's arm in the form of a black tattoo clarifies that.

A pigeon pecks at her head, digging its beak in her huge bat's nest of a hairstyle but she seems not to mind it, her gaze locked on mine as she reluctantly returns the gesture.

Her cold expression fades as Zefra embraces her, replaced with a rather soft laugh. I take it as my cue to break the stare, moving off to where my coven of two stands huddled like they've seen a ghost. Even the outgoing Angel, a beam of sunshine seems to be bothered by something.

"Somebody died?" I joke.

"That's not funny." Darla steps forward, her Led Zeppelin shirt stained with its fair share of grit and sand from defeating challenge after challenge except for the last she lost to a girl as fast as lightning.

"Not that it was serious, Darla." I hold my ground as her frown grows deeper.

"Or something I want to bring up." She remains hard.

"Well, I assume that you two are gonna let me know why you're both looking like somebody kicked a puppy." I cross my arm, trying to look tough despite the sun using my head as a target practice.

Angel speaks first, her downward expression forming into one a little better but still quite worrying for her.

"They've been talking about us." Angel keeps her statement short.

"You in particular, as they have for the last weeks-." Darla raises her voice as she keeps going.

"And I should care, why."

"More like why you shouldn't care." Darla snaps. "Let's see, you were seen with a vampire."

"We all date one, keep going." Her pale eyes outlined in dark liner she took from my vanity could rip me apart.

"But you were seen with him in broad moonlight"

"-discovering bodies. If it wasn't for me following my intuition into the woods where their coven is located, who knows what those coven hunters could have done? They should remember the broadness of our situation."

"But they don't see that, Kimora." Angel's voice sounds like a plea. The wild colors of her maxi dress make it hard to focus on her dark brown eyes only a few shades darker than her complexion. "They see what they want to see."

I fight back the shutter in my stomach.

"I don't need to care what they see because I know my intentions. I know what led me there that night and if any of those twilight hour witches try to claw at my name, I'll ask the real question. Why didn't they hear anything, why did our leader have to die when they should have been the first combatants."

"Why are you so adamant?" Darla grabs my arm, the rosary around her neck worn as both a travesty and an attempt to fit in with the humans as a protection cold against my skin.

"Why are you so afraid?" I spit. "We are of the coven of sharp stones, we were never the biggest and now we're the smallest. We can't let them kill off what's left of us."

Darla is never afraid to fight but in front of the other covens would be pure stupid. I hope with the stillness and quiet anger burning in her gaze, something inside of her head is thinking about how right I am.

"Stop it." Angel forces her way between us.

Angel's name is more than fitting if you're relying on the image that comes to a human's head. She is indeed the stereotypical image of the humanoid figure of perfection and love, her beauty and kindness unmatched.

Her heavyset features only add to her goddess appearance, not a blemish on her skin as her stringent self-care routine and perfected glamour magic had paid off.

"Kiki is hungry and if I don't get home, she'll destroy the house." Angel starts, worry edging in her voice for the bobcat.

"You didn't feed her?" I ask.

"No, because if I feed her, she'll still destroy the house trying to find some more food." She lifts her finger. "And today is Laddie's birthday so I have to find him something, we all have to find him something."

Angel narrows her eyes with solemnity. She has come to love the kid almost as much as Dwayne does, if not more. I'm not quite sure who loves him more, Dwayne, Angel, Star, or Paul. Marko is much like David and Darla, silent around the boy with not much to say to him besides a simple, "Hey Kiddo."

"Of course." I nod. "How could I forget."

Only half vampire, like Star, I wonder just how long David or Max would allow Star and Laddie to stay that way.

"You never forget." She pats my hand. "But you-."

She pivots her eyes to the sulking Darla who's already leaving, her copperhead climbing out from the inside of her vest colorful with patches and iron-ons.

"Never mind her." I close my eyes against the sunlight. "Sorry about everything."

"It isn't your fault." I flick my eyes to the now empty beach, the humans only specks farther out towards the mainland closer to the boardwalk.

"There are so many eyes beating down on me, you know what I mean. I want to be perfect, I want to be that girl who holds her punches and laughs it off. The girl who participates in everything and makes everyone feel at home."

"But you aren't that girl. You're the girl who's better at defense magic than memorizing incantations and makes a mean sigil when she needs to. You're the girl who we'd send to walk through danger because your brain completely rotted in the fear department."

"I know and they fear that."

"That's what we love about you. That's what this coven needs." Her lips twitch as she tried to fight back a smile. "That's what Ruth loved, why she let you join with nothing but a stupid Crowley book, a welcome to California notebook, and some herbs which you still have in a box."

My throat trembles as I try to hold back tears and cover it up with more laughable memories.

"She set the Crowley book aflame."

Angel chuckles. "A good choice to be honest. She always knew best."

I try to keep myself as composed as Angel does.

"I miss her."

"Me too." She looks out at the ocean which rears up yet again and strikes, but this time at the humans, dragging some form too close to the warning line of red tap away.

Angel quickly points but I remain tranquil as the people scream and cry out curses to the waters, some running away while a few of the brave dart out to the water to retrieve a man long gone.

When the spirits strike, nothing is left.

Ruth's deep voice rattles through me. I feel it with every fiber of my being.

"We should go." Angel takes my hand. "We need to go."

I shake my head, happy that she said just what I was thinking. "For sure."

Tags: @foggyreadingromancepsychic @babyloutattoo89 @kurt-nightcrawler @fluffycows-enthusaist @master-of-metal99 @piratesangel @local-vampire-s1ut @twentysomethingwereyote

THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT!

#Spotify #lost boys paul #the lost boys #the lost boys david #the lost boys dwayne #the lost boys marko #the lost boys paul #dwayne lost boys #dwayne the lost boys #paul the lost boys #thelostboys #the lost boys 1987 #star tlb #tlb 1987 #david tlb #paul tlb #tlb fanfic #tlb dwayne

15 notes · View notes

modern-inheritance · 1 year

Text

Modern Inheritance: Bullet (One Word Prompt Short)

(TW: Bulletwound, not thoroughly described)

“You are very lucky.” Glenwing swung stray strands of silver hair from his face with a flick of his head. Blood oozed up around his gloved fingers as he probed the wound further. “Any higher and it would have hit the edge of your joint.”

Eragon grit his teeth and dug his fingers deeper into his leg. The bullet had been an unlucky catch, a shot by some nameless Brodring soldier below as Saphira twisted in her maneuvers. His first bulletwound and Eragon hadn’t even noticed it till the battle was over. Now it burned and shocked icy pain down to his bones every time the elvish medic touched the ruined flesh.

Glen picked up a slender pair of forceps. “Are you sure you don’t want me to numb it?” Eragon shook his head. From where she was having her outstretched wing healed by a still blood splattered and armored Arya, Saphira let out a huffed growl of exasperation at her stubborn Rider’s decision. “I won’t lie to you. It’s not going to be pleasant. You’re definitely going to feel it.” The elf wiped down the instrument with antiseptic, eyeing his patient’s paled complexion. He didn’t want the boy passing out.

“You, and Brom, and Arya, and everyone else have gone through this without the luxury of numbing spells or painkillers.” Eragon took a deep, shaky breath. “It’s my turn. Save your magic for someone else. Let’s do this.”

With Glenwing’s speed and decades of practice, the bullet was out of his shoulder in a matter of seconds. The ripping, tearing sensation lasted long after the metal was gone.

As Eragon held extra pressure over the secured bandage, Glen turned and poured antiseptic over his hand. “Here.”

The young Rider stared at the lump of metal that the elf deposited in his shaking hand. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Glen confirmed. He began packing up his equipment, and lifted the roll of tools when he was done. A fingernail sized, crumpled mass of grey and tarnished copper suspended in a resin ball secured the set closed. “Keep it. We all kept our first. I’m pretty sure Arya has a jar of the ones that weren’t through shots.”

