#monstrosity/alterity as something to embrace &love

[loriache]

kabru definitely IS human, like i dont doubt it for a second. i mean his parent isnt a fucking bee lmao it’s atavism or smth like milsiril suggests.

but there is such a big part of me that thinks about the parallels with the winged lion he has, his deep sense of alienation and fear of being a monster, and wants to explore what it would do to his psyche if he had to reckon with a monstrous origin or monstrous traits

there are so many options. made into a chimera… something wrt his origin…. personally im partial to some setup wherein he is the result of a demon wish in the vein of the winged lion offering to Give Marcille Children. the dungeon in utaya went through a lot of lords. it probably wasnt where he was born since his mum ran away from his dads family but you could finesse that part. it would evoke the succubus - incubus - demon connection and also explode his self image. also the demon totally would give you a child with a trait that isolated you from your support network

but like idk if this jives thematically….. i just don’t know….. but it’s a fun Imagination Palace. it would really put kabru in the torment nexus, but i think he could grow through it. laios would be So Jealous lmao

[whisperingexecutioner]

“Maternal” | Pesanta drabble (RE4)

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Summary:

A moment of solace between the Black Robe and a lost village boy.

Notes:   

Fandom: Resident Evil 4 (remake) Setting: Lakeside Settlement (location) Pairing: N/A Theme: Hurt/Comfort/Fluff Prompt: Comfort Attire: The usual robe

Inspiration: Just wanted to write something special for everyone's favorite bb gorl; Pesanta genuinely deserves more love~

Rating: sfw

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Pesanta studied the young boy's startled expression, his clear, doll like silver eyes meeting her amber gaze. Her appearance clearly frightened the child, but he hadn't ran. Maybe if she hadn't been gifted with such a vicious countenance, then he wouldn't be peering at her in such a way. Such trivial things as physical appearance were no longer a matter of her concern.

The child though...   

Catching a hint of rising panic in his eyes when she tried to further approach him, she opted to change course, instead lowering herself to one knee. It was fairly obvious that her mere presence alarmed the boy, but he seemed -to some degree- at least a little less distressed now that she was closer to eye level with him. She sighed, a soft rumbling sound leaving her as she did so. He couldn't be more than six or seven years old. To think that a single child had survived so long in this accursed village and was seemingly untouched by its plague was remarkable, and nothing short of a miracle. The young boy was so very different than Ramon, both in looks and demeanor, but Pesanta couldn't help herself from feeling a deep sorrow at the memories he mustered up within her. The many sleepless nights, that icy feeling in her heart that never quite went away. It was a stab of regret for the one time she wasn't present when her former master, her charge, needed her the most. His infatuation with that blonde agent driving him to act arrogantly, coupled with her own failure to protect him, had cost the young count his life. Her absence had been an error, a fatal mistake that she would undoubtedly take with her to her grave. There was no atonement to be made, no way to undo that which was already done but, perhaps here, in this abandoned child, she might be able to find some small measure of comfort. Perhaps even long awaited peace. 

The child visibly stiffened as Pesanta waved toward him, motioning for him to come closer, and, though greatly apprehensive, he began to draw nearer. After a few more moments of careful deliberating and creeping bird-like steps, the boy was finally within arm's reach. Pesanta released a chest-deep sigh, slowly, calmly expelling the held breath. Lifting her gaze from the ground to his face, she once again caught sight of his striking silver-gray eyes. She continued to stare into those weary depths, easily getting lost in their beauty and the lonely child-like innocence that only one of such youth could possess. Ramon had been young once, and much kinder were those days. The days which she sometimes yearned to return to even if they were all but lost to anyone now. Who are you? she can hear him suddenly asking in Italian, voice a shy quiver. Are you...alone? His tone is light, quiet, like the echo of some lost memory returning. Tilting her head slightly to one side, Pesanta rumbled out a low, in-human response, knowing full well he probably wouldn't understand her. She was different now, her body, one that had once been nothing more than human, now greater resembled those of the monstrosities that roamed this place at night. Her altered vocal cords were no longer capable of human speech, and thus produced more animalistic tones and noises. Regardless... Shortly after the verbal exchange had taken place, Pesanta took a bold step, snaking both lanky arms around the child and pulling him into a motherly embrace. He was so small, delicate, a thing altogether precious and equally irreplaceable. For a moment there was a trace of dread crawling across his features, but it quickly vanished. Following his brief trepidation, the boy allowed himself to slowly relax, relishing in the warmth radiating from his new companion. Pesanta cast a glance downward just as the young lad began to lean close, pressing his small frame into her lavish silken robes. Folding both sleeves about him, she held him close, finding a proper setting position and making herself comfortable. Currently being this close to the docks offered a perfect view of the late evening sky, and it was already growing late. By the time the first vibrant streaks of red and pink were tearing across the blue of dusk, the child was already asleep and Pesanta was settling in to watch what was quite possibly the most beautiful sunset she had seen in years. The magnificent sight increased two-fold as its colorful reflection stretched out over the lake, and for the first time in quite a long time, Pesanta remembered, in a small measure, what peace felt like.

[apalestar]

There is but a moment of hesitation before Colette reaches out and takes her fellow rogue's wrist in her hand. She stops him from walking too much further ahead of her, and before he can turn around or address her or...really anything, she wraps her arms around his torso. Hugging him from behind so she couldn't see his face. She didn't want to see if there was shock or possibly disdain or...any negative reaction.

"...I'm sorry you got hurt on my watch...I'll do better next time...I promise..." Her voice is soft. There is a tightness welling in her chest as she closes her eyes tightly, trying to push the image of him falling from her mind. The blinding rage she had felt when he moved no longer had been overwhelming and left the battlefield covered in carnage. It took Shadowheart calming her emotions and Gale bringing her back from her dissociative state. She wouldn't let it happen. Not again.

@notyetfixed nothing says I love you like letting you fall in battle

Hurt? Hurt an understatement of what transpired. A monstrosity woken from slumber. Five looming eyes and the petrified Drow come to life. Gale had warned her not to venture further ahead. The wizard felt and recognized magic when he saw it. Colette, however, pressed ahead. He suffered for the folly. The memory a hazy one filled with a scorching pain lancing and sparking up his spine. The dying gasp of his nerves lit asunder. The cold, loving embrace of darkness cradled him. Held him close. Whispered longingly into his ear like a well known lover.

The tadpole altered the rules. A vampire slain by common weaponry and magic he became. Freedom at a cost.

Only the taste of blood on his lips spared him from slipping further. In his delirium he didn’t recognized the donor. Lost in his senses to pain and death. But it had worked. The sanguine elixir restarted the undead vigor that kept him animate. Kept him in a state of undeath.

The warmth about his waist stilled the fury and fear in his veins. Replaced it with something else as his body stiffened from the unexpected, but caring touch. The caress and hold during sex he could endure. The pain and torture of torn flesh and broken bone he knew well. But something tender and gentle with dare he say feeling behind it? That sent his mind skittering along something he had no name for.

Astarion finally reacted. Hand rose to pat against the one laid across his torso. A poor attempt at a calming motion for he wasn’t accustomed to comforting others; a language strange and altogether foreign to him. “There. There.” He tutted. “I’m still aliv— moving aren’t I? Next time try not to do something so stupid. Dying once was enough, thank you. I’d rather not revisit it a second time.”

He hadn’t dislodged her at least. And by the Nine Hells despite the damning circumstance that brought this one, it, this embrace, felt rather nice.

[named-jiang-or-wang]

SHANG-CHI (2021) Fan Revision

In my previous posts in @welcome-to-the-cafe I posted multiple rants about the movie itself. (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3). For such a great movie, there were still some flaws, which I will attempt to correct here.

Large fish first.

I hated the final CGI fest. Not the Ten Rings battle between Wenwu and Shang-chi, the one with ugly CGI monstrosity. "Dweller in the Darkness", for a name so mysterious, the result sure was a pretty generic bat-winged western dragon-shaped bastard. Really, as soon as it popped out of the cave, it stopped being scary; it stopped doing the one thing that made it more frightening than Wenwu, which was telepathically manipulate Wenwu using his dead wife's voice. That shit was creepy! Why stop it for the climax?? We need to involve the Ten Rings themselves in its creepiness. They should be empowered directly by the Dweller and dark feelings, and the Rings should partially transfer to Shang-Chi at his lowest, most-rage filled moment.

Plus, for all of the Chineseness of the rest of the movie, the Dweller in the Darkness looked incredibly Western. I can't think of one thing it references in Chinese mythology, which was strange since Morris does! It's a Hundun （混沌）, one of the Four Perils (四凶), why not use another one of them, like the Qiongqi (穷奇）. Especially the Qiongqi, since it supposedly eats people, so we can keeping the soul-sucking mechanic.

The little bat-spawns are also poorly-designed, and not fun to watch the martial artist army fight. Martial arts are meant to fight other people, by the Heavens, not weird flying tentacle things. Why is Ta Lo's training anti-human instead of anti-monster? Because anti-human training looks cooler. And we can keep that, with a solution I'll explain after complaining about the Dragon.

The CGI Kaiju battle between the dragon and dweller was cinematic, but it eliminated the kung fu from the final fight, reducing both Shang-Chi and Xialing to boring dragon riders. The dragon wasn't really something that deserved to be a character. I get that Shang-Chi is supposed to have his 'awakening' moment, where he embodies the dragon his mother teaches him about at the beginning of the movie. But the dragon doesn't have to be "real", it should be more of a spirit that goes into him, or comes out of his heart and empowers his body. Either way, it should be more of an internal instead of external dragon. This better reflects the internal emotional conflict of Shang-Chi, his guilt over not saving his mother and then doing terrible things to get revenge; he has to let that go, accept her loss, and with that, he can let his inner dragon out. Just like...shit, just like in Kung Fu Panda 3 lmao.

So what are my solutions to the climax?

1) Make Dweller in Darkness possess Wenwu. Or suck his soul, and then take his shape. Maybe even take the shape of the mother as well at first!

2) Make the little soulsuckers transform into shadow martial-artists. They still can only be killed by dragon weapons.

3) Make the dragon a spirit that rises out of the water that goes into Shang-Chi and Xialing, enabling them to fight Wenwu/Dweller more evenly.

Here's my altered sequence of events.

The 5 humvees still arrive, the small skirmish between the Ten Rings and the villagers still happen (without the giant lions). Wenwu and Shang-Chi still duke it out, and Wenwu knocks him away. Wenwu makes the big leap to the sealed cave, and Xialing and the aunt notice. The aunt activates a magic thing that raises a giant bridge from the depths of the water and Xialing crosses over to fight her dad. Wenwu pounds the door a bit more, and the Dweller's minions shoot out in black mist, forming into humanoid shapes that begin fighting the villagers and Ten Rings.

Meanwhile, Shang-chi is having a flashbacks in the water of killing his mother's murderer, in the process, one of the Ten Rings that is knocked away during Xialing and Wenwu's fight finds its way into the water and revives Shang-Chi. He joins the fight just as Xialing is knocked aside, apparently over the cliff. Shang-Chi loses it, and fights his father more brutally, until 5 of the rings transfers to him. They whisper to him to make his father pay, and he knocks his father into the door, shattering it, and seemingly killing Wenwu. Shang-Chi is appalled at what he's done, and he collapses and drops his 5 rings. He hears his sister calling for help, and he rushes over to see her hanging off the edge of the cliff. He can't reach her, and he cries to her that he's sorry for everything. Xialing forgives him for abandoning her before, saying that him coming to Macau meant a lot, and that their mother would be proud of him. With effort, he pulls her up, while the 5 rings to his father who rises from the rubble. Shang-Chi said their mother wouldn't be proud after what he's done for revenge, but Xialing tells him that he needs to accept what has happened.

