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rosanna-writer · 2 months

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Karma Is My Boyfriend (3/6)

Summary: Elain Archeron saved countless lives by vanquishing Graysen Nolan, her literal demon of a fiancé. She's a hero, but it's just not fair that being a good witch destined to rid the world of evil has left her tragically, painfully single. Enter Lucien Vanserra, the best cupid in the business, who's been sent by the universe to balance the karmic scales and find Elain the perfect new partner…

Another update for @elucienweekofficial!!!

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2

The third chapter can be found Here on AO3 or under the cut.

Archeron family dinners were a chaotic affair. That night, Nesta was using her telekinesis to move Rhys's wineglass another half-inch to the left every time he stopped paying attention, and Cassian was tossing grapes in the air to see if he could catch them with his mouth before Feyre turned them to mist. And when they weren't terrorizing their siblings-in-law, both married couples were holding hands under the table and making eyes at each other over their plates.

Elain loved them all—as individuals. But she hated feeling like a fifth wheel in her own home.

And she had to admit, it was better with Lucien there. Partially just because it was a relief that for once, she wasn't the only one with table manners. But also, because things felt…balanced with him there. Like he'd filled in a spot that none of them knew was vacant.

Elain could almost fool herself into believing that Lucien was a permanent addition to the household. But when the plates were cleared and Lucien stood to go, the illusion was broken, and she felt a strange sense of disappointment.

He held out a hand for her and said, "I have something to show you."

"Now?" Elain said.

"No time like the present. And I think unclogging that block is going to be quite the undertaking."

Elain wondered if he was really so eager to be rid of her that quickly. Perhaps as a cupid, he really did think of her as nothing more than a particularly nasty drain in need of a good plunging.

She took his hand and tried not to look hurt.

There was a flash of red light, and they found themselves in a crowded basement at a Halloween party. As Elain blinked and took in their new surroundings, a girl in cat ears walked straight through her and Lucien. And there was a strange, dreamy haze over everything.

They were watching a memory.

A version of herself from the past came down the stairs, wearing a headband with a halo on a spring and a pair of cheap plastic wings. She'd scrounged up the costume at the last minute, less worried about how she looked and just wanting one night of non-magical, normal fun.

As she made her way to one of the coolers full of drinks, one of the wings knocked into someone. "Sorry!" Elain said in the memory, turning to see who she'd bumped into.

It was the man she'd been hearing about all night. He wore a headband of his own, one with bright red horns, and carried a cartoonish pitchfork—no wonder Elain had been getting such strange looks when mentioned that she'd come here alone. Everyone had assumed they'd planned a couple's costume.

Graysen Nolan was even more handsome than she remembered.

Elain found herself clutching Lucien's hand as she watched herself flirt her way through her first interaction with her future ex-fiancé.

Their costumes, his cheesy line about whether or not it hurt when she fell from heaven—all of it was so much more painful in hindsight. She'd been so stupid and naive, starting with this very first night when she went home with him.

Tears pricked at her eyes, and her grip on Lucien's hand became painfully tight. "Why did you show me this?" she said, and the memory around them paused.

"You loved him, didn't you?" Lucien said gently.

"He was just another demon." One in a very long line of them—Elain had vanquished more than she could count.

"In the end, yes. But I brought you to this moment because none of that had happened yet. I won't deny that Graysen ruined it all later. But beginnings—when there's nothing but a spark and infinite possibilities—those are pure. You're blocked because you stopped believing in that."

Elain wiped at her eyes with the hand that wasn't entwined with Lucien's. "It was doomed from the start."

As a seer, she knew all about fate and inevitable sad endings. Her gift was meant to help her find innocents in need of protection—she never had visions of her own life. But still, a part of her thought that with all that experience, she should have predicted where things would end with Graysen anyway.

Lucien wasn't looking at her like she'd been silly or naive, though. There was a deep well of understanding in his eyes as he said, "Perhaps. But if that's the case, it makes you even braver for trying."

Before Elain could even begin to figure out what to say to that, there was another flash of light. This time, they appeared in a rooftop garden. The place where Graysen had proposed.

And the place where Elain had killed him.

He'd gotten paranoid, in the end. Elain had known something was wrong when he tried to isolate her from her sisters—urging her to move out of the manor, complaining that they stifled her, refusing to even be around them. After they'd discovered he'd lied about no longer killing innocents, Nesta or Feyre would have gladly been the ones to land the killing blow, but it was too difficult for them to get close enough. It had to be Elain.

To make a potion strong enough to vanquish him, they'd needed to brew it together, imbuing it with their combined power. Elain had dipped a dagger in it, then packed the blade along with snacks for a picnic and told her fiancé she'd planned a surprise for their anniversary.

The memory played, and Elain watched herself kiss Graysen hello for the last time. Even though it had been a risk—he might have found the dagger—she hadn't pulled it on him right away. To the very end, she'd been stupid and sentimental, and they'd reminisced about their first meeting in the place they'd gotten engaged.

Graysen hadn't known it, but it had been her way of saying goodbye.

Lucien wrapped an arm around her shoulders as Elain watched the memory. She leaned into him, grateful for the support as they watched the version of her from the past pull out the dagger. Graysen hadn't tried to fight her off; instead, he'd tried pleading with her, promising he wouldn't hurt another innocent again if Elain just let him go. He'd even cried.

Just for a moment, she'd considered it. He'd smiled when he saw the hesitation in her eyes, and that was when Elain plunged the blade into his heart.

Without thinking, she turned her head, burying her face in Lucien's chest as Graysen began to scream. The memory stopped, but they stood there in silence for a long moment, and Lucien's thumbs rubbed soothing circles onto her upper arms.

Safe. Elain felt so safe with him. He rested his chin on the top of her head, and she let out an involuntary sigh. They might have been standing right in the middle of the worst memory of her life, but she'd want to stay there forever if it meant Lucien kept holding her.

"I know this one was painful to watch," he said eventually, "but I hope you can come away knowing how strong you are. You have every reason in the world to be afraid of finding love again, but I fully believe you can master that fear."

"Thank you," she said, voice tight.

There was another flash of light, and this time, a forest emerged around them. A gentle breeze was sending autumn leaves tumbling to the ground, and the air felt crisp as Elain breathed it in.

It was beautiful, but…completely unfamiliar. This memory wasn't hers.

Before Elain could ask where they were, she caught a glimpse of auburn hair gleaming in the sun. This was Lucien's memory, one old enough that there was no mechanical eye or scar on his face.

He looked contented enough, hiking a trail alone. And it seemed like he might have been the only person around for miles, but the sound of a dog barking shattered that illusion.

A woman Elain had never seen before came around a bend, her excited little dog wagging his tail and straining at his leash to get closer to Lucien. They stopped to talk. Lucien scratched the dog on his head, and somewhere in the middle of the conversation, the dog's happy bobbing and weaving between their legs resulted in the leash tangling together Lucien and the dog's owner.

They both nearly fell over, but at the last minute, Lucien grabbed her and pulled her flush against him. The woman giggled and blushed prettily.

"Her name was Jesminda," Lucien said quietly. Past tense.

He'd said that dating wasn't in the cards for him anymore. Perhaps it was rude to ask, but Elain supposed he'd shown her this for a reason. "What happened to her?"

"My stepfather