#Modern Inheritance #inheritance cycle #eragon #the cyclists #Ket's Modern Inheritance Cycle #modern inheritance stories #the inheritance cycle #one word prompts #bullet #glenwing #arya drottningu #arya #saphira

38 notes · View notes

stellarcat52 · 2 years

Text

Hello My Mirror

See, I saw sculk in season 2 of empires and decided there needed to be a reason for sculk not being in season 1.

That idea evolved.

He stepped into the ruins of the temple, a pedestal with a small, dusty notebook stood in front of a wax statue. The pale wax seemed to glow in his torchlight, and the eye sockets of the human it depicted must have had soemthing inside them that reflected the flame.

He stepped forwards and picked up the book, reading it carefully.

As titans fall and their empires scatter, two groups of people would be the phoenixes that rise from the ashes. Those who fled to Pixandria, the only lands untouched by the calamity that befell its sisters and brothers, and those who decided ruins must stay ruined and the future could not be tarnished by the mistakes of the fallen.

Those who will forge the roads that left the past behind were of every species, every origin, every empire. Among their ranks were some of the greatest craftsmen, magicians, warriors, and leaders, that had resided among common citizens. They would be the people to eventually create a new civilization. One of growth, of creation and innovation.

As the surface world had been destroyed, they will turn to the caverns of lava and stone beneath them. Cities and travel routes, mines and strongholds, they will all be created by these people.

People might be the wrong word, half titans would be the proper term, for they are the spiritual children of the children of titans blood, but the Ancients is the term I will use for them.

They will bring into creation species of intellect and strength, magic of healing and hope, machines of power and movement, and eventually all of it would come collapsing into their own destruction.

The wardens, a creation meant to protect the cities and help rebuild the world above once the end had finally ended. The wardens will become uncontrollable, and the cities and everything else would be abandoned.

By the time you read this

“No, you haven’t found them yet, have you?”

He looked up and saw the statue moving, the light in its eyes was its own fire like candlewicks. He shook his head.

“I wrote that before realizing, you can skip that paragraph. Sometimes prophetic visions weren’t as accurate as I’d have liked. I think it showed the sculk, I hoped that would have stayed in the cities but I suppose that was too hopeful.”

“Yeah, it’s everywhere I feel.” He looked at the temple entrance. The sculk had stayed away, but it was still visible from inside.

“Well? Keep reading.” The statue gestured towards the book and something caught the eye of the boy who was reading. A mirror in the wall, it reflected not him and a statue, but him and a man. The man caught his eyes in the mirror.

“You’re... familiar. To me.”

“I’m familiar to a lot of history, I believe.”

“You’re a prophet.”

“I’m dead.” the man smiled in the mirror. “Keep reading?”

By the time you read this... No, the boy told himself, next paragraph.

Hello my mirror,

My inverse reflection.

The future is past,

I know that now.

Let the flame flicker in the dark,

and when it goes out,

you will be aglow.

Share my message to this world.

Goodbye,

I’ll be with my friends if you need us.

The boy looked up as the lights go out, both the torch he held and the candlelight eyes of the prophet. When he relights the torch, the statue is gone. In its place was a bag and a small chest.

He investigated the chest first, engraved with gold and somehow still clean copper. Inside was a crown, a spyglass, and an empty notebook with a strange note inside. “I’ve known of you before history did, but history will know your name. You will find people, and their stories will create the future. Don’t let their waves wash away my and your shared stories. Don’t let knowledge be forgotten, let the lost and destroyed be found and healed.”

He read aloud the final words with a strange new confidence. “Hello my mirror, my inverse reflection. I look one way and you look the other, and we’ll have the world’s back. The prophet of Pixandria, the Copper King, Pixlriffs.”

He took the chest, the notebook, spyglass, and crown. He put them in the bag, somehow he knew it would be empty and he would be right. Even with the new items, it was practically weightless as he slung it over his shoulders.

He stepped out into the sunlight, years later. The tunnel behind him was not the same one he once left, but it felt the same. Going from a timeless place, back then it was the prophet’s resting place, and now it was an overgrown jungle. to a wasteland, back then it was a sculk infested desert, and now it was a savanna. Back then, it was his old home. Now, it was his new one.

Pixl set down his old bag on a flat rock and pulled out his spyglass, he started examining the landscape and horizon and sketching it in a new notebook, but he held countless full ones in the bag beside him along the crown locked in a box with greening details on it.

This wouldn’t be a second Pixandria, how could someone who’s never been there rebuild it anyway? This would just be a camp for him and his research. He was still waiting for those people the prophet spoke of to appear, but he had figured out what some other words the prophet had told him meant.

“History will know my name, huh?” He had once asked himself. Now, and every other time he looked at ruins since that fateful temple trip, he realized for once the prophet wasn’t talking about the future.

#empires season 2 #empires smp #empires smp season 2 #pixlriffs #empires writing #empires pixlriffs #The past and the present and those who will change them #that may or may not be a fic title #and this may or may not be a prologue to that fic #my writing

28 notes · View notes

bitesizedpromises · 2 years

Text

An endless road to you

ZevWarden Week 2022 Day 1 - Culture

Pairing: Zevran/Katoss (Original Non-Warden Character)

The artist wanted to paint the wind, and he saw that he was always painting something else.

Zevran looked up. The sky was ink black, but clear; the only flaw in its smooth velvet surface was the moon which hovered right above his head, perfectly round and shiny like a newly minted coin. The air was warm, bugs and critters of various species were singing their songs in the foliage around them.

Zevran put another log in the fire. The wood cracked and then a handful of embers flew into the air, dancing before his eyes for a split second before fading away. Zevran sighed in content and leaned back again. In many ways, he thought, tonight was a perfect night.

Having been disturbed by the movement, Katoss opened his eyes. He watched Zevran for a few moments, then reached up lazily, took hold of a strand of hair and tugged on it to get his attention.

„You look so forlorn, my lord,“ Katoss said with a smile. “Are you perhaps bemoaning your fate of being left behind while our friends are currently facing darkspawn fangs and talons?”

“Would it be unnatural if I am?" Zevran asked. "Our brave comrades are making their place in history. And we ...” He paused and looked down. Katoss was smiling at him. One eyebrow was arched up, and his eyes were sparkling with a silent challenge. Zevran realized another game had started, and he continued with a chuckle. “And we are sitting here, in this quiet warm place, completely out of harm's way. Oh, tell me, my beauty, are we not the most wretched souls in all of Thedas!”

Katoss laughed. He was lying on the ground, with his head resting on Zevran's lap. He'd flung one long leg over the other and was slowly swaying his foot in the air, following a rhythm only he could hear. His hair was spilled over Zevran's thighs like molten copper.

„Then what is weighing on your heart?“ Katoss asked. He reached up again, this time brushing his fingertips against Zevran's forehead. “Right here, do you feel that? You're getting wrinkles already.”

„Wrinkles are like patina on brass – a sign of quality and experience!“ Zevran turned away, slightly indignant and the insinuation that a mere wrinkle could tarnish his face. “But you are right, my beautiful boy, that I am feeling a bit melancholic right now. Look at this night before us – such perfection! A night that I have always dreamed of. And now that I have it, it is all thanks to my failure!”

„Failure?“

"I was sent here to kill Alistair,“ Zevran reminded him with a smile. “Alas, he lives still. He might die before the sun is up, but that won't be because of me. In many ways, I have failed the Crows, and yet I am being rewarded for it.”

He had to lose everything to finally find what he'd always been looking for. Fate, he thought, had a twisted sense of humour indeed.

“How funny, to see your inability to take someone's life as a failure,” Katoss said. “Is this how people in Antiva think, my lord?”

„I suppose many do.“ Zevran shrugged. “Living with Crows among you can turn a man into a realist very quickly.”

He thought back on his childhood. Even when he still lived in the brothel, he'd known death. It was a constant presence in Antiva. He remembered one time, he was hiding in the alley and enjoying a pastry he'd filched from a baker's cart, when he stumbled upon a man who was a regular at the brothel. He was a Rivaini pirate who boasted that he was as rich as Orlais. He even had golden tattoos sprawling all over his back and his arms. It was thanks to the tattoos that Zevran was able to recognize him, as the head was missing.