Wenwu looks triumphant at the open gateway, but a dark mist spills in front of him and take the rough shape of his wife. He is about embrace her, but she grabs him around the wrist and possesses him through the Rings. Dweller uses Wenwu's and Ying Li's voices to taunt Shang-chi and Xialing.

Shang-chi finally lets go of his guilt and stops "running away". The spirit of the dragon rises from the sea and goes into him and his sister, empowering them. They double-team the Dweller/Wenwu until he blows them back with "Enough!". The little soulsuckers return with their spoils, strengthening the Dweller, and now he has the advantage. He defeats both of them, holds Shang-chi down, trying to steal his soul. Xialing is trying to pull him away. Shang-chi looks his father in his eyes and tells him he forgives him and he is still a good man. This awakens Wenwu inside the Dweller, and in one dramatic moment, transfers the Ten Rings to his son. With this, Shang-chi knocks Wenwu/Dweller back, and Xialing restrains him with the ropedart. Shang-chi performs exorcism, deleting Dweller forever, but Wenwu is mortally wounded. He tells Shang-chi and Xialing that he loves them, and he will tell their mother how proud he is of them, then dies.

Rest of the movies is the same.

Oh, we do need to deal with the secondary characters.

Katy shouldn't be good at archery, but could save Guan Bo/Razorfist/Death Dealer in a key moment, maybe just by tacking. She could do more to counsel Shang-Chi and Xialing before their big moments.

Death Dealer was wasted. Unique, memorable design (if kinda half-assed), only to be ignominiously soulsucked first by CGI uglies. He is basically Shang-chi's primary martial arts tutor, so should know a variety of martial arts styles. To incorporate his opera mask (a full-faced one), and add even more mystery, he should be a bianlian (变脸), a Chinese facechanger, and for each face he has a different kungfu style. This could be used to semi-humorous effect, with mocking faces and angry faces. And a Monkey King face when he's using a staff! We should not see the glint of his eyes. Before Xialing runs across the bridge to fight Wenwu, she should have a showdown with Death Dealer to show she did learn kung fu even without him. They fight to standstill, until the aunt steps in and they kick his ass together. I think he should live too, and have a team up with the aunt to delete soulsuckers.

Oh I know now, Katy, Morris and Slattery should have a comical chase/fight with Razorfist. He screams "You! I recognize you from the bus! And you stole my car!!!", and he charges at them, ignoring everyone else. They find a way to beat him up, and think they've lost him, but he gets back up and almost has them, until the soulsucker bois nab him. Katy, being a good person, fires and arrow and saves his ass.

These, and some aesthetic changes, like giving the young mom a thin flowy cloth mask instead of her noisy bamboo one, would bring the movie up from a 7.5 to a 9.5 for me.

[fortune-fool02]

The Void

Dark Jonathan Joestar x female reader

Warnings: angst, possessive behaviour, manipulating

This was inspired by a conversation I had with the incredible @ymisiposts so please give her credit as well as I used some of her parts for this, mainly the role of the reader and the ending! Please enjoy.

Silent tears pricked her [Eye colour] orbs as she peered around the corner down the shadow engulfed corridor. Ice cold fear raked its ragged claws around her body and plucked at her nerves like a harp, her body shaking despite her best efforts to stop it.

Any trace of warmth or light had been snatched out of the air, leaving it hollow and dark, shadows thriving with life as a result, spreading their tendrils around the building like moss, consuming all in its path. Taking a shaky breath, she stepped forward, a skittish rabbit searching for the wolf that stalked her from within the shadows, wide fearful eyes alter for any movement that was not hers. Each step she took made the anxiety in her stomach twist more and more, a blade piercing through her with each step. 

Her heart drummed against her chest, threatening to break out as she continued down the dark corridor. The silence was deafening, not a single sound could be heard. Her sears strained to detect any sound other than her own heart and the soft patter of rain against the windows. She could do this. She had to. Otherwise she will never escape his grasp, the chains he tangled her in that pulled her straight back to him. 

How had she gotten tangled up in this dark web? He was so kind and sweet, an absolute delight to be around. Someone who could lift your spirits when you were feeling down and was always able to make her smile. Yet, it was just a front, a mask he had spent so long building and perfecting to fool the most guarded of people. Underneath the smiles, the bright eyes and the sweetness was something dark and twisted, lurking beneath the waves and waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. That moment being when he had his prize. Her. 

Those warm arms that held her in a loving embrace were now a vice iron grip, keeping her from fleeing from him; the crushing hold of a boa constrictor, one that refused to let its prey escape. The sweet, kind words he would whisper to her crawling around her mind like spiders, running around and burrowing into her brain, making her question and doubt things she believed in wholly. And those eyes.... Those warm, soft eyes that once melted her heart and held a light to them that could surpass the stars themselves were now nothing like them. In their place were windows to a black void that seeked to drain every ounce of hope, joy and happiness from your soul, in place of his once soft beautiful eyes.

The man in this building, somewhere, was not the man she knew and loved. No, it was something else entirely. And that was why she needed to escape this God-forsaken place. The soft patter of rain against the windows grew heavier, almost desperate somehow, plucking at her nerves again. It was just rain, nothing else. Calm down, you need to think clearly if you want to escape, [Name] thought to herself. A cold shiver ran down her spine, the prickling feeling of eyes on her made her heart almost break through her ribs. Wide, [Eye colour] orbs darted around her, searching for the eyes upon her to find nothing but shadows, though the feeling remained. 

Turning on her heel, she darted. Fear clouding her mind as it pumped through her veins. She needed to get out of this place, now! The rain fell harder against the windows, now accompanied by roaring thunder as if they were warning her, or trying to cover something else. In a momentary window of silence, she heard them. Those footsteps that did not belong to her approaching behind her. A new rush of adrenaline laced fear flooded through her like a river bursting its banks. 

Tears pricked her eyes as she pushed herself, running as fast as she could until her lungs burned for oxygen but she didn’t dare stop. He would drag her back to that prison cell of a room or throw her into a cage like an animal. 

“Darling, where are you running off to?” That sinister voice rung through her ears, igniting life to the icy fear inside of her. As she tried to reach the top of the staircase, a vice grip latched onto her arm, dragging her away from the stairs and slammed her against the wall. Pain shot up her spine and she cried from it.

“My dear, you tried to escape again, didn't you?” A soft, almost disappointed sigh slipped his lips. “I thought we discussed this the last time you tried to escape." His icy iron grip only tightened around her throat, pressing against her windpipe and slowly denying her the oxygen she needed. 

"Pl-please.. Jojo.. D-don't.. This isn't you!! S-stop this, please! Come back.. Jojo.. C-come back..* The tears spilled from her [Eye colour] eyes, trickling down her cheeks and dripping onto his arm. Something flickered across his face at the sight of her tears, the raw fear radiating from her body like smoke from a fire. 

"Look at you," His ice cold hand gently cups her face, titling her head to meet his piercing gaze."You're so delicate, so fragile....I love that look." He leaned closer to her face, almost admiring the fear in her eyes, "Please, let's hear a scream."  

That intense fire and twisted admiration that burned in those eyes that were no longer his made her body tremble in utter terror, that sinister voice ringing loudly in her ears. "Please..." her voice was barely audible, hidden away by the utter terror. Her futile pleas only seemed to amuse him, his lips curling into a slight smirk as he feasted his eyes upon her cowering form.

Something flickered across those empty eyes, his muscles growing tense and stiff as if something was trying to flow through his blood, something that didn't belong there. His expression twisted, pain carving into it like stone as a groan slipped his lips. His hand darting up to his head, gripping onto his hair to claw at something beneath the flesh. "B-Be-loved!" That voice she had fallen in love with pressed against the surface of the sinister one, trying to reach through.

Her [Eye colour] eyes widened, tiny bits of hope she thought were extinguished igniting within them. "J-Jojo!" He fought the demon inside him, his voice mixed with that of the monster that had stared into her soul moments ago. She reached out to him, trembling hand desperately trying to save him from the shackles that held him captive in his own body.

His grip on her released, his hand shooting up to his head as growls bubbled in his throat. Sparks igniting in his eyes and fighting with all their might to remain there as he battled the darkness within his soul. 

"P-Please...." Pain laced his voice, the light within him fighting to stay in control. "R-Run! I-I can't, AH!, h-hold him back...m-much longer!" Forcing his head down, his eyes wrenched shut in an attempt to resist against the screaming voice in his head, the overwhelming sense of darkness desperate trying to overtake his heart again. The sound of his voice made her flinch, his state of discomfort stabbing her insides and twisting her core in increasing anxiety. Burning tears fill her eyes at the sight of him, his cries reflecting his agony in a way that breaks her heart into a million pieces. 

"I.. I can't just leave you..!" [Name] know his warnings weren’t for naught, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave him alone to fend for himself in the brutal battle within his mind. At her refusal to leave him, his head snapped up again. Eyes brimming with tears as the light in them flickered vigorously, one overcasting the other for only a second, unable to hold a solid grip on control. 

"You must! H-He'll kill....y-you! He'll-" Another pained cry rips his lips, nails digging into his scalp as a darker tone spilled into his voice like oil in water. "I CAN GIVE YOU ANYTHING!" The distorting roar shattering the air around her and even the shadows themselves seemed to cower. The piercing sound erupting from her lover as well as the fright within her igniting into flames of utter horror forced her onto her feet in an instant. Her legs seem to be moving on their own as before she even knew it, they're desperately trying to carry her away from the monstrosity, her fear and adrenaline fuelling them. His agonising cries gradually become more and more distant, but they still echo around her head, slowly killing any remaining bits of hope as she desperately run away from the man she loved.

[ihearducksaregoingquackers]

You guys I have so much shit to say about how World of Warcraft treats the forsaken/undead and Sylvanas Windrunner. Like there’s SO much bullshit in their treatment since vanilla and I have WORDS. (Christie Golden gets the depth available to the forsaken, especially in the novel ‘before the storm’, but she’s also shackled by the lore that was put into the game before her official debut as a writer on the game itself).

Alright, so first things first, a little history lesson on the forsaken or, more accurately, the nation of Lordaeron (and a little bit on Silvermoon)

Arthas menethil, prince of Lordaeron, goes on a mission to try and protect his kingdom but through the manipulations of a demon and the actions of the cult of the damned (who were necromancers), Arthas eventually wields a cursed blade that corrupts his soul and turns him to the dark side. Subsequently he returns, with an army of undead at his heels and wipes out the nation of Lordaeron from the map. (this is a very simplified version of some pretty amazing storytelling back in 2003′s warcraft 3, go play it, it’s good). Silvermoon, the city of high elves, was sacked shortly after and Sylvanas Windrunner was turned into a banshee (banshees are usually spirits, Sylvanas Windrunner eventually regains control of her body though).

The citizens of Lordaeron have now been transformed into the undead, but are at the beck and call of Arthas’ new master, the lich king (details on this dude are unnecessary for this piece). Arthas acts as the right hand man, when suddenly he starts to lose his power, the lich king is weakened and Arthas goes to the lich king and becomes one with him. In the mean time, this allows many undead to break free from both the lich king and Arthas’ control. Sylvanas Windrunner leads these newly freed undead back to Lordaeron and establishes the nation of undead, calling them the forsaken.

So what we have is a nation beset by multiple tragedies, the loss of the royal lineage and leadership, and they have been irreversibly transformed into something horrifying, something that the living cannot withstand. Then information comes out about World of Warcraft, that the forsaken are going to join the newly reformed Horde (which at the time only included orcs, jungle trolls and tauren, the tauren advocated for the forsaken saying the orcs had a chance at redemption, why not the undead).

So what do they do with the forsaken?

Make them evil lite.

The forsaken have become the very evil that they freed themselves from. They performed vile experiments on the living, continued to produce monstrosities called abominations, and generally lived in conditions that would not be healthy to the living. As if they already had a culture of undeath that had existed for centuries. They used to be an entire nation run by a monarchy, that had alliances with other nations amongst the faction called the Alliance, but now they’ve had their entire existence altered forever overnight, and they have to deal with the repercussions of this for what may be the rest of eternity.

That should have been the story of the forsaken. A ramshackle nation trying to decide how best to live in their new existence, the reasonable shunning they would face from their once friendly allies. A story of complete tragedy. Not one where the entire population accepts the fact that they’re undead, and thus do evil things that don’t see them exiled from the Horde because there are bigger threats that the planet faces. What’s more, the forsaken have a racial ability called “cannibalize”, which allows them to EAT ANY HUMANOID CORPSE THEY FIND.

When they made world of warcraft, they just saw the undead and went “we’ll make an undead themed city and an undead themed culture, embrace the evil and what not”. They didn’t see the inherent tragedy that underlined their entire civlization, how they had to start anew. There aren’t even any undead children in the game (a theme that is potentially way too dark for an MMO with an audience rating of 13+), a grim reality that the world would have faced.

And Sylvanas’ bitterness towards the living is somewhat astonishing. Naturally any leader should feel empathy and protective over the citizens of their nation, but Sylvanas’ early history in the game seems to be completely mistrustful of her allied nations. Rather than being a cautious leader learning the ropes of sovereignty and trying to assuage any fears that her living allies may have about the forsaken (on top of leading what should be a morally broken populace caught in tragedy and despair), she’s a leader who sticks to the shadows and sees her allies as tools in her war against the lich king, she even sees her own forsaken as tools to be used against the lich king.

Sylvanas is a warrior at heart, so i can get some of the practical thinking she has towards her own protection (such as joining the horde and having a demon as a part of her council), and as a military leader she understands the battleground. But what of the rest of the forsaken? Most of them are going to be farmers, blacksmiths, villagers that have been forced to go through the tragedy of war, with memories of themselves tearing apart their own kin under the command of a cruel malevolent overlord, and now facing what may be centuries of existence and possible persecution at the hands of the living. 

Blizzard failed in its initial construction of the forsaken civilization. They misused tragedy and forced upon the corpse of a nation an evil label that gets excused because ‘they can be redeemed’.

and then, AND THEN. When it comes to their further development, the forsaken create a plague that can wipe out both the living and the undead, AND USE IT AGAINST THEIR ALLIES AND THE LICH KING. While this is blamed on a subfaction of the forsaken lead by the previously mentioned demon who had manipulated the forsaken that turned on the horde and the alliance, it turns out Sylvanas ORDERED THE PLAGUE TO BE CREATED.

THEN, when all is said and done, and the lich king is defeated, Sylvanas (through some triggering events I won’t go into here) ends up gaining the allegiance of some undead angel beings who can raise the dead. Then, SHE RAISES MORE DEAD because, as she puts it in game: “My people cannot procreate, this is how we increase our population”. She, who was once the victim of tragedy, now has become the VERY THING SHE FOUGHT TO DESTROY. The new leader of the Horde at this time rightly points out the similarities between Sylvanas and the lich king (don’t even get me started on Garrosh, maybe another time), but ends the discussion there. Not only that, the forsaken AGAIN USE THE PLAGUE AGAINST THEIR ENEMIES, this time fully under Sylvanas’ command, against the orders of the leader of the Horde.

It’s just, baffling. This could have been some AMAZING storytelling of a nation of lost souls trying to find their place in a world that only sees horror instead of the tragedy that they endured (being turned undead and then enslaved and forced to kill everyone they love). A story focused on tragedy and trying to make the best out of a horrifying situation. Christie Golden truly gets this angle. In ‘Before the Storm’, you get a very decent look at what the civilian population of forsaken is like, how they need to replace their limbs by raiding the graves of those buried near for body parts, how many of the forsaken still act like they are alive because that’s literally all they know (like how they eat, sleep, drink, and think that their muscles will grow stronger with exercise). How the civilians formed a council to handle the day to day needs of the civilians when Sylvanas wouldn’t step up (or couldn’t, because through some fuckery she becomes the leader of the Horde). And then Sylvanas and the leader of the Alliance agree to have some forsaken volunteer to meet their still living relatives (which is a fucking amazing storyline). Some forsaken are too bitter to even speak to their relatives at the meeting, but other forsaken start enjoying their time together.

and then when those forsaken decide to try and seek refuge with the alliance in order to stay with their still living family members, Sylvanas kills only the forsaken that enjoyed time with the living. And then lo and behold Arthas’ sister is discovered to be amongst the living. Because she technically wasn’t part of the alliance, and was a threat to the leadership of the forsaken, Sylvanas takes her out.

Does the reasoning make sense? Yes. Ish. I think Christie Golden was shackled by the ruthlessness of Sylvanas’ past actions and cruelty that it make sense in that context. And it does make sense that some of the undead would be bitter towards the living for shunning them (or, even worse, outright trying to kill them). But it seems like there’s this overwhelming disregard for the situation that created Sylvanas to begin with. That a once living noble warrior would succumb to the evil that was forced upon her isn’t a new trope, but it should have been one that Sylvanas overcame. The forsaken deserved better than their ‘evil lite’ culture. I’m glad we got any nuance at all from Christie Golden’s book.

We’ll see what bullshit awaits the forsaken in Shadowlands (which does have intriguing lore, i’m not against this expansion per se, I just wish for better representation of the tragedy that the forsaken face rather than this ‘evil lite’ thing that they currently have going).

[ymiwritesstuff]

Hey, I have another Diego request, (Thanks again for the first one, it was amazing). Could you do one where Diego loses control over himself and tries to attack the reader but snaps out of it before he kills/hurts her? Bit of angst and fluff? Thank you again.

How do you come up with these awesome ideas??? I know I say this with almost every scenario I write but THIS?? It was SO fun to write and I hope you get the same level of enjoyment out of it as I did! Thank you so much for requesting and thank you so much for the positive feedback on the previous Diego scenario!

The Beast Within

Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Part 7: Steel Ball Run

Diego Brando x Reader

Summary: During an enraged and heavy storm you’re soon finding yourself looking for your beloved, terrified that he won’t survive the possibly dangerous weather. However things soon take an unexpected and possibly deadly turn

Notes: Angst, Small bits of violence, Fluff

The heavy rapid hooves of your horse touched the muddy ground caused by the heavy rain all around you. The conditions were horrible for horse riding the slippery ground and loud thunder being obvious life-threatening risks, but you couldn’t allow yourself to be deterred before locating Diego. You knew he wouldn’t be able to survive in the enraged weather as no other racer would so foolishly try to challenge it. But Diego was different and you’re cursing yourself for not being able to hold him back for stupidly continuing the race in such horrible weather.

And due to that guilt you were now risking your own life, trying to track the blond down by following the hoof prints of his Arab thoroughbred which you could barely even see on the wet ground. Your own horse’s hooves would slip between gallops, every time startling you and making you second guess everything you were doing just for this one man. “Damn it..” There was no denying that you cared for him, otherwise you would’ve saved yourself from this awful storm. It mercilessly shot its bullets of water on you, wind trying to toss you around and the unreliable ground below you just waiting for your horse to make a single mistake so it could throw the animal on the harsh ground.

And yet, you needed to see him. You had to. The little voice in your head was telling you to get to Diego. The horse under you would eventually lose its stamina but you couldn’t let that stop you. You would get to him, even if it meant walking. Despite all the worry your mind was filled with, you still had iron-like determination pushing you forward.

But that feeling of determination and confidence was short-lived as suddenly, your horse slipped again, but this time couldn’t hold itself up. The front hooves gave out, causing the poor animal to fall down. You think fast and quickly jump off to avoid ending up under the heavy horse, your landing being anything but graceful as you fall on the ground, rolling around for a brief moment before finally coming to a stop. Without further hesitation you quickly glance at your horse, quietly praying that it’s fine and sigh in relief when you notice that this is indeed the case. Losing your horse would be absolutely the worst case scenario as it would mean the end of the whole race.

From the corner of your careful eye you see a familiar figure on their knees, completely at the mercy of the rain. “Diego..” Quiet words of relief leave your mouth as you notice him. He was fine and his steed was too. However you can’t shake off an uneasy feeling upon closer inspection. His head is hung low, troubled hands buried in his scalp. You could hear his heavy panting even through the heavy rain. His hunched form only seemed to worsen the closer you got to him. “Diego..?” The voice you let out was still quiet but definitely audible as the blond flinched at your words. His distressed eyes carefully glanced at you during which you saw the abnormality painted on them. They didn’t look like they used to. Before you could take another step forward, Diego’s voice cut through the air. “Get away! Don’t.. Don’t come any closer!” The sound of his voice was terrifying, being altered by what to you sounded like a mutated animal.

“What’s wrong? Diego, are you hurt? Please let me help, I-I’m sure you’ll be fine..” Worry was something you felt as Diego’s groans of discomfort became louder and louder by the second, his whole form changing into something you had never seen before. His fair skin cracked, his teeth changed into fangs, sharp as knives and something that looked like a tail formed on his lower half. “(N-Name).. R-run.. G-get a-away.. I.. I can’t..” He was struggling to get words out, growls bubbling in his throat, some leaking to his speech, making it barely understandable. You were confused, scared, worried. “Diego, what’s happening to you?!” Despite his words you couldn’t abandon him. You had just found him. Still, the unsettling feeling on the back of your head only grew as the blond transformed into something that looked like it belonged into the depths of Hell.

Diego’s efforts to resist himself were becoming futile as his own ability was overpowering his will to remain stable. His eyes were blurry, nails turned to claws, his entire body transforming. This was bad. He had to get you away from him before he would utterly lose control. The beast within him was taking over and Diego had to use the last of his remaining strength to protect you. “Get..” His panting got quicker, his pulse running wild. Blood hummed in his ears, the last of his consciousness fading away “GET AWAY FROM ME!!”

The loudness of his voice made every bone in your body tremble, your blood running cold. His words were mixed with the growls of a beast and within seconds, Diego had taken a form of something you had only seen in a handful of books. The large blue reptile locked its eyes on you and within those eyes you saw no remains of Diego. Only a monster. Your legs move on your own as you start running, fear telling you to get away from this beast.