Corpses were a usual occurrence in the streets of Antiva, he thought as he smiled fondly. In some streets, even, they were simply part of the landscape.

„Of course,“ Zevran said, continuing his musings out loud, “there's a bright side to it, too. Death makes one value life more.”

“What do you mean?”

„Well, my fragrant flower,“ Zevran smirked and pinched Katoss on the nose, “if you are aware of the fact that each day could be your last, you want to experience as many pleasures of life as you can. Why put off all those fun stuff like dancing, drinking, making love, if you know that you might not get to them later?” He sighed wistfully. “We Antivans, we like to live for the day, before our end arrives.”

„Ah, I see now.“ Katoss nodded. “That's the best way for one to live, isn't it? It was the same back in the Pearl. Fancy clothes, good food and wine, jewellery, we got it all … as long as we earned good money. And really, with our life, we only have a handful of years before we get tossed out and replaced, so we might as well enjoy the finer things in life while it lasted.” He suddenly burst into a giggling fit. “I guess whores and Antivans have some things in common!”

Zevran looked at him. It was odd, the way his little dancer's mind worked at times. He could never when Katoss was joking; he was starting to suspect that perhaps Katoss viewed life itself as one big jest.

Katoss sudden stirred and a soft sigh rolled off his lips. He sat up with a groan and stretched out his arms until his joints cracked. Then he arched his back, very much like a cat would after a long nap. Finally, he turned to Zevran and leaned in until his forehead was pressing against Zevran's shoulder.

„Do tell me more about Antiva, my lord,“ he said, purring softly as he snaked his arms around Zevran's waist. “But I want to hear the good parts only.”

Zevran grinned. He wrapped an arm around Katoss and pulled him in, then began stroking his hair.

„You want to hear about the Antiva of my heart?“ He said. “Very well, listen carefully then. My Antiva ...”

He fell silent and closed his eyes for a moment, wondering just how he could detail the picture that arose in his mind, of the land which he pined for, which was as real as a tablecloth of the finest silk that had seen a thousand feasts. Yes, it was still there, but dirty and tattered, its beauty damaged beyond repair.

„My Antiva is wonderful. Sunny, always sunny, always warm and golden. Oh, if you could only see it, my Katoss! The land of love, of wine, of joy!“

„The land of riches?“ Katoss asked, chuckling.

„Who needs money when you have love and wine. And adventure!“

„We are on an adventure now,“ Katoss said, laughing. "You must be very happy then."

„Bah!“ Zevran waved his hand. “You call this a true adventure? Cold and deadly, and save for you, I find our companions a rather dreadful lot. Where's the fun, the passion?!" He sighed and shook his head. "No, my flower, I am talking about the adventures that bards sing of! You've heard of them – daring rebels, bold pirates, rugged scoundrels climbing towers and seducing queens!” Zevran closed his eyes and sighed again. “Why are you Fereldans allergic to romance? Your lives are so dull and grey!”

"All of us?"

Katoss was looking at him. His voice was quiet, broken as if on the verge of tears. A masterful performance that would have taken Zevran in, had he not been aware of Katoss's tricks by now. Though the tone was sorrowful, his eyes were sparkling with mirth and mischief. Once he realized he was caught, Katoss threw his head back and laughed.

Zevran laughed too. He reached up and dug his hand into Katoss's hair, marveling at how smooth it was. He'd never seen Katoss brush it, yet it was always soft, with no traces of knots to hinder his fingers. Zevran smiled and leaned closer, his stomach tightening in anticipation.

Then, as he came within an inch of Katoss's face, Katoss suddenly pulled back.

"Ah, perhaps I shouldn't torture you with my dull and boring lips, my lord," he said. "After all, you pine for passion and adventure!"

He got up do swiftly that Zevran, who was already dizzy by the sudden drop in mood, stumbled backwards. Katoss started walking away, but paused after a few steps. He looked back at Zevran and gave him a sweet smile.

"What a pity that I am not a queen, my lord, for you to seduce."

Ah! So the game was still on! Perhaps Katoss had some Antivan in his blood after all. Zevran jumped to his feet, his lips stretching into a grin.

"I can still be a scoundrel."

He chased after Katoss. The two ran through the camp, Katoss's long legs keeping him at a distance from Zevran, until he finally slowed down when they reached their tent and allowed Zevran to capture him. Zevran embraced him and lifted him, and then finally pulled Katoss in to get the kiss he'd earned.

Later, when they were lying together, Katoss still clinging to him, his fiery hair glued to Zevran's chest, Zevran thought that perhaps the Antiva in his heart was not gone after all. It just wasn't where he'd thought he would find it.

#zevwarden week 2022 #zevran arainai #katoss #zevran x katoss #dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age fanfiction

8 notes · View notes

sleepyowlwrites · 2 years

Note

Happy STS

What colors represent your favorite oc brOTP if you have one?

hehro

I have MANY

R and Mark from Youth Story and red and purple (even tho Mark doesn't wear purple like ever) because I don't really like those colors together. I feel like they clash most of the time, but if used skillfully, beautiful art can come out of them. R and Mark clash when they don't like each other, and still clash when they eventually become best friends, but they learn to compliment each other even while they're not really built to work together.

Jet and Copper from City Story are black and cream/dark plum. Copper should be copper but he's a very mellow boi (when he isn't upset with Jet for ignoring his own emotions). these guys are identical twins with very different personalities but a lot of love and support for each other.

Daniel and Nyks from Youth Story are lilac and light blue. Daniel has a hoard of purple and pink clothing and Nyks is the sunshine boy but represented by blue because he just is. a bright blue summer sky.

Natalie and Martin from Magick Story are pink and mahogany. they're a brotp because they just are. Natalie is vibrant and vivacious and Martin is reserved and responsible and they don't really compliment each other but they've got each other's backs, which is good because they're going up against literal years of fake history.

the whole gang from City Story, actually? Copper isn't in the gang but he's in the group. Hawk is burnished bronze, Moss is green-grey, Yarrow is bright primaries, Shadow is tarnished white, Jet is black, and Rune is deep, haunting red.

Zan and Shae from Summon Story are green and purple. okay, I include girls in my brotps. I just do. Zan and Shae both grew up in the city and feel like it, but they gravitate toward colors found elsewhere. they'll wear practical clothes but not in practical colors.

Aiden and Theo from Anxiety Story are blue and orange. contrasting, complimentary colors that they both deny represent them IN the story, but these are their colors, and I'm the writer, so there.

thanks for asking!

#sleepy answers #sts

5 notes · View notes

doitwrite · 3 months

Text

Prompt: to write a creative story based on a photo of a little girl holding a jump rope on a playground)

The Playground

“Here we are…finally.” There were kids there. Screaming, laughing, playing on the grass. Isabel glared at her mother, coming to a dead stop outside of the black metal gate.

“Don’t wanna.” Isabel didn’t like other kids. They were too loud and never wanted to share their toys, and frankly, neither did she. Her mother shook her head wearily, dragging Isabel forward towards a park bench with an expression of long-suffering determination that only people who raised difficult pets or children could wear properly. The gravel path that wound through the park made an unpleasant grating sound beneath the soles of Isabel’s sneakers, startling a squirrel from the bushes. It shimmied up the side of a tree, scuttling up the bark in a series of quick, nervous movements as an icy draft blustered through. The branches, drooping with thick green leaves, bent for a moment, descending on the animal and concealing it from view. Isabel waited, but it didn’t emerge again. Sighing, her mother rubbed a hand over slightly bloodshot eyes and sank down onto the bench. It sagged under her weight with a quiet squeal of protest.

“Just…please. Go jump rope or something. Maybe you can ask that girl for hers when she’s done playing.” Her mother pointed at a girl with pigtails jumping rope on the turf beside the playground, kicking up dust from the bare spots where no grass grew to cover the parched soil. The park was in a sorry state, with tarnished metal benches and a field that was patchy from being trampled under hundreds of feet. The only thing that looked new about it was the jungle gym made out of eye-catchingly garish bright red and blue plastic towering at its center. Kids swarmed over it like termites on an anthill, scrambling up the rock wall and swinging from the monkey bars like clumsy, overly energetic acrobats.