With a single screech, the dinosaur charges after you, the large feet making the ground tremble with every step. You were beyond terrified not only of the beast itself but also because of the still slippery ground. You’re scared for Diego and what happened to him. Was he still there? Or was this monstrosity planning on completely engulfing him, not allowing him to return.

Your blood runs cold when you notice just how close the reptile had gotten, being almost glued to your back. Not daring to look back, you try your best to survive on the devious terrain dreading the thought of falling. Upon hearing it’s jaws bite together in an attempt to grab you, your whole body jumps to the air and you nearly fall over. Tears fill your eyes, your heart races as you desperately try to maintain your speed, a part of you already giving up as there was no way you could ever outrun a Utahraptor.

And your suspicions are proven correct after the dinosaur swings its tail at you, causing you to fall to the muddy ground below. The only action you have time to do is turn yourself on your back, before the powerful foot of the beast is forcefully struck on top of you, keeping you in place. The action causes you to scream in agony as you’re almost certain the impact broke a few bones. You pant, trying to get the necessary oxygen your body was lacking due to the previous impact.

The blue reptile lowers its head near you, growling deeply as its sharp and accurate eyes examine you, it’s teeth clearly visible. You can only look back at it in utter terror, almost certain that it will rip you to pieces at any time. “D-Diego.. P-please..” You can see the same cyan eyes, however you’re uncertain if you can see the man himself behind them. The pressure on your body never ceases, if anything it only increases, causing a groan of pain to escape your lips. Despite it all, you look into its eyes, his eyes trying to find the man you love.

“Do it.” You challenge him, unsure if it’s for the best, however options are something you don’t currently have. “Kill me.. If that’s what you want.” You desperately try to dig Diego up from the clutches of the beast with your words and gaze alone. The voice you let out is quiet, exhausted, completely rid of hope. The eyes of the monster narrow, before it charges at you, seemingly ready to finally take your life.

But the feeling of sharp fangs on your skin or nails digging into your body never arrives.

Instead, upon opening your eyes you’re once again met with the cyan eyes expect this time, they’re his. Diego looks at you, tears in those eyes as he tries to comprehend what he just did to you. Both of his legs are on your either side, his blonde hair tangled and messy. “(N-Name)..” His voice wavers, his lower lip trembling, guilt embracing him, holding him captive. Your own (E/C) eyes are filled with as many tears as his, execpt you’re happy. So happy. Diego conquered the beast within him and returned to you. 

“(N-Name) I.. I’m so sorry.. I don’t know what- Oh God.. What have I done??” Emotions control his voice, making it crack as he expresses his guilt in words. He hangs his head low, tears flowing down his cheeks and your clothes. You sit up, ignoring the fire-like pain on your sides and gently pull him into an embrace. Quiet whispers of ‘I’m sorry’ repeatedly leave his mouth, his arms wrapping around you desperately. “Shh.. It’s over now Diego..” Your own voice cracks as much as his, indicating the weight of the situation. It was true that you almost lost your life, however that’s not what scared you. You weren’t scared about dying and leaving him alone but rather, you were scared about the amount of guilt he would’ve experienced had you left this world by his hand.

“I-I’m s-sorry (Name).. I l-love you.. so much.. I would ne-never-” He breaks down yet again unable to properly finish his sentence. You had never seen him like this and now that you have, it was far more painful than anything your ribs were feeling now. “I know.. I-I love you too..”

You hold him, so tightly, unable to do anything else while the rain surrounds you both, silencing the painful, yet peaceful sobs.

[themsource]

Standards - A Gift

Rating: T Paring: Sans x OC Luna Word Count: 3,162 @rosedarkfire��� Hey! I was your secret Santa ^^; for the @undertalesecretsanta​ event! XD I used some of your personal names for the boys and your OC i hope you like it <3 My first time writing him heh.

Black liked Luna, really liked her.

She was kind, funny, smart, but most of all had a back bone strong enough to rival his own.

He just couldn’t stand the fact he kept messing up with her.

“Hey Sans, what do you think of this for the Christmas tree?” Black loved that she called him by his given name, it was like a reward to hear it in this mashed together universe of duplicates.

Even if she only said it in private.

He eyed the butterfly themed tinsel in her hands.

“I AM SURPRISED YOU WOULD CHOOSE BUTTERFLIES.” No he wasn’t, that was that infuriating murderer’s nickname for her.

“Oh why do you say that?” Luna asked with genuine confusion in her mismatched eyes.

“BECAUSE BUTTERFLIES ARE AN INFERIOR FORM OF INSECT, USING BEAUTY AS A FORM OF DEFENSE IS SUCH A COWARDLY ACT. WHY NOT BEETLES OR SOMETHING? BEETLES DON’T LIVE UNDER A FALSE PRETENSE OF BEAUTY BUT ARE OPEN ENOUGH TO EMBRACE THEIR UNATTRACTIVENESS BY HAVING EVOLUTIONIZED THEIR EXO--”

“Okay. I get it Black.” It was easy to tell when he’d upset her. She’d call him that infuriating amalgam of color nickname. Luna pinned her heterochromic gaze on him.

“And butterflies are amazing; they drink blood like little fluttering vampires.” Black could only blink as she walked away from him.

And so that’s how their relationship usually went.

“Sans, what do you think of strawberry pudding for dessert?”

“WHY STRAWBERRY?”

“...You don’t like strawberry?”

“...IT’S FINE. IF YOU MAKE IT I’LL EAT THAT RIDICULOUS SLOP OF POINTLESS SUGAR.” To his confusion Luna had chosen to simply not make dessert at all that night. Much to the disappointed mumbling of his brother and their alters.

Even receiving gifts from her, which always made him immeasurably happy, was difficult.

“I got you something Sans!”

“WHAT IN ANGEL’S NAME IS THIS?”

“...It’s a jacket?”

“I AM AWARE OF THAT LUNA, WHY IS IT PURPLE?”

“I thought purple would pop with the red you usually wear.” His eyelights drifted slowly down to the purple and poorly dyed jean jacket where they lingered and constricted into fine points before just as slowly rising to look at her again.

He usually bristled whenever a human used the term monster as an insult to describe something, however he could only think of a particularly offensive statement he’d heard once from a favored designer of his. Black was holding a literal fashion monstrosity in his hands.

But Luna looked so excited and eager for his reaction, her eyes sparkling and proud. 

He cleared his throat.

“...FINE, I SUPPOSE I’LL TRY THIS TRAVESTY OF A GIFT.”

“...”

Black had thought he’d been generous with the humble remark; there was so much alternative vocabulary that he could’ve used to describe how horrible that jacket had looked.

Honestly he thought he’d complimented it.

Black had even let it touch his body as he’d tried it on. Somehow he’d still ended up…disappointing her.

Which was admittedly worse than her anger.

He’d spent the whole time in the shower afterwards grumbling as he’d tried to scrub away the memory of that awful thing on him, half practiced phrases and comments that never seemed to work washed away by the pouring water.

The shower drain embarrassingly enough had even seemed to judge him.

To his chagrin he’d reached the point he’d finally decided to ask his brother for advice.

Stars help him.

“LUNA NEVER SEEMS TO APPRECIATE THE LENGTHS I GO TO FOR HER.” He growled.

“you’re not exactly graceful mi’lord when it comes to criticism.” Black had felt insulted.

“NOT GRACEFUL!?” Rus chuckled as his sockets crinkled in veiled humor.

“she’s a human female, they tend to be super sensitive to even the slightest provocation.” That was an annoying concept to learn. Turned out even his tamed honesty was still too harsh for her. Black took his brother’s advice to heart.

It was advice better stated in theory than put into practice he soon learned.

He stared at the dress Luna was wearing.

It wasn’t anywhere close to complimenting her beauty; in fact the makeup of the material rather dimmed the brightness of her soul as well as her eyes. It was a simple conclusion to reach that it was a horrible example of a dress worthy of the human’s appeal.

But she had personally picked it, liked it.

It made him uncomfortable just how awful her fashion tastes were.

Made it so difficult to be genuine with her.

“IT’S…” He gritted his teeth.

What was the proper word to use so as not to insult her? Adequate? No that would insinuate that it was somehow satisfactory. Tolerable? Might be too insulting of a word.

Black hated liars and he refused to be one, but he desperately wanted to show he supported her decisions. The longer he took fishing for the right word the more he could see Luna’s demeanor falling.

“...MANAGEABLE?” Her nose did that adorable habit where it scrunched up as she looked at him thoughtfully.

“Manageable.” She wanted him to elaborate. He could do that. Just no ranting he silently chided himself, ranting would invalidate not only his opinion but could do so with hers as well.

“...IT…” Black’s words died in his nonexistent throat.

Okay he apparently couldn’t elaborate without going into a triad. They both stared at each other silently and as a sweat drop began to run down the side of his skull he made an executive decision.

He couldn’t insult her if he wasn’t near her.

Black missed how Luna’s eyes had widened as he abruptly turned and walked away from her. His hurried steps the only sound before the opening and closing of her door.

Luna...didn’t talk to him for a week.

Each day that passed killed him a little inside whenever he’d see her talking to one of his duplicates, interacting with his own brother with barely a glance in his direction. She’d even gone so far as to walk away from him when he’d simply greeted her, much the same as he had done concerning her dress.

He’d immediately understood why she’d been acting the way she had the moment she did so. 

Black hadn’t realized how painful the action had been to her. 

According to his brother he was moping the whole day after his realization and most of the morning. Hadn’t felt that way but it seemed him yelling more than usual was somehow depressing to his sibling.

That’s how Black ultimately ended up being drug out to go Christmas shopping. Which in itself was a red flag for the shorter skeleton.

Rus dragged him out of the house.

Maybe he had been moping.

“see anything good mi’lord?” Black flickered his eyelights dully over to his brother from where they’d been resting on a jewelry display.

“HARDLY.” Rus hummed as he sauntered up next to him, a bag of purchases already somehow slung over his arm. Black stopped questioning how he managed to suspiciously acquire things some time ago.

“y’know i think she likes galaxy themed clothing.” Black scoffed as he gestured at the entirety of the mall.

“AS IF THIS PATHETIC ATTEMPT OF A STOREFRONT WOULD CARRY ANYTHING WORTHY OF BEING CALLED GARMENTS.” Rus snickered.

“think i know the problem mi’lord.”

“DO YOU?” He asked absently, his eyelights refocusing on the necklaces currently hung up. All plated metals with hardly a solid piece of pure gold in sight. Even those claiming the label had obvious traces of other impurities mixed in.

Humans were such lazy creatures when it came to production.

“your standards are too high.” He let out a frustrated growl. Like his brother had any right to discuss standards. He couldn’t even be bothered to buy new shirts when he needed them, even the cheap off brand ones that Black hated due to their low thread count.

“MY STANDARDS ARE JUST FINE. IT’S NOT ASKING TOO MUCH FOR THE BARE MINIMUM.”

“that’s just it sans.” Black felt his soul give a jolt. He gave his brother a glance that was practically vulnerable; his older brother rarely ever used his given name anymore even when alone together.

Papyrus was serious.

“the bare minimum to you, isn’t the same for luna.” Black didn’t respond at first, his eyelights lowered in concentration before he finally let out a sigh. Of course the mutt would be right. His eyelights lit up as an idea hit him.

“I’LL BE HOME LATE.” Rus didn’t stop him as he vanished into the void.