Isabel pouted, turning away to watch a man on a bench nearby slump forward, eyes fluttering closed. His phone slipped out of his hand, hitting the pavement with a clack as he let out a quiet snore. All of the parents around were glued to their phones with bleary eyes or dozing lightly in positions that suggested they had drifted off without meaning to, heads lolling. Isabel wondered how they could sleep through the noise of pedestrians and traffic just outside of the park.

“No.” But her mother had already crossed her arms and closed her eyes, leaning her head back with a yawn. There was no point in whining any further. Isabel trudged away, circling around the edges of the playground, then paused. The ground here was soft. Like a wet sponge. Gross. She kicked at the dirt, stomping to a corner of the park, as far away from the other children and their parents as possible. Dropping to her knees, she reached down and ripped up handfuls of the grass at the base of the metal railing, relishing the wet tearing sound they made as they came up and wrinkling her nose at the faint smell of copper that rose around her. If she had looked up, she would have seen that just outside the fence, people crossing the street and on the sidewalk were braced against a harsh wind that sent coats flapping and hair whipping. Within the park, the children giggled as they frolicked on the jungle gym, and their parents, all overcome with an inexplicable exhaustion, lay sprawled on the ground or across the benches. No wind disturbed their clothes or made them shiver with sudden cold. The grass did not ripple. The tree branches did not shake. The air was thick, and still.

All at once, the children were swallowed up.

A girl sank into the sandbox where she had been playing, vanishing with a whispering sound among the golden grains. A boy laughed as he dove headfirst down the plastic blue tube slide and did not reappear at the bottom. Twin children yelped as they lost their grips on monkey bars that had suddenly grown too slippery to hold. They fell, right through the wood chips on the ground and into the earth. The girl with the pigtails giggled as the rope went around under her feet, and a moment later it landed in the dirt, alone. The sounds of chatter stopped all at once, because there were no longer any children to make them.

The sudden silence split the air like an ax. Isabel jerked her head up, blindsided. The playground looked desolate with the sudden absence of kids. Where did they all go? Goosebumps rose on her skin, even though there was no wind. Her eyes darted to the unconscious adults. Why were they all sleeping? The cars and people just outside the fence were still going about their business, showing no sign that any of them had noticed anything amiss. Other than the sounds of her own rapid breaths, it was completely quiet. As if the world outside was a massive screen, and someone had turned off the volume. In a panic, Isabel spotted her mother asleep on the bench she’d collapsed on, a strand of hair that had fallen across her face fluttering with each snore. Isabel jerked herself up to her feet and started to run, desperate for the safety of her mother’s arms, to escape the sudden wrongness that had descended on this place that was supposed to be safe, that had other children laughing and playing in it mere seconds ago. Her feet were suddenly pulled from beneath her and she pitched forward, barely catching herself on her hands and knees. The girl’s jump rope from earlier had coiled itself around her ankles, like a thick white snake. Isabel clawed wildly at it with shaking fingers. Her vision was too blurred with terrified tears to notice it twitching as she loosened loop after loop. Unraveling the last snag with one last desperate jerk of the handles, she leapt to her feet.

But something was wrong.

The rope was taut in her hands. With a slow, uncomprehending dread, her teary eyes followed it from her hands, frozen around the handles, to the dirt at her feet. The center of the cord was tethered to the ground, as if welded there. She merely stood, grounded by a disorienting confusion, blindly realizing that the handles were oddly warm and were quivering slightly in her fists—for a second too long. The rope jerked, as if the earth itself was playing tug-of-war with her. She stumbled forward. The ground before her feet opened up as the grass split open in a yawning maw of darkness. A picture from a book she’d read flashed into her mind, of a girl with yellow hair and a blue dress tumbling down, down, down into a pit after a white rabbit in a waistcoat. Isabel teetered on the edge of the hole, eyes wide and mouth open in noiseless terror. She could see that the sides of the hole were a fleshy pink color, wet and slimy-looking. A warm, wet wind rose up out of it. It smelled.

With a sickening certainty, she knew there was no tea party waiting for her at the bottom.

The ground closed up a moment later with a moist sound.

The grass suddenly looked a little greener and fuller, and the jungle gym had grown a new set of swings. The rusty patches on the benches shrunk and disappeared, and the seat beneath Isabel’s snoring mother straightened up, like new. The jump rope lay innocently on the ground, waiting. For a single moment before the adults began to stir awake, before the sounds of traffic returned to the air, before the trees resumed their feigned swaying in the wind, the park sat in heavy, satiated silence.

Unlike Isabel, it liked kids well enough.

#once again #I am in a bit of a dry spell #but I dug this out of my dusty old documents #this was part of an accepted arts-related application lol

0 notes

dirtfacedgospel · 7 months

Text

aesthetics.

canine. undying loyalty. straining against a leash that’s become a noose. hackles raised. sharp, bloody teeth. protective. a low, rumbling growl. a scarred street dog who was once a beloved family pet. fierce protectiveness. looking into the eyes of a bad dog, awful and afraid and so terribly alone, and seeing a mirror. bitter sadness. corrosive regret. despair so deep you could drown in it. grief masquerading as rage. a laugh that sounds more like a bark.

golden boy. a jersey that hasn’t seen the light of day in twenty years. voted most likely to succeed. a class ring that served as an engagement ring. a photo of a young boy and his father in a squad car. an academic award, tarnished and covered in dust. the type of nostalgia that makes your throat tighten. a police uniform still hanging in a closet. a rusted out basketball hoop in the backyard. feeling like a stranger in your childhood home. former classmates talking about the ‘big game’ you barely remember.

flask. sharp intelligence dulled by drink. bloodied knuckles. sleeping in two hour stretches. heavy breathing. cigarette smoke. a crick in your neck. mottled bruising. johnnie walker black. a splatter of blood in a motel sink. the taste of copper in the back of your throat. hot asphalt. the sound of a boot on gravel. external pain to drown out internal pain. coffee spiked with vodka. distant thunder. oppressive humidity. flashes of danger. self destruction disguised as heroics. a box labeled: do not open.

regret. an empty room that was supposed to become a nursery. returning an heirloom engagement ring. leaving weddings early. hearing voices. being unable to look your father directly in the eye. seeing the dead in the faces of the living. unachievable atonement. the taste of bile. a box of heirlooms with no recipient. a memorial inked in flesh. postcards sent to a fatherless child.

#[ i don't know what this is really i just love my boy ]#𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 ━━ [ benji mitchell. ]

1 note · View note

maneaterwithtail · 1 year

Text

In the middle of a world building debate on a jump chain Thread on space battles.com

Aehriman

What do they mean when they say silver and copper tarnish? That cannot happen absent sulfur, it must be a different process. But what?

Spiritual or mechanical intelligence doesn't require me to accept the existence of life without any of it's requirements or antecedents. Your body is about 18% carbon by weight, because it's the frame almost all large and complex molecules are held together with. Imagine if I showed you a clip of Times Square at rush hour and told you there is one small difference between this world and ours, in this one there is no such thing as bones. "But how does anything hold shape or walk upright?" You may ask. "None of these people look like they have an endoskeleton." This is a fraction of the problems GRRM made for himself to wave away something that didn't need explaining.

It makes about as much sense as saying that the number two and all even numbers do not exist in your story, please disregard every previous use of pairs and dozens or two of anything existing. Or that gravity doesn't exist. Fascinating hypotheticals, but as a minor detail in a story where otherwise things behave exactly as if everything existed by physical laws as we know it? The easiest explanation by far is that Martin has no clue what he's talking about or how anything works and is, in fact, full of saltpeter-to-be.

Aabbcc:

Poop comes up an awful lot in digimon, there are poop jokes galore, but it can't be the same thing we mean! It's made of digital fuckery!... it just looks, smells, behaves, and is in every aspect that matters, poop. And when digimon enter the real world, the poop they make and the jokes about it are exactly the same, without any distinction form being digital.