“guess i should tell everyone you’ll be late for gift opening then.” He muttered as he shifted the bags on his arm. It was a good thing he supposed that he already bought his brother’s gift selections for the others.

Luna was giggling as she opened the little blue and white snow patterned box Classic had given her, a ring tinged grey with lines of silver etched into it greeting her. Her eyes lit up as she looked up at him.

“Is this meteorite?” He hummed his confirmation as he plucked it from the box and slipped it onto her pinky finger.

“figured someone as beautiful as a star deserved something out of this world.” There were groans but Luna could only blush as she embraced him, her arms twining around his shoulders effortlessly.

“Thank you Sans.”

“okay enough lovey dovey crap, open mine next.” Crimson huffed as he carelessly shoved Classic aside to drop his gift in her lap. She tried not to snort at how affronted Classic looked, her eyes panning the gathering of skeletons briefly before smiling at Crimson as she unwrapped his present.

By the time Luna finished going through everyone’s gifts Black still hadn’t returned and she was growing quickly concerned.

Looking over from the pile of gift wrap Valiant and Lolli had buried her in she locked eyes with Rus. Who was currently handing a shopping bag to Edge. Of course Rus hadn’t bothered to wrap any of his presents besides hers.

She didn’t even need to say anything.

“mi’lord said he’d be late, don’t worry princess.” Luna frowned; it wasn’t like him at all to be late for any gathering. Maybe she had been a bit too harsh to him.

It was as everyone was getting ready to eat when Black finally showed back up. The first thing Luna did was stand and go over to him, abandoning her place at the table. He oddly blushed purple.

“Black I--”

“COME WITH ME FOR A MOMENT.” Luna blinked curiously but followed, ignoring the inquisitive looks that the others were giving as she was led upstairs.

Black was nervous.

He wasn’t exactly experienced with showing his emotions let alone talking about them. But still he was resolved when he’d seen how willing Luna was to follow his request. It was obvious his prolonged absence had ignited a spark of guilt in her.

She shouldn’t have felt guilty; if anything her anger was more than deserved.

Once they were both in his room he casually latched the door and wandered over to the glass doors that led to the house balcony, his hands folding behind his back. It had taken an age to procure this room he remembered. Probably wouldn’t even have it if it wasn’t for Luna siding with him against Classic like she had.

How to start this? Black could already feel her eyes burning into his spine.

“I AM A RENOWNED TACTICIAN, AN INSPIRATION WHEN IT COMES TO MY PEERS IN REGARDS TO CHIVALRY AND CLASS.” He took a breath and turned to face her, his eyelights focusing on the adorable freckles dotting her face rather than the windows to her soul. “INFAMOUS EVEN FOR MY SERVICES TO THE CROWN.”

Luna was watching him carefully as he scratched wearily at the back of his skull.

“I HAVE DONE MANY THINGS; SLAUGHTERED COUNTLESS FELLOW MONSTERS AND HUMANS ALIKE, TORTURED IN THE NAME OF MY QUEEN, LAUGHED AT THE POINTLESS DISPLAYS OF MARTYRS WHO FOUND IT FIT TO REBEL AGAINST A LAW THEY SIMPLY DIDN’T AGREE WITH BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T UNDERSTAND IT.” He was ranting again he realized.

Best to make his point known sooner than later.

“WHAT I AM TRYING TO SAY IS I COULD BEST BE DESCRIBED AS CRUEL AND HEARTLESS, INDIFFERENT.” Black’s voice lowered and Luna was shocked at how soft his tone was.

“Even When I Try Not To Be.” Something didn’t sit right in her chest at how vulnerable he sounded, nearly regretful. Luna looked down at her feet torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to let him finish what he had to say. She knew he could be easily upset when others interrupted him.

His hands clenched into fists behind his back.

“I...Have Never Regretted My Actions. Not For A Single Horror I’ve Done Nor Word I’ve Said. But I Do Regret How I’ve Inadvertently Treated You.” Luna whipped her head up and she had to bite her lip to stop the gasp at how soft his eyelights looked.

They were so resigned.

“I Believe It’s Obvious, But Just In The Off Chance It Isn’t I Will Say I Do Care For You Just As Much As Those Ruffians Downstairs Do. IF NOT MORE!” He couldn’t help adding that last part and Luna rewarded the flounder with a chuckle causing another blush to violently flare across his face. It had felt like years since he’d heard her laugh last.

Turning to the side he offered a hand out to her.

Luna felt her heart skip at how the moonlight from the window seemed to highlight his form, making his exposed bones shimmer ethereally and his uniform to stand out with shadows tracing the bends and curves of it.

Black’s soul gave a pleased thrum as she stepped forward and slipped her hand in his. He rarely touched anyone, hardly had ever had contact with her. So it was with no small amount of secret enthusiasm as he rediscovered just how small her hand was to his. Luna had always been charmingly smaller than him and his sibling’s alters, even Valiant the shortest.

He opened the glass doors and led her to the balcony.

The wind was slightly chilled, but Luna marveled all the same at the view of the lake in the distance, the snow gathered in a thin sheet across the ground like a winter wonderland of ice and cold. One of the advantages Black had always provided her since helping him get the room was the freedom he gave her to come and go from the perch.

As Luna let herself drift Black pulled a small velvet box from his pocket.

“Luna.” She turned and Black’s breath caught at how beautiful she looked. He smiled as he held the gift out to her. She quirked a brow.

“Sans?” He almost purred at hearing his name.

“Open It.” She gave a curious smile as her hands gently opened the box, the action making Black’s soul thrum furiously in his chest. Her eyes lit up and he couldn’t resist smiling smugly at the automatic approval he saw in them.

“...Wow, It’s wonderful.”

Black felt his ribs swell with pride as Luna’s eyes widened, her cheeks turning pink as she lifted the choker from the box. He caught a glimpse of the ring Classic had given her but that mattered little to the gift he now presented.

Luna looked up as he gestured for it and it took a great effort to hand it over.

“My Lady.” He prompted as he held it between his phalanges. Her blush turned red in intensity as she caught on he wanted to put it on for her, even more so at the title he used.

His lady. Why did that make her so giddy?

Black was blushing like a fool as she turned her back to him and lifted the soft chestnut locks of her hair, exposing the pale skin of her neck. It didn’t help the warm feeling in his chest at the slight shaking he caught in her shoulders. She was just as nervous and excited as he was.

Carefully, with a slowness that wasn’t necessary just so he could enjoy the sight of her tilted head and the way she ran her thumb into the hair she held back for him he gingerly slipped his arms over her. Enjoyed feeling how his normally despised height dwarfed her as he tenderly latched it.

When she turned to face him Black felt his eyelights morph.

The gem at the center of the silk choker was swirling with purple and red magic against a black backdrop, not as a claiming display exactly but as an acknowledgment of whose protection she was under.

A small galaxy on her delicate throat.

He softly brushed a phalange against it not noticing the enamored way her vision was locked on his heart shaped eyelights.

She had never seen those hardened and unwavering orbs change shape in the whole time she’d known him. Luna had even seen Classic’s and Crimson’s change a time or two but never Blacks. She hadn’t known he was capable of it.

His inverted hearts flickered up to her.

“I’m Sorry My Actions Haven’t Been Pleasant Towards You. I Only Ask Of You To Remember Always...What You Mean To Me.” Luna smiled playfully.

“And what would you mean by that kind sir?” His sockets lidded and the smile he gave nearly rivaled Valiant’s with how dopey it was.

Luna’s world froze at the sight and she wished more than anything she had a camera on her. It felt like a moment that would only ever happen once in a lifetime.

Black’s answer changed in the span of a second. His initial response lacking for just how strongly he felt for her. He didn’t even hesitate as he realized it.

“I Love You. With Every Amount Of Affection And Bit Of My Soul I Can Give.”

Tears sprang to Luna’s eyes as she stared at him before slowly running her arms over his shoulders, giving him time to pull away if he wanted. Instead his arms encircled her waist making her heart pound and stomach flutter as he tilted her head back with his other hand.

His bony lips locked with hers and an array of emotions surged through the both of them; fear, misunderstanding, cautiousness, eagerness, love, and wholeness. Luna and Black broke apart for air and all the human woman could do was stare at the skeleton holding her in a daze.

Kissing her was everything he’d ever imagined it to be.

“Manageable?” She teased. The top of Black’s skull flexed with the impression of a raised eyebrow as he smirked and cupped her chin.

“Glorious.” He pulled her in for another kiss as he whispered against her lips. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” She responded breathlessly.

[seilune]

Blood for Blood

The <Duskwatch Saberguard>, along with Casimir LeCheval and Ambassador Seilune Astrande, delved into the fel corrupted barrow dens of Jaedenar to rescue Nouvel Auburge LeCheval, who had been held captive for the past few months. 

But the young librarian was not the first person to bear witness to the horrors that lie deep within these caverns. A year prior, Seilune and Loviattar had found themselves victims of the same villainous group led by a felborne named Dvoraak, who had preyed upon them during their time within the agency. Returning to this place was undoubtedly difficult for the two of them and Adheles, who had been part of the original rescue team, and traumatic feelings and memories resurfaced, particularly for the diplomat. Now in charge of and associated with new organizations, evil has continued to follow them and threaten to destroy those they hold dear.

Tensions continued to rise as the group delved deeper into the dens, stumbling upon a chamber littered with cages and a single sarcophagus. As each of the elves peered into the cages in hopes of finding the lost Nouvel, they were either met with a captured Kaldorei from a group of Ashenvale sentinels or with something much more sinister.

Demonic shades lunged out from two of the cages, only seen by Seilune and Ladrova who each cried out in horror. They were convinced that they saw them possess the bodies of their allies, leaving the others puzzled as to what trickery was afoot. Soon, the others found themselves spellbound. But rather than become manic and afraid, they quickly turned on each other. Arguments broke out, pitting the elves against each other that quickly became violent. Weapons were drawn, spells were thrown, and hurtful words were exchanged. Ardelle, Leyloria, and Korlith tried desperately to rouse the others back to their senses, but it was to no avail. But with a thunderous crash from Loviattar, the effect wore off and left everyone alone drowning in immense guilt for the things they did and said.

As the group continued their descent, following winding staircases and crossing narrow bridges, they entered a room that was all too familiar to Loviattar, Seilune, and Adheles. It was a dungeon, the same one where Seilune was subjected to psychological and physical torture. The same one where Loviattar had lost her life. Standing before them among the stench of death and decay was Nouvel. They acted peculiar, speaking in a fashion that was atypical of them, and the others wondered if it truly was the Nouvel they all knew and loved. When Loviattar attempted to speak to Nouvel and rouse them to their senses, she was met with hostility from both of the LeCheval siblings in the form of sneers and sorcery. A fiery bolt left the warlock’s hand and streaked through the darkness, crashing into the sentinel and sending her flying backwards and leaving her unconscious. Seilune rushed over to tend to her friend, worried that history might be repeating itself. But as she did, a dark presence made itself known...

The sound of jingling chains echoed throughout the chamber and a dark mist slithered across the floor, dispersing to reveal a monstrosity. What was once a Shal’dorei man was now a felborne, his body altered with chains that could be manipulated at his command. With their lives threatened, the Saberguard and friends moved to thwart their enemy as he advanced. A flurry of chains lashed out at the elves, leaving only few unscathed from the heavy onslaught. But even as their bodies were battered and bruised, their determination never wavered. Attack after attack and spell after spell was launched towards the felborne, slicing into the empty spaces between the coiled chains that were wrapped around his body. Through the elves’ relentless courage and bravery, the felborne met his demise. Now this place would serve as his tomb, sealed with the terrible memories of what had happened there and the stench of his rotting corpse.