Me:

Uh, it does. Digimon or Bleach demand you accept the existence of an entire biosphere made of exotic bullshit, yet you can turn a human into a digital human or a spirit-made human and It Just Works. Or the Digimon goes to the human world and eats a ton of meat, then goes to the bathroom and poops so the series can make yet another joke about it. It Just Works.

---'

To we fear this all builds off of an apocryphical statement or at least a misinterpretation that George RR Martin said that in his world are the world of a song of ice and fire the chemicals needed for making a gunpowder do not exist. This was pointed out to be absolutely ridiculous especially as they can make alchemical fire at a bunch of other things.

If we go from this relatively minor change we would be exploring a massive change in the overall setting.

Someone used digimon as an example of don't think about it because often fantasy worlds employ a change and don't follow the implications. Needless to say I had to get my big boy pants on because I'm very serious and I care about very important things.

And oddly enough one of the enduring aspects of digimon the thing that's constantly captured my imagination and I found often is elaborated on not just in the fans but has been done so in the creative minds and producers and products been the fact that they actually are proposing a minor change that does nothing but follow the implications even if it follows along certain conventional lines

Namely yes there is a world that is simultaneously digital and yet has all the aspects and emulations of life and it interacts with our own and involves bonding with children and/or to either fulfill them and power them or for the children to become them or them to become like the children

The franchise is often psychotically diverse and thorough and exploring the implications of this premise which let's face it was basically an excuse to sell toys

All leading to the fact that I can genuinely say digimon is world building anunplotted and regularly typing on the concept or conceit of something on the same level of there is no gunpowder or the chemicals to make it in our world. Because we regularly run into the fact that yeah reality is in fact made out of hopes and dreams and this isn't necessarily in all good thing because several things that could be thought of as evil or demons from legendsThe imaginations of HP love craft or worse are the results of this weird interaction between dreams computers and our reality. It doesn't necessarily work all that well and it can have all sorts of crazy effects

And everyone's either trying to exploit it or prevent it from being exploited and doesn't even know how the things supposed to work and they have very big wars about this and suddenly something else happens that they don't know how to stop and all they can do was keep doing the practice that is kind of worked which is get a punch of heroic children cultivate their virtues and knowledge and efforts and hope They can verify the quanthe qualities that they can sort of measure and Analyze in order to have an outcome that stops whatever reality devouring glitch is going on this week

So yes on a certain level digimon does for its genre and peers through own its world building better than George RR Martin

So how off am I @prokopetz

That is explained.

the digital world is the umbra/realm of forms having made contact through the web. As such, especially first series, it's a hodgepodge of hypotheticals and emulations trying to be reality based off rumors.

And this isn't deepest lore. They eat and shit but also breakdown into data and reform and xan be reprogrammed.

It's a plausible new underlying influence or result of dimensions poorly interacting based on shit the closest thing to God doesn't know how works and is threading needles with human virtue and souls transubstatiated to code for patch jobs as stuff blossoms with kids at the center.

Heck just crossing over tends to cause reality breakdown from glitching transit systems, wild weather patterns, mirages, and lost timelines or broken gravity

In short our computers accidentally tapped something where the admin access reads brahma, YHWA, and that loser Panku that might be sealing the Outer gods, one who used his internet connection- originatingfrom the dark web's wet drawer- to try to mail order a bride from Japan, because of Course he did.

Digimon is meeting the standards of "gunpowder chemicals don't exist" and exploring through a commercial licensing brand the cosmic horror meets,weird fiction, or high fantasy of it all.

Physics literally *multiple times* bends to belief AND dreams in digimon.

And this is often a dangerous horrifying thing that gives rise to monsters. Like the dark spore kids and oikawa. Apocalypmon, millennium, the x-virus, and multiple reality resets because everyone has lost the plot and hope reality doesn't just...break down down forever

Also the multiverse is bleeding into each other and somehow Ryo is a lone crosstime contradiction sewn into a reality, maybe. A literal example of a retcon-ed in main character there just LOADED with cheat skills. I e. A jumper!

And he and localheroes needed a team of the expies of all the geniuses of the late 20th century lead by Jesus, who put himselfin a coma to study the emerging digital universe and hacked a vital monitoring device to make an avatar to steal and spread childrens playingcards, to make a compressing program to drain d reaper back into his ancient crypt before it deleted the universe in the name of system debugging

vital physical functions semi regularly developed minds and went rogue. The soul has programming presence. Time and history is edited and copied.

The gods are reincarnating to play put old grudges or rewrite a new ending for their legend or the world

Sora married Matt who went to Mars when aiming for the moon! Yolei is straight.

It's madness held together by sheer hopes and dreams and overworked technocrat overlords!

In short the world acts like its made contact with a digital reality that was stopped out of humanity's ID bridled by man's incomplete ego wielding the fires of (insert extant mythological force here) because previous users threw up their hands by the time modems and the Apple II came 2 be and popped open a crash course for job training before bouncing trying find the architects or battle the real issues in the guts.

0 notes

paperbackribs · 4 months

Text

A Tarnished Copper Boy

Previous | Next Last chapter, it was Spring Break 1986, Vecna was vanquished but Steve mysteriously disappeared when he touched the gate in Eddie's trailer.

Chapter 2: The Sentinel

Fall 1984

Eddie slams his school bag against the side of the couch before falling onto its worn cushions, huffing. It’s only day one into his repeat of senior year and he already wants to quit.

Today had been an unending exercise in patience after walking through the wide doors of Hawkins High, while also pretending not to experience the wash of humiliation for failing to graduate last year. Already thinking that he looks older and certainly feels older than most of the student body.

He'd caught glances from the former juniors too. Typically, being seen as the resident freak wouldn’t get to Eddie. He likes to court that sort of attention every now and then.

But the knowledge that he’s returned due to his own fuck up turned their scrutiny into tiny, pointed daggers stabbing across his back. It made his skin crawl and his van had squealed out of the parking lot minutes after the final bell rang.

An image of Wayne’s hopeful face fills his vision and Eddie’s head falls back against the arm with a groan. He had promised Wayne that he would try again and there is nothing he wouldn’t do for his uncle.

Glaring at the open bag, Eddie decides however that he doesn’t need to tackle it all immediately. Day one, he reasons to himself, pulling out his campaign notebook and pushing The Great Gatsby further into the depths of his backpack.

The scratch of his pen on paper is the only sound in the trailer as Eddie details his new idea about a township under siege. Afternoon sunlight spills past the curtains hanging on the window, the warm glow of it creating a soothing space as he determinedly forgets his day. Eddie faintly notes from its frantic barking that the Hamilton’s dog has spotted a cat when his calm is shattered.

A falling object slams from the ceiling to the floor. The thud echoes through the trailer and shudders under Eddie’s seat.

Pulse jumping in surprise he scrambles away from the moaning intruder sprawled face-down on the carpet. What the fuck, Eddie thinks, head whipping around in increasing shock, urgently looking for where the man had come from.

He’s half crouched, eyeing the front door, when the man struggles to push up onto his hands and knees, back facing Eddie. “Why’d you move the mattress?” He calls out irately.

The surprise of such a non-sequitur briefly knocks Eddie out of his fear and he peers closer, trying to make sense of this strange turn to his afternoon.

He’s just had a moment to take in the back of mud-splattered pants and a brown leather bomber jacket before the man bellows, “Christ!” He plunges to his side, kicking his legs in pain. “Shitting Christ,” he hisses, clutching at his sides. “Like a thousand fucking needles.”

The genuine pain in his voice has Eddie pausing from his bent position, warily watching and surprising himself as he asks, “Are you okay, man?” He immediately slaps a hand to his forehead: what idiot is concerned for the wellbeing of their home invader?

“Yeah,” the man eventually groans, rolling over onto his back and slowing his breathing. He gingerly rises, propping one hand behind him for support and running fingers through thick bronze locks. “Just a bad landing, is all,” Steve Harrington says in the middle of Eddie’s trailer.

Eddie absently wonders whether it’s his head tilting to the side or if it’s the world spiralling that has the ground swaying under him so abruptly. Either way, it does nothing to distract from the shock that’s rung through him like a slap to the face.