With their threat now put to rest and with everyone relatively unscathed, they were finally able to breath a sigh of relief and rejoice in the safe return of Nouvel. Tender moments were shared with them, particularly between them and their sister, Casimir, who had been restlessly searching for her lost sibling. But while the others reveled in their victory, Adheles and Seilune tended to Loviattar who, aside from faint singing, was alive and well. 

Well...sort of. 

The three of them recalled the last time they were there and the tragedy that had fallen upon them. Seilune found solace in knowing history had not repeated itself, with nobody having met the same ill fate as Loviattar had, but Adheles reminded her that more of Dvoraak’s minions were out there and that this was just the beginning.

As the others prepared to leave, Seilune excused herself for a moment. She approached the block where she, Director Harleena, and Silan Reaux were chained up together a year prior, slipping into a private vigil. Dried pools of blood stained the ground, serving as the only reminders of the hell that had transpired. And with the Director missing and Silan recently deceased, they were all that remained of two people Seilune had held most dear. After several moments, she conjured two, glowing bouquets of leyblossoms and placed one at two of the pools of blood. “Quel’vala thonos,” she murmured, bowing her head. “We didn’t yield.”

Once Seilune had finished paying her respects, she, Loviattar, and Adheles shared a warm embrace, thanking the stars above that they had each other. Through the good times and the bad, the three of them had been at each other’s side, and this time had been no different. The painful memories that had accumulated over the past year would never leave them, but it was because of them that they had made it this far. Loviattar reminded them that nothing is truly lost if it kept within the heart, and those words comforted Seilune and Adheles as they remembered the people they had lost. With newfound strength to face whatever horrors await them, the three elves departed Jaedenar and rendezvoused with the others at Ladrova’s vessel, promising never to tell a soul about Loviattar’s moment of tenderness.

@duskwatch-saberguard @sentinel-lovi @adheles @casimir-lecheval @nouvel-auberge @ms-mary-macky @leyloria-falanore @shalandrassil

[apocryphalfemme]

Veritas Revelata

A One-Shot for Pharmercy Week 2018.

You thought I had an AO3?  You guessed wrong darling.  So until I can post this there, enjoy my little contribution to Day Seven of Pharmercy week!  Read on below the cut.  Enjoy!  (I’d love any helpful feedback.)

“Instead, she opts to focus on the photo she has taped to the inside edge of her visor.  It’s a faded Polaroid of herself as a small smiling child, embraced by a much younger iteration of a particular Swiss Doctor.  The beaming smile on the young woman’s face brings warmth to Fareeha’s soul.  It’ll be easier to die remembering simpler times.  For some reason, as she closes her eyes, she thinks it’s appropriate her last thoughts should be of Dr. Angela Ziegler.”

Or

A brush with death forces Fareeha to realize just how important Angela is to her.

Her retrograde thrusters have failed.  She hurtles through the air far too quickly, wholly unable to slow down.  In front of her, the grotesque bulk of the gyrating Omnic tears across the skies of Siberia, moving to fly in the direction of St. Petersburg.  At the ludicrous speed at which it’s going, it’ll reach the city in just over 10 minutes.  Heaven knows what it’ll do when it gets there.  And she’s the only person left in the air, her strike team all either stuck on the ground, or knocked out of the sky.  Admittedly, the situation seems hopeless.  Impossible, even.  But when has Fareeha Amari ever let the impossible get in the way of getting the job done?  She’s damn well not going to let it stop her today.  

Violently, she twists in midair, and lets loose the main thrusters with everything she has left.  Screaming through open sky, bits of her damaged flight suit begin to peel off and fall to the Earth.  Her HUD flashes with a myriad of colorful warnings as she slams through the sound barrier and keeps on accelerating.  The poor Raptora was never meant to go this fast.  Nevertheless, she is rapidly catching up with the Omnic monstrosity, starting to gain on it as she angles through the troposphere.  Her HUD gives one final screeching protest before visuals die as she hits terminal velocity.  Doesn’t matter.  She doesn’t need visual pathing anymore anyways.  She’s on a direct collision course with the Omnic’s computational core now.  The crash is not going to be pleasant though.  She makes an effort not think about it as she gets closer.  Seemingly in spite of that effort, the Raptora system cheerfully chirps in her ear as she nears her enemy.

“Warning.  You are about to suffer terminal impact in 5 seconds.  Alter your course of action.”

“Yes, thank you, I had noticed,” Fareeha groans.

“In 4 seconds.”

She should do something about the user interface if she survives this.

“In 3 seconds.”

At the very least, she should make it less snarky.

“In 2 seconds.”

Maybe teach it a few puns?

“In 1 second.”

Perhaps Angela would help her with the reprogramming.

“Impact.”

The Omnic moves.  It’s only a few feet, but the damn thing drops in the sky and what should have been a direct collision becomes a desperate skitter across the machine’s surface.  Emergency air brakes deploy and are promptly snapped off by both speed and friction.  A wing and attached propulsion jet are torn from her back and spin into the void.  Fareeha scrabbles wildly for purchase, catching herself thanks only to her prosthetic arm, which claws into the Omnic to leave long gouges in the metal, revealing sparking circuits.  

Well shit.  

This wasn’t the plan.

Dangling from the face of the machine, Fareeha takes stock of the situation.  Her rocket launcher was lost in the botched impact.  Her other weapons systems are long gone.  And, most insultingly, the damn thing hasn’t even reacted to her presence, opting to instead continue through the air towards St. Petersburg.  Evidently, it doesn’t think her much of a threat.

“Big mistake you hunk of scrap,” she mutters.

Fareeha twists to reach the fuel canister on her back with her free hand and removes it.  Only 1/2 full.  While Raptora’s fuel is particularly potent so as to carry her weight, she fears it won’t be enough.  But it’s all she has.  After dragging herself up to the command module, she nestles the canister in the gouge she left with her prosthetic.  She takes the last explosive charge she has left, originally intended for her rocket launcher, and jury rigs it to blow in 30 seconds.  

Atop the Omnic, Fareeha breathes a small sigh of relief.  She did it.  But as the timer begins to tick down, she realizes she didn’t actually think about what she’d do if she made it this far.  Survival had kind of been pushed to the wayside as she‘d run out of options.  Damn it all though, she‘s not going to die with this accursed machine if she can help it!  So Fareeha does the next most sensible thing.  She jumps.  Falling, she begins to pick up speed as she hears the thing fly away from her position.  Hurtling through the sky once more, she stretches out to slow her descent before flipping in midair to watch the Omnic speed to its timely demise.

The explosion is magnificent.

Finally, Fareeha feels at ease.  Strange, considering she’s plummeting backwards through open sky.  To be fair, her thoughts are indeed a little scattered.  This is completely understandable, considering there’s a very real chance she’s about to die.  But despite this, Fareeha feels a bizarre sense of calm.  As she hears air whistle through the twisted metal of Raptora, she finds she has very little inclination to flip back around to meet the ground on its way up to meet her.  No.  She’ll be on the ground one way or the other soon enough, whether she wants to or not.  

Instead, she opts to focus on the photo she has taped to the inside edge of her visor.  It’s a faded Polaroid of herself as a small smiling child, embraced by a much younger iteration of a particular Swiss Doctor.  The beaming smile on the young woman’s face brings warmth to Fareeha’s soul.  It’ll be easier to die remembering simpler times.  For some reason, as she closes her eyes, she thinks it’s appropriate her last thoughts should be of Dr. Angela Ziegler.

...

When she was a child, Fareeha had had something of a puppy crush on Angela.  And just about all of the old Overwatch had known about it thanks to her mother Ana’s gentle teasing.  But Angela was a good sport.  She had always been more than happy to play when the younger Amari was visiting the base, even when the adolescent Doctor should’ve been working on filing reports and whatnot.  They’d had no end of silly fun together.  Fareeha still had several fond memories of adventures just the two of them.  But the universe had seen fit to intervene and cast the two down incredibly different paths.  With Fareeha’s enlistment, Ana’s death, the fall of Overwatch, and the vilification of those who survived, Angela and Fareeha were torn apart for a good many years.  And while juvenile notions of intimate affection may have faded with the passage of time, Angela nevertheless always stuck firmly in Fareeha’s thoughts, no matter where she was or what she was doing.

Several long years later, Fareeha received the fateful call.  She jumped at the opportunity to join the new Overwatch.  It had been a dream for most of her life.  It was the best reason she could think of to leave behind her life at Helix.  That being said, she would be lying if she said she hadn’t also thought fondly of the added possibility of reunification with the good Dr. Angela Ziegler, her dear friend from her youth.  So Fareeha left the deserts of Egypt behind and made for the warmth of Gibraltar.

When she stepped off the dropship however, Fareeha’s cheeks had flushed for reasons besides the Mediterranean heat.  Old glimmers thought long since forgotten promptly flared to sucker-punch her in the stomach as Angela shook her warmly by the hand.  The woman was breathtaking.  Disheveled, sleep deprived, overworked, overstressed, and more than a little irritable, but breathtaking.  Fareeha found there was a whole new reason she was glad to have joined Overwatch.

And as the months have trickled by, a beautiful friendship has blossomed between them.  As more and more faces both old and new join them, Fareeha and Angela have found themselves spending increasing amounts of time together.  Not just in administrative capacity, but in a personal capacity.  They’ve rather rapidly became both the best of friends and profound confidantes.  Through their time together, Fareeha has come to trust Angela implicitly.  Sometimes more than she trusts herself.

Of course, gentle teasing has also begun to take place.  Some things never change.  Usually, one of Lena or Genji will make a good-natured crack at just how much time the Doctor and the Captain spend in one another’s company.  Angela usually just sighs, and Fareeha shoots back slyly with some godawful pun at the perpetrator’s expense.  It’s all in good fun.  Everyone knows that, in truth, she and Angela are just…

Just…

What exactly?

It is a little unclear, even to Fareeha.

Certainly, she’d had a little crush when she was younger, but…  

They’re friends.  Nothing more.  Surely.

Right?

...

Fareeha’s a little surprised when her eyes open.  She hadn’t exactly expected her body would ever function again, to be honest.  She’s also a little annoyed at having awoken.  She was having the nicest dream about... Fareeha feels her cheeks flush the deepest shade of beetroot as she remembers her Ziegler-themed stupor.  

Embarrassed, she props herself up on her elbows.  Time to focus on the present.  Where is she?  By the looks of things, she appears to have crash landed in the middle of a forest.  Good god, how fast must she have been traveling to have left behind the tundra completely?  Better question, does her team know where she is?  She can only hope.  Either way, she owes her survival to the thick layer of trees above having broken her fall.  That being said, it seems to have broken a few other things as well.  Fareeha gives a quiet moan as she realizes that the Raptora suit is mangled.  The blue metal of the flight suit lies lacerated and crumpled around her.  Oh well.  It’s only a machine.  It can be rebuilt.  She, on the other hand, is not so easily reconstructed.  

Fareeha turns her attention to herself.  Spine?  Intact.  Still has feeling in her body.  That’s good.  Head?  Definitely concussed.  Still attached to her shoulders though.  That’s acceptable.  Body?  Amazingly, her left arm is fine.  Her prosthetic is… oh.  Mutilated.  Reduced to a lump of metal bolted to her arm.  Ugh.  Still replaceable at least.  Legs?  As Fareeha pushes herself further up on her remaining good arm, searing pain shoots into her body.  She gasps at the shear intensity of the feeling.  Her right leg is undoubtedly broken, but at least the bone hasn’t pierced the skin.  But her left leg is… Her left leg has disintegrated.  No better than a bloody, pulped jelly.  Damn it.  It’s doubtful even Angela could save it at this point.  

At the thought of Angela, Fareeha collapses defeatedly backwards onto the ground.  How long has she been unconscious for?  She’s not sure.  Any amount of time seems too long.  The Doctor must be sick with worry by now.  The last thing she wants is to make Angela worry on account of her own bravado.  It doesn’t help that Angela is certainly going to blame herself for the loss of the leg, even when she couldn’t have done anything about it.  The thought makes Fareeha ache.  And what if she were to die out here?  She dreads to imagine the guilt she’d inflict on all the members of Overwatch for her own rash actions.  But she worries about none more so than the Doctor.  This thought fixed in her mind, Fareeha steels herself.  She has to make it out of here.  For Angela’s sake.  

She scrabbles her helmet off with her good hand, then reaches inside to pluck her comms system and the Polaroid from the padded interior.  Tucking them into her waistband, she then sets about pulling herself from the wreckage.  How is she going to do this?  She can’t walk, that’s for sure.  But the metal of the flight suit is fairly loose around her.  Escape is quite possibly just within her reach.  Seems she’s only got the one course of action then.  She braces, then pushes off with her good hand, launching herself to the right and rolling.  She barely stifles a scream as her legs squish painfully underneath her in the process of pitching out of the blue scrap metal.  But she does it.  She escapes the impact site.  

Tumbling to a stop on hard frosted moss, Fareeha groans again.  This is not how she’d wanted to celebrate mission completion.  She had, in fact, harbored a shy hope that after the mission, she and Angela would have been able to… something.  Anything.  Honestly, any time spent with the Doctor seems, in Fareeha’s opinion, the best reward imaginable for a job well done.  Sheepishly she wonders if Angela feels the same way about spending time with Fareeha.  The idea that she might indeed feel similarly burns hotly in Fareeha’s soul.  It’s enough to propel the soldier onwards.  Grabbing some nearby branches, she uses her belt to rig a makeshift splint around her still salvageable but broken right leg.  No easy task with just the one hand.  With the aide of a large stick serving as an improvised crutch, and no small amount of colourful cursing, Fareeha finally stands.  She’s more than a little dizzy.  But she’s standing.  From her waistband she takes the Polaroid and stares at the little image for several long seconds.  

“I’m not dying out here,” she whispers softly.  “Not today.”

With grim resolve, Fareeha hobbles into the unknown, photo clenched in hand.

...

Their first mission alone together was, frankly, brutal.  Fareeha had been excited to share in the company of the good Doctor, or at least, watch Angela do what she does best.  But what should have been a simple case of humanitarian outreach had turned into an unabated shit-show with the arrival of a small cadre of Talon agents.  They just hadn’t been outfitted for that sort of engagement, as their team had consisted of a host of civilian doctors and Angela.  The only other Overwatch representative was Fareeha, who had been tasked with running guard duty.  And with Angela preoccupied with her medical responsibilities, she was the only one who was properly equipped for such combat.  

But between the two of them, Fareeha distracting enemy fire from the air while Angela shepherded the evacuation of the refugee camp, they had managed to help everyone escape without a single casualty.  Well.  No civilian casualties at least.  Because as Fareeha had roared low over the camp in Raptora, making one last pass for stragglers, some damnable Talon sniper had landed an unbelievably lucky shot.  The bullet absolutely shattered her right arm, and Fareeha only made it back to the waiting dropship by virtue of a Herculean effort and unfathomable amounts of adrenaline.  

When she crashed at the base of the loading ramp, Angela had known something was very wrong.  Whatever assistive synthetic muscles are in that Valkyrie suit are something else, because within seconds the smaller woman had sprinted to the impact site, slung Fareeha over her shoulder, and was hustling back through the craft’s doors to take Fareeha to the med bay, all while while ordering take-off.  Talk about Fast-Response.  Fareeha doesn’t wholly remember the details of that flight back to base.  Excruciating pain, elephantine doses of drugs, and countless hours in the air bleed together to create an unremembered haze.  The aftermath of the flight though, she will remember forever.  In any other scenario, with a full suite of medical equipment, Angela may have been able to save her arm.  But in a paltry dropship medbay, with all her supplies left abandoned at the refugee camp, Angela had been forced to amputate the arm to save Fareeha’s life.  

She awoke two days later in the small hours of the morning, head groggy, eyes fogged.  And while her stump - oh, that was a strange thought to have, her stump - certainly ached, what actually pulled her from her stupor was the disheveled mess of blonde hair seated to her left, the head held in trembling hands, the soft crying filling the sterile room.  A little unsure of herself, Fareeha had reached out with a shaky hand, and caught ahold of Angela’s shoulder.  The Doctor’s head had snapped up, and she split into the most relieved, tearful grin Fareeha has ever yet seen.  Abruptly, Angela threw her arms around the solider while apologizing profusely for not being able to save her arm.  At the time, words had failed Fareeha in her drug and pain fueled daze, and she could only stare dumbfounded into the worried blue eyes in front of her.  There had been much to process after that mission.  More strongly than anything else however, Fareeha remembers how right it felt to have Angela in her arms.

...

Night begins to descend on Siberia as Fareeha stumbles over the thick layer of frost in the murky half-haze of twilight.  She’s absolutely freezing.  How the hell can it have gotten so cold so quickly?  In her mind, the heat of Gibraltar tantalizes, a now distant memory.  Oh what she wouldn’t do to be back at the Watchpoint.  Out here unfortunately, all she has to keep her warm are the tattered remnants of the jumpsuit she wears to prevent chafing while piloting Raptora.  Certainly not useful for practically sub-Arctic conditions.

For the umpteenth time, she buzzes her comms.  She’s lost track of how many channels she’s flipped through during her agonizing trek, trying desperately to let someone, anyone know where she is.  All she’s heard is static.  No responses, no search team, no random signals even.  Just… nothing.  They haven’t given up on her, have they?  It’s a smoldering, painful little thought.  Again, Fareeha wonders how long she was unconscious for.  It couldn’t have been long enough for a rescue attempt to have been called off.  They wouldn’t do that.

Angela wouldn’t let them.

Not for the first time that day, thoughts of Angela make Fareeha’s heart promptly spark.  Why is it that every time she thinks of the long-suffering Doctor, her spirit soars?  Even simply picturing the woman in her mind, Angela brings Fareeha joy.  She grins at memories of Angela asleep at her desk.  Remembers and relishes the many long, thoughtful conversations, that more often than not last late into the night.  Melts at the sound of her laugh.  Turns pink in remembrance of the way her collarbone softly curves beneath her customary turtleneck, sloping down to undoubtedly softer breasts.  The way that Angela…  

The realization hits Fareeha like a freight train.  

Of course.  Of course she has feelings for Angela.  Of course she has feelings for her best friend.  For the person she trusts most in this world.  For the only person with whom Fareeha has ever felt like she can truly, truly, be at peace.  Suddenly, Fareeha feels like she could lift off the ground by virtue of sheer happiness.  Who needs Raptora?  She’s flying on elation, she…

Hang on.  What is that?  Is that a break in the trees?  It is.  Has she found a road?  Better yet, found civilization?  Rallying joyously, Fareeha presses forwards, advancing toward the lazy shafts of light slanting through the pines.  She can do it.  She’s going to do it.  She’s going to make it.  She’ll be able to tell Angela in person how she…

Oh.  

Shit.

As she breaks the tree-line, the Siberian tundra suddenly stretches endlessly into the distance afore her.  Enormous, long rolling stretches of frozen nothing.  She’s managed to walk f**k knows how many kilometers on ruined legs back the way she from whence she crashed.  Back to the most godforsaken place on Earth.  There’s no way they’re going to find her.  Woozy from blood loss, Fareeha collapses despondently against a tree before sliding to the ground.  Damn it.  Damn it!  Got her hopes up for nothing.  She really thought she had a chance for a second there.  Her mind begins to fog.  She shouldn’t have pushed herself so hard to walk.  Wretchedly, she stares down at the Polaroid in her trembling hand.  

“Sorry Angela,” she mutters.  “Don’t think I’m going to make it after all.”  

The photo slips from her fingers as Fareeha slips into unconsciousness.

...

People are always surprised when they learn Satya plays the violin.  Though the architech may not initially strike people as having the sort of time necessary to devote to the mastery of a musical instrument — considering the fervor with which she pursues her work — it turns out she is in fact quite the virtuoso.  She plays to relax, to ease the strain from her mind, often playing long into the night after rough days.  There had been one particularly such rough day last month, full of political drama and ethical argumentation.  The legality and the future of the new Overwatch and all that.  The unending meetings had left the members of the team terribly ragged.  That night, quite a few of their number opted to get absolutely shit-faced.  Nothing builds camaraderie like group inebriation.  That being said, Angela and Fareeha decided it wouldn’t be appropriate for them to engage in such behaviour considering one was Chief Medical Officer, the other a Captain.  

So together, the two had escaped outside into the warm night air of Gibraltar.  Leaning against the railing, they had talked.  Just… talked.  Made bad jokes.  Traded witty repartee.  Gently flirted.  It was wonderful.  Then, they were unexpectedly interrupted by the dulcet tones of Satya’s violin.  Another soul who had had forgone the temptation of drink that night, the music she’d begun to make was filtering outside and onto the balcony.  The moment was simply too perfect.  Pushing off the railing, Fareeha gave Angela a rakish grin and extended a hand in invitation.  

“Care to dance, Doctor?”

Angela flushed a deep shade of crimson at the offer, a fact that still gives Fareeha pleasure.  But with no small amount of enthusiasm, she indeed took Fareeha’s hand.  As the strings of Satya’s violin sang, Angela and Fareeha waltzed beneath the light of the stars.  They danced through the night, giggling to each other.  To be fair though, what started as coordinated movement slowly devolved into a gentle slow dance.  Eventually, they stopped moving entirely.  The world disappeared as they stood together in the night air, arms wrapped tightly around each other, Angela’s head buried in Fareeha’s shoulder.  Fareeha didn’t even notice when Satya stopped playing to go to bed.  She’s not sure how long they stood out there in warm embrace.  She never wanted to let go.  When Angela began to softly snore however, she’d scooped the woman into her arms, and carried her off to her quarters through the now empty halls of the Watchpoint.  

As she tucked the Doctor into bed, Fareeha was struck by how serene Angela looks in her sleep.  Dr. Ziegler spends her days burning the candle at both ends, stressing and worrying for the Overwatch family without concern for herself, often only finding respite in unconsciousness.  The thought tugged at Fareeha’s heart.  She wished the Doctor would take better care of herself.  She wondered if there was anything she could do for her.  At the moment, the best thing seemed like sleep.  So Fareeha rose to depart.  But as she made to leave, Angela rolled over in her sleep and began to mumble quietly.  Sleep talking.  Shamelessly, Fareeha’s lips pulled into a smile and she strained to hear the words being spoken.  Most of it seemed to be nonsense mixed with medical jargon.