Steve’s eyes suddenly lock on Eddie and, bizarrely, a shadow of concern clouds his expression. “Shit,” he rushes to his knees, darting to hover over him, his palms raised like he doesn’t know where to touch first. “Are you okay? You shouldn’t be moving like that.”

Steve pushes him gently against the couch and, just as bizarrely, Eddie simply… lets him. The surprise of this entire situation numbing him into a blank compliance.

Steve presses his hands against the sides of Eddie’s torso, the warmth of it scalding through his thin shirt, before frowning and shaking his head. “No, it was…” He redirects his attention, staring intently at Eddie’s lap before starting to pat large palms against his legs. He frowns, “Where’s the blood?”

But it’s Steve’s thumb moving against the inside of his thigh—the intimacy of the inadvertent gesture—that finally jolts Eddie out of his shock and he slaps at Steve’s roving fingers with one hand and uses the other to push him away.

Unprepared for Eddie’s hasty resistance, Steve falls on his backside with an oomph, arms splaying behind him to keep himself upright. His face is one long crease, mouth downturned and brows furrowed. “Where are your injuries?” He asks urgently, eyes darting over Eddie’s exposed neck and collarbones.

“What injuries?” Eddie asks in exasperation, feeling like he’s going out of his mind.

Steve leans urgently forward, gesturing with a frantic hand. “The bats, man. You’re— that is, you were pumping blood out of those bites just a second ago. I thought Robin was going to puke if she had to look under your bandage one more time. Robin—” His head swivels, turning and twisting, trying to find—Eddie assumes—this Robin.

Under his warm tan, Steve pales even as his breathing picks up. “Where’s Robin? What about Dustin? Why—” His head snaps to the ceiling in a way that has Eddie wincing in sympathetic pain. He follows his eyeline but all he can see is the normal plain beige above them, and that small water stain that looks like Australia in the corner.

Steve’s wide eyes shoot back to Eddie, panic clear in their depths as they frantically take in every detail. He shifts back onto his knees, slowly reaching out to touch the end of Eddie’s hair, now long enough to just brush his shoulders. His fingers tremble. “Your hair, it’s so short. And…” He swallows, the gulp audible in the silence of the room, “You’re okay. The trailer is okay.”

He trails off, gaze turning inward before focusing on the curl pinched between his fingertips. “It hasn’t happened yet, has it.”

Steve’s face is inches from his own, enough that Eddie can feel the warmth of his breath as it washes over his skin. He’s not keen on how Steve’s invading his personal space but doesn’t have it in him to push someone away when they are so clearly freaking out.

The guy looks like he’s teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack. And the last thing he needs is some jock losing his mind in Eddie’s home; though, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s talked someone down from a bad trip.

Eddie sighs, he may not like or even really know Steve, but he doesn’t want to see him suffer either. “Steve,” Eddie says gently, trying to break through the fog clouding his expression, “What’d you take, man?”

That’s the first thing to figure out: has he been mixing with drinks, is it some bad shrooms, or a paranoid spiral from getting too baked? Eddie’s thinking something along the lines of acid if the guy is hallucinating bats big enough to take down a fully grown man.

Steve snorts, a bit of colour returning to his face as he drops Eddie’s curls, leaning back onto his heels. “No, man. I’m not high.” His head tilts back as he spears his fingers through his hair and Eddie struggles not to look too closely at the smooth skin stretched over his neck or the pretty little moles dotted across it.

“Not high, but I feel a little out of my mind. I think…” He curses, still staring up at the ceiling like it’s an oracle about to unveil otherworldly guidance. “I think I’m not in the right place or the right—” He stops like he can’t say it.

Eddie shifts uneasily against the couch. For the most part, Steve seems in his right mind, even if the contents of what he’s saying don’t make much sense.

His gaze narrowing, Eddie finally realises that the man in front of him also looks very different from the high school junior of last year. He appears roughed up, for one thing, with smudges of dirt smeared across a cheek and under his chin. And his jaw looks sharper and hair longer, more 70’s rebel than 1950’s greaser.

“The ‘right’ what?” Eddie asks softly, figuring it won’t hurt to play along and understand what’s making Steve stop and start his sentences like a stalling engine.

Plus, he’s sort of intrigued by this rugged version of the prep jock that he’s used to seeing in the hallways. The dissonance was disorientating at first, but he can’t deny that it’s a good look on him.

Steve gazes at Eddie’s shoulder-length hair again, dropping his eyes to the backpack against the couch that’s half open and spilling onto the floor, his school notepad and maths textbook peeking through. “Remind me, Eddie. What grade are you in right now?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, trying to think if they had any classes together today to justify the annoyance that runs through him. If nothing else, a returning senior is still noteworthy he thinks a little bitterly. “Come on, Harrington. It’s day one of our final year, don’t tell me you’ve checked out this early.”

“Right,” Steve nods to himself, Eddie’s irritation not even registering. “1984. You were at the desk in front of me in Click's. I’d catch you drawing your characters and monsters for Hellfire rather than taking notes.”

Eddie’s eyebrows fly up in surprise, “You know about Hellfire?”

Steve takes in Eddie’s expression, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Yeah man, my kids love that club.” He rolls up to his feet in an easy movement that has Eddie vaguely jealous.

Standing tall above Eddie with one hand curled around his hip he looks like he’s about to outline the Tiger’s new gameplan, Steve continues to explain, “I was a bit jealous at first, but Dustin loves it and really that’s what matters, right? Dustin…” He snaps his fingers, lips firming, “He’ll know what’s going on.”

“Uh, you might be thinking of some other club then, because we don’t have a Dustin,” Eddie says.

Steve’s smile deepens, a small secretive thing like he’s laughing at a joke that Eddie may not know but oddly he doesn’t feel like it’s at his expense either. “No, not yet. You’ll love him though.” He hums thoughtfully, “It’s hard not to like the little butthead. Hey, you have the van yet?”

Eddie blinks from the abrupt change of topic and at Steve as he unerringly strides to the space on the wall by the front door. “Yeah?” He says, confused as Steve plucks the Chevrolet’s chain from the hooks where he and Wayne keep their keys.

It’s out in the open so Eddie’s not exactly shocked that Steve went there first, but his confidence at finding the location in one go is weird.

Eddie supposes the ghoul figurine that he had painted and tailored to work as a key chain makes it even more obvious since Steve Harrington apparently knows about Dungeons and Dragons and thus can guess that the monster hanging on the hook is likely Eddie’s.

Eddie, who he has noticed in class. Or will. He’s not sure about the whole thing concerning Mrs Click’s class since they didn’t have history today.

The jarring difference between Steve’s words against reality must be the reason that Eddie feels a half step behind, which is also why it takes a moment to launch into action when Steve twirls the key ring around one blunt finger before stepping out of the trailer. The screen door slaps shut behind him.

“Hey!” Eddie calls out, scrambling after him only to find that Steve is waiting outside. He moves Eddie gently down the steps with his hands around his biceps before turning to close the door. After the quiet snick of the lock turning, he presses the keys into Eddie’s hand. “Give me a lift?”

Eddie closes his gaping mouth and nods dumbly. Sure, why not, he thinks, swallowing down a giggle at the ridiculous circus his afternoon has devolved into. Steve jogs over to the unlocked van door and launches himself onto the passenger seat, wincing and grabbing at his side with a soft curse.

Eddie frowns as he follows him into the driver’s side, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Steve just smiles, pushing a hand back to rap against the passenger window, “You should lock your car door, man. It’d be pretty easy to hotwire, right?”

Staring at Steve, whose tongue is firmly in his cheek and looking less lost and more amused, Eddie wonders aloud, “What is even happening right now?”

“Ignore me,” Steve shakes his head, eyes glimmering with humour. “Can you get to Piney Wood Drive off of Church Street?”

Eddie nods slowly, not completely sure about why he’s allowing himself to be directed by Steve’s whims. He thinks that a sort of morbid curiosity for this mystery is pulling him along like metal fillings drawn to a shiny magnet.

“Sure,” he finally answers, turning the key. Judas Priest blasts from the stereo and Rob Halford growls about the growing storm. Eddie reverses off the gravel while Steve reaches over to turn the volume down, but surprisingly doesn’t flick it off.

Steve doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looking out at the blur of houses past the window and tapping his finger against the car door in time with the beat. “Is this Ozzy?” He asks.

Eddie blinks at the stop sign they’ve paused at, “You know Black Sabbath?” Has his soul left his body? Maybe Eddie’s the one tripping balls back at home because surely Steve doesn’t know Black Sabbath.

“Not really,” Steve chuckles. “I just know he’s pretty metal — bit a bat onstage, right?”

Again with the bats. “You have a thing for small flying marsupials?” Eddie turns left onto Highland Drive, slowing down as an older couple cross the middle of the street. “I don’t think they are. Marsupials, that is.” Steve gestures to his stomach, “No, uh, pouches, right?”

Eddie reroutes his thoughts to safer, saner places than a world where he’s being taught species characteristics by someone he’s fairly sure he’s not exchanged two words with before today. He decides to flip the script instead, “No, this is Judas Priest. The Sentinel.”

“Is that a D&D reference?”

Eddie huffs in disbelief, “No, it’s the song title. It’s about a protector that’s ready to defend against any threat. He’s pretty badass, has blades and everything.”

“Sounds like D&D,” Steve snorts as Eddie turns down Church Street.

Eddie inclines his head, “Touche. Now, where are we heading?” Steve directs him to the top of the incline on Piney Wood Drive where a cluster of birch trees surround a wide, single-storey house. The peaks of the roof charmingly peer out between the tall, white trunks like a little hobbit home.

And it’s as the house’s entrance swings open—Eddie helpless to do anything but follow behind Steve at this point—that he finds himself in front of a little hobbit as well.

A pipsqueak pulls the door back with a demanding sort of energy, his face is framed by tight brown curls shoved under a blue and white baseball cap and when he opens his mouth to speak, Eddie sees that his top front teeth are missing. “Steve?”

“Dustin!” Steve steps forward and roughly pulls the kid into his arms. Dustin’s expression looks like an echo of Eddie’s earlier bewilderment, but he gingerly reaches a small hand up to awkwardly pat him on the back.

Steve hangs there for an extra second before roughly clearing his throat and standing up again, though his hand continues to rest on Dustin’s shoulder. “Buddy,” he says, “You’ve got to help me out here: I’m a freaking time traveller.”

(This will have a similiar release schedule to The Gift, with Ao3 always updated first :) )

Tag list under the cut

My taglist is always open, so let me know if you want to be added. Likewise, if you want to be removed, let me know. :)

@bookworm0690, @cinnamon-mushroomabomination, @ellietheasexylibrarian, @finntheehumaneater, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @hallucinatedjosten, @just-a-tiny-void, @ledleaf, @littlewildflowerkitten, @manda-panda-monium, @mightbeasleep, @nburkhardt, @newtstabber, @stillfullofshit, @tartarusknight

#steddie #time travel #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #a tarnished copper boy #paperbackribs writing

58 notes · View notes

listwjanka · 1 year

Text

The Agnes Incident

"Wanted to congratulate ya on this month's stellar report, Ilyich."

Ever-bleary-eyed Pascal Ilyich Djetr let Matej's words settle, much like the freshly stirred dust, moved by the agitated young man's boisterous entry into the dank, poorly-lit canteen.

"'S not end of the month yet, Veliczka. Report's not out. Not that diligent, they aren't."

One mustn't assume that Ilyich was any more diligent than the wardens he loved to bleat about, bereft of any other fruitful leisure activity. One can, however, assume that, by the tarnished glimmer of his eyes, back when Ilyich's face was not a mountainous landscape of folds and long-dried out rivers, he was in love with his work and the many wonders of the world.

"I don't know, it looks like they just couldn't help themselves this month!" Matej's bloodshot stare beneath greasy, auburn hair fixated on Ilyich expectantly as the elderly man deliberately reached forward to take the stack of papers brought in by Veliczka.

The wardens, all three younger than either man, were sat in a corner of the canteen playing Durak, occassionally eyeing their prisoners, but overall not paying them much heed. The card game was usually more enthralling than the depressing drudgery of their herd. This time, however, they found their interest roused.

Ilyich's knotted fingers leafed through the papers, his other hand weakly holding the metal spoon that came with the thin lunch soup. As he progressed through the report, the cutlery was put down to the side.

"That girl," Ilyich murmured, "on Beast of Burden, was she?"

[...] today, another spy of the Empire's enemies was felled by our brave comrades of Campsite Zhet.

Agnes Balder had infiltrated the Campsite three years ago with forged credentials. After her ruse was uncovered, her flight attempt was stopped by our engineer's finest: a flint- and powder-powered firearm specifically made to subdue faraway targets. [...]

"She was no spy. This is disgusting, deplorable propaganda! That weapon," Matej hissed, "you made it, didn't you?"

Ilyich breathed deeply, his body sinking into itself like his bones were slowly disappearing. The flintlock-mechanism rifle prototype was a half-hearted iteration on an idea discarded a hundred times over, nothing more but a hobbyhorse to pass the time in the subterranean cells that masqueraded as laboratories. The engineering team knew this - what point was there in manufacturing such things when even the most simple, arse-brained recruit who passed alchemical training could ignite a reinforced copper rifle outfitted with a simple aether accelerator and the slightest bit of concentration? The flintlock was an over-expensive waste of time. A deadly plaything for excited boys that burnt its user's hands and worked about once every halfmoon as it should.

Unfortunately, even the least useful of inventions yet claim lives in the idle hands of butchers.

Ilyich brooded quietly over the papers, but his gaze kept glossing over the words; he wished he could feel something for the young woman, however, his thoughts kept circling back to his flintlock, for all intents and purposes, succeeding. How immature the mechanism was. How the shooter didn't catch fire from the ignition. Some poor sod dies every day, not every day does one of his inventions function properly.

"Matej, why did she run?"

The interjection came from Gennadi Petrov, who, up until this point, had sat in a damp corner supping his broth. Petrov was a rotund character, skin like eggwhite, hairless from crown to neck, with thin lips always curled into a smile, even if a situation held no humour whatsoever.

"She carried your child, is that not so?"

Young Veliczka slumped visibly and Petrov gave him a paternal nod. "Yes, yes, why else would a young girl run straight from prison camp, with what they do to the labourers' infants, if born within these vile walls? With her flight sealing her fate, you ought to have joined her, you know? Make them pick their target. Perhaps then, she and your child would have made it out safely."

"I... I would have joined her, had I known she'd run that night! Wh-what is it to you, you old bastard?"

Petrov's smile widened ever so slightly as Matej's voice trembled with anxiety; Gennadi, the disgraced clergyman, now stripped of all honorofics, still had eye and ear for a coward's deceit and a sinner's unease.

"What is it to me, indeed? She's just another traitorous pig on the pyre, now."

As Veliczka's face turned red from the blood boiling upward, sinewy arms readying a strike and fury racing through muscle fibers, Petrov cut him off: "You're a young lad still. Don't take the propaganda to heart if you want to make it past thirty."

"THAT WAS MY FIANCÉE, you FILTHY WHORESON-"

In the meantime, two of the wardens had leisurely put their cards aside, face-down of course, and made their way to rampaging, heart-broken Matej. Before the young man could lay his hands on Petrov, his thin frame was held in place; not for Petrov's safety, but because none of the staff wanted to risk a pay cut for potentially damaged canteen furniture.

"We all knew Agnes," Petrov muttered somberly, "it just doesn't matter anymore who she was. What she did. If the Empire wills it, she will be remembered as a serial murderer or a carrier pigeon." For the briefest of moments, Petrov's sly smirk vanished: "Don't be a fool and fight Camspite Zhet over their choice of presentation; there's naught but failure down that pa- GLRK-!"

The third warden, barely post-pubescent and built wide like an outhouse, had joined the commotion and pressed Petrov's face right into his soup bowl; he and his comrades left the canteen laughing, carrying out struggling Matej who was screaming vulgarities.