But all of a sudden, she could swear that she heard Angela whine a little, then murmur,

“…Fareeha…please...”

She’d been flushed down past her chest as she hurried out of the Doctor’s quarters.  

...

She is dragged back from the abyss of memory and into consciousness once more when she hears the comms system crackle to life again.  This time however, the machine has burst into activity of its own accord.  Harsh static hisses in the air, interrupting the frigid tranquility of the Siberian morning.  Is someone trying to contact her?  Possibly.

She waits.

*kkzzzRSSHHHHH*

Is that it?

*HHSSSSSRZ*

It’s not enough that she has to freeze to death on her lonesome, the universe has to continue to taunt her mercilessly?

*HSsshRKZZZ*

Suddenly, fragments of a cockney accent break in amongst the fizz of static, and Fareeha snaps into focus.

“Ca…” 

*KRSHHHH*

“…do you hear me? Captain Amari, come…”

*KRKshhHHHHh*

“...come in!”

Fareeha scrambles for her mic, pulling it clumsily up to her lips.  “Oxton?  I... I hear you, I’m here.”

“Captain?  Oh blimey, we’ve been searching for you for hours, we -“  Suddenly, the British woman is interrupted.  “Hey!  Gimme that back-”  

Her voice is replaced by the musical lilt of a Swiss accent.

“Mein Gott, Fareeha?  Fareeha, are you there?  Where are you?”

Still quite delirious, Fareeha feels herself break into a silly grin.  “Angela?  Is... is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me Fareeha!  Please, where are you?  Tell me where to find you.”

Fareeha’s brain finally kicks into gear.  “I’m… not sure.  But I can rig my comms to emit a pulse on this frequency so you can triangulate my position.”  As she speaks, Fareeha fiddles wearily with her communicator until it begins to give off a slow, steady radio pulse.  “There.  Angela, I... I don’t think I can last much longer.”

“Oh scheiße.  I’m coming for you Fareeha.  Don’t fall asleep!  Please, hang on!”

“Angela, I...”  

Fareeha trails off as her vision starts to fade again.

Stay awake.  Alright, she can do that.  She singlehandedly took down a rogue Omnic.  She made it this far on broken and pulped legs.  She needs to talk to Angela.  She can sure as hell stay awake.

And she tries.  Oh, does she ever try.  

But exhaustion and delirium are a devious couple of bastards, and together they gang up to push poor Fareeha over the edge.  She groans and slaps herself a couple times.  But it is to no avail.  Despite her best efforts, she sinks down onto the icy ground.  Dammit.  She’d really been hoping to see Angela again before she died.  

And what on earth is that infuriating noise?  

  Somehow, it sounds reminiscent of the pounding vibrations of whirling helicopter blades.  That, or it’s her own pulse hammering in her ears.  Either way though, it doesn’t really matter.  She’s tired.  So very, very tired.  Try as she might, her eyes begin to droop closed.

The last thing she sees before blacking out entirely is an ashen-haired woman borne aloft on golden wings, flying to her side with arms outstretched.  Desperately, she calls Fareeha’s name.  

An angel.

Fareeha decides she’s probably hallucinating.

... 

Ow.

Cognizance swirls murkily in Fareeha’s head.

She’s pretty sick of waking up woozy and confused, not totally sure of her location.

 Where is she?

Bedridden in a cold, clean medbay room.

She’s missing a limb.

And to the left sits Angela.

Wait a minute.  Haven’t they done this already?

Slowly, Fareeha begins to process her surroundings in the here and now.  Awareness invades her consciousness like a virus.  Everything hurts.  Alright.  Okay.  They have indeed been here once before.  Only this time, Fareeha has lost her leg, and Angela is… snoring.

Her head lain on the side of Fareeha’s bed, the Doctor is fast asleep, hair freed from the usual high ponytail to spill wildly across her shoulders.  She’s… she’s beautiful.  Tranquil in slumber.  Seeing Angela in propria persona is more than Fareeha had thought she’d ever see again.  It makes her heart flutter.  Gently, Fareeha laces her fingers with Angela’s and squeezes just a tad.  The sleeping woman groggily wakes.  She appears exceptionally disheveled.  How long has she been by Fareeha’s bedside?

As their eyes lock, Fareeha can’t help but smile as she speaks.  “Hey.”

“Hello,” Angela replies, a little sheepishly.  For a long moment, silence stretches between them as they simply gaze at each other.  “How are you feeling?”

“Better, now.”  Words to be said swirl in Fareeha’s mind.  But anything she thinks to vocalize seems disingenuous.  What can be said, in moments like this?   The truth.  Only the truth.  

“Started to think I’d ever get to see you again for a minute there.”

“You didn’t think I was just going to leave you out there, did you?” she replies, concerned.

“No, no, I-“

“I’d move heaven and Earth to bring you home, Fareeha.”  She tightens her grip on Fareeha’s hand, seemingly unaware she does so.  The sincerity in her tone is shocking.

“Angela…”

“Look, I know it’s unfair of me to ask, but please don’t do something like that again.  I couldn’t bear it if you were to…“  Her voice cracks a little as she trails off, eyes beginning to well up.

“No, Angela, I promise.”  Fareeha places her newly repaired prosthesis on Angela’s cheek.  “I’ll be more careful.  I… I could never do that to you.”

“Thank you,” Angela whispers.  For another long moment, nervous silence fills the room.

Eventually, Angela clears her throat and removes herself to retrieve the holopad from the base of Fareeha’s bed.  “Well, your EKG looks fine and your leg is healing up as well as can be expected, so I think the best thing for you to do is get some rest.”  Reluctantly, she stands to leave.  “I’ll leave you be, and-“

“Angela, wait.”  

“Yes, Fareeha?”

“While I was out there, I… I realized something.”

The Doctor cocks her head in query, smiling softly.

“I realized…  I’m trying to say that I…  Oh damn it.”  What is it that she’s trying to say?

The truth.  

“When I was stuck out there, the only thing I could think about was how badly I wanted to be with you here.  How much the idea of leaving you alone hurt.  How desperately I wanted to hear the sound of your voice just one more time.  You’re the most important person in my life, Angela.  I’m in love with you.”

Angela’s eyes widen.  Her jaw drops just a little.  She stands slightly dumfounded, staring at Fareeha.  But only for a merest breadth of a second.  Without warning, the holopad falls from her hands as she flies to Fareeha’s side.  

For the first time, their lips meet, and enthusiastically introduce themselves.

Fareeha’s not sure how much time passes until they break apart, gasping for air as they rest their foreheads together.  

There will be other conversations to be had.  Other things to decide.  But right here and right now, in each other’s arms, they’re together.  They’re finally together.  It’s all that matters.

[amyenticknapp]

Major Project Proposal

The project title is a work in progress and will be something along the lines of ‘The Estate Voyeur’ or ‘A Voyeuristic Approach to Brutalism’, or even ‘The Relationship Between Concrete & Flora’. These titles accurately depict the different thought processes and theories that I have found myself to be photographically documenting, as well as what the aesthetic concerns. The lack of title is a result of prioritising my photographic practice and having uncertainty of what it really is that I want to create, meaning that I am still able to experiment with various content and different perspectives. I also haven’t been too interested in having a fixed title at the moment as I believe this may hinder my work from limiting myself to a singular concept or theme. I have a more free approach towards my subject matter than I once previously did, choosing to embrace the unknown of what I may discover when experimenting with both aesthetic and locations. This could also mean that I am yet to find a whole new project that is inspired by my future shoots, but that is obviously yet to be confirmed.

The subject matter I have chosen to photograph is architecture that belongs to the brutalist movement. I want to change peoples perspective of the structures that are often considered eye sores and referred to as concrete monstrosities. This will be intended to of be achieved through continuing the documentation this architecture through voyeuristic ways of seeing, celebrating not only their form, but their inhabitance and the life occupying the buildings. This will maintain an emphasis of how the buildings were decorated and accessorised, from washing lines, to open windows, drawn curtains to the satellites and surveillance cameras. This has triggered further ideas surrounding the intrusion of their privacy and to evaluate my own photographic behaviour, even though it is simply out of admiration for the features, especially those that are symbolic or evident of human activity and inhabitance. Another concept stemmed from the aesthetic of plants being used to decorate brutalist structures, which provides a rather attractive photographic outcome. This has inspired the continuation of looking at how flora is used to place life back into these concrete landscapes, whilst also exploring the relationship between both forms of subject matters aesthetic. I wish to find other Brutalist locations that have plants on the balconies or the front gardens, looking at how it transforms the harsh connotations that brutalism has.

I also wish to draw an irony at the fact that these brutalist structures aesthetic are a result of being produced by the ethic of accommodating to function over its appearance. I will proceed with highlighting and accentuating elements of new architectural structures and consider how I could compose them photographically in an innovative way. Continuing to edit the architecture and produce hyper saturated images with an intense contrast from the light and shadow. This will highlight the buildings dimensions and form, whilst providing an interesting aesthetic when placed against the neutral tones of the concrete. I feel this will be communicating the life within council estates and how they are customised and personalised by its residents, displaying the rather incredible scenes that has been inspired by abstract and minimalist photographs of architecture. I am also considering to shoot both midday and within sunset on a clear day, for the skies will be a bright blue with a lot of light and then various colours from the sun setting.

The aim of my work and final series will be to demonstrate an alternative take on brutalism and its aesthetic, appealing against the negative connotations it has for its purpose as housing for council estates. I wish to show these locations in an elegant, yet intense light, where the series is reflective of its attractiveness and beauty in design, especially when showing signs of inhabitance. I hope to find some more intriguing sights that will help produce visually alluring images and have a desire for there to be an emphasis on a particular aesthetic and lighting conditions to provide a coherency within my work.

My objective is to also share my perspective on this architecture and how I see it though my eyes as I feel it may shift others view also. I always look for these coincidental compositions or quirks of buildings and admire the form and structure of these buildings for their presence which I feel is a direction that I should continue with. Showing the architecture in a beautiful way is more inviting and encourages a more optimistic perspective on the brutalist movement and the components of its appearance. The audience will be members of the public, therefore opinions will vary, yet I feel I am confident that I can sway their interpretations of brutalism and how the buildings appear differently up, close and personal through my voyeuristic perspective. Brutalism is a love, hate movement which evokes different reactions from people, I intend for my work to show the artistic side of this architecture and celebrate its shape, form, use of material and all of the other components that make it so distinctive.

Within the major project I wish to achieve creating most probably 6 large prints and potentially even a book. The large prints will be a taster of what the books content would be, whilst also being a statement series on its own, conveying the themes in which I have explored throughout the project. The idea of a book is due to the amount of content I have gained and admire from my shoots within this project and feel that this form of presentation would be appropriate and with the photographs appearing to work well on a page. It would also be extremely hard in executing which photographs would make the series and be the best representation of my concepts, whilst also working coherently in its aesthetic’s tone, balance of compositions, colour, content etc. I should come to a conclusion when shooting this semester of what I want the series to have as an overall theme and what I want the photographs are communicating. Whilst also making the appropriate alterations to the photographs and their placement within the series and their organisation when presented on the wall.

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