"Pissants," Petrov swore while taking out a filthy handkerchief to dry off his face. "Pigsucking twats. I think there's soup in my nose."

"Gennadi, I think he blames me. For the girl's death. 's my flintlock, after all." Ilyich's voice was quiet and as thin as the soup.

"Twin's bollocks, Pascal, don't tell me you were taking him seriously. He's a grieving animal lashing out. He can't very well lop the Emperor's head off, so he was just going for yours."

Taking a deep breath, the disgraced clergyman made to cleaning his ragged prisoner's garb, unceasingly venting to his learned colleague. "Foolish kid. He's still got a chance of getting out of here, get his name back, his papers. it's too late for you and me. And he's not being rational one bit! it's not our fault all the magnificent fruits of our mind are used and abused by these violent cretins!"

The men sat in silence for a while until Ilyich muttered: "'s strange. You know. That it worked. 's ... nice."

"The flintlock?"

"Aye," he answered. "Shame about the girl and all. But. Maybe there's still a spark a' somethin in these old bones of mine."

Unceremoniously, Petrov blew his nose, jettisoning a cubic piece of carrot that had found itself stuck in his nostril. Casually compartmentalising the disgraceful display, he then straightened down his shirt as if it were the habit of fine alabaster silk that he used to wear in service. "Yes, well, it would do all of these miscreants good to remember that we labourers at the Campsites are the magnificent engine room of Solan's foul imperial vessel."

They were both still hungry after lunch.

#my writing #the knight and the alchemist

0 notes

stepsbeforethefall · 1 year

Text

he smiled

his mouth full of bloody teeth

and you could almost taste the sharp copper that coated his tongue

you looked away

worried for the boy you raised

or worse, afraid of him

you couldn’t look anymore

tarnish the image of your baby boy

head full of curls

eyes full of curiosity

chubby fists full of makeshift toys

crown now dripping with sweat

eyes full of impossible greed

dirty nails pushing crescents into dirty palms

this wasn’t your boy.

this wasn’t your son.

his own father no longer recognized him.

he saw this.

saw the fear in his father’s eyes.

but he pushed on as your warnings died on your tongue

he saw you

and knew there was no going back

his bloody smile grew wider

you watched as his eyes grew larger and his cheeks turned burning red

and he was out of reach

you watched him

this monster wearing the skin of your son

and he never looked back

and you never looked away

as your son tumbled

from the sun

into the sea

and you didn’t turn back

0 notes

shiftingexpanse · 4 years

Text

Mmm kai can have a little new dragon, as a treat

Meet Acamar! Ex-navigator turned wild west yeehaw. She’s incredibly sharp and not above a little crime if it suits her fancy—she’s got a moral code of steel, but no one’s quite sure what exactly that moral code is. If you need someone to set you on the right path, she’s your gal, but watch out... her price for that information might be steep

#flight rising #dragon share #d: acamar #this was a sober impulse purchase. I just LOVEd the colors #tarnish / spruce / copper opal is a god tier combo ok #and she was the only one listed for a reasonable price #(obviously not a g1. no new g1s for me until I finish expensive halloween boy)

43 notes · View notes

mittenyaare · 3 years

Text

Stained

Makalaurë has cut himself to bleeding before. He has played the harp until both strings and fingers were dyed red with pearls of blood. He has carved instruments from wood with sharpened blade and worked for a time to learn the basic skills of smithing in his father's forge. Each has drawn blood from his body, like lttle red droplets of thick, viscous rain, a price such crafting has extracted, a stain of red.

There is a price for every craft, every creation. Usually the price paid is not so high to account, to regret overlong.

The white beaches of Alqualondë sit beneath a bright, starry sky, and all Kanafinwë can see is a stain of red. Red blood staining the sands, red blood staining the silver hair of the Teleri he has slain. Red staining his hands with the blood of kin he has sent to Mandos' Halls.

The price of his death-craft is not only small raindrops of crimson, but floods and waterfalls and pools of lifeblood which does not belong to only (barely) him.

It is the first time a craft has stained his Fëa in such a dark, rich color. Swearing his father's oath, he had felt himself (and his brothers) call a shadowy stain upon their souls and bind it with unbreakable chains, but the color hadn't saturated yet.

At Alqualondë, he discovers the color the stain of that terrible oath is dyed in, and silently weeps when he finds a moment alone aboard stolen ships.

Over five centuries of the sun later and Maglor can still see the stain of kin-blood on his hands. In his dreams (nightmares) the red, red blood of the Teleri mixes with the white sand beaches of Alqualondë and the bright blue waters of the sea.

Over five centuries of the sun later, Maglor adds more red dye to his already blood-soaked hands in the fair halls of Menegroth in Doriath. The Thousand Caves are drowned in blood and Maglor cannot grieve his three lost brothers without also thinking their deaths more justified than those of the Doriathrim.

(If a part of him wishes to cleanse the red stains upon his soul through death, well, not being granted such is the price he pays. He is too good a warrior, too good a Singer, and death, he knows—whether to Mandos' Halls or the Everlasting Darkness—would be an escape.)

He does not, will not, cannot die.

What has he become, he thinks as he looks to his bloodied hands, /stained, stained, stained/ with the blood of innocents and kin.

What has he become that the crimson chains which bind his soul to evil acts are the chains which keep his Fëa from fleeing his Hröa? What has he become but a stain upon a once green and fertile land of peace fastly becoming a poisoned, black earth?

He is a stain. A stain which tarnishes his noble, elven grace. A stain of crimson-shadowed evil which bleeds red himself. He is a stain of evil acts when he should be a light and voice of hope and salvation.

The skin of Maglor's hands are milk-white, but he can only see the permanent stain of red upon them.

Blood for blood, as they say. Maglor thinks rather twins for twins.

His youngest brothers, copper-haired both, exchange their deaths for two little half-elven boys with night-dark hair and silver, starlit eyes.

Sirion is at once both familiar and more terrible than any other betrayal Maglor has played part in before.

Sirion burns as its streets and alleys and hidden coves run rivers of death and blood. The flames are bright, hot red, another stain added to the many Maglor has collected since leaving the land of his peaceful youth, since rejecting and renouncing his home.

And his soul is further blackened as he and Maedhros carry two little stars away from what was the last safe haven in continental Beleriand. A safe place they had come to destroy as the continued price for chains of blood and shackles of words of power sworn centuries ago.

Amrod and Amras escaped, either to darkness or the Halls, but Maglor did not, could not, die. He knew then, with a terrible dread that sounded as a rung gong of bronze, that he would not die.

Death would be a release of his collected stains, his sins, and it would not be enough of a price to pay for his crafting of death and ruin. Of his making of grief and despair.

But, oh! how he learned to love those boys, his hostages turned sons, and oh how he stained that love in return for how it had begun.

The first time Elrond and Elros call him Atto he blinks. The shock is a visible stain of crimson light in his vision and salt-water gathering in his eyes. His hoarse whisper of "yonya" is scratched from a dry throat as if opening wounds and is wet with the blood of what he has created in blood.

A family, one he does not, will not, cannot deserve.

Red-haired twins exchanged for dark-haired boys. A father and a mother exchanged for two kidnappers turned foster-fathers. Two sons in the place of children he might have has with the wife he left behind (and who has probably, deservedly, renounced him).

His family is a stain of red—even the Fëanorian colors have always been so—and he cannot escape it.

Should not, will not.

When Maedhros chooses his end, his own escape, after the shining white gems their father created laid judgement upon their palms, Maglor turns to the shore with his treelit eyes blurred and the acrid scent of burning flesh and blood assaulting his lungs.

The silmaril burning his hand is not a surprise but rather an expectation, he thinks as he forcibly lobs the stone into the sea, giving it over to the Lord of Waters.

The Queen of All's very visible, very painful scar pronouncing justice is merely another added stain to the collection he has gathered since he set out to leave Aman.

Maglor's body is as his soul, stained and scared, and most of each chosen by him alone.

He knows what he is—has always known—and will live for however long he does as he carries the stains he has dyed himself red and black with.

#maglor #silmarillion #kinslayings #Tolkien #silmarils as a judge

33 notes · View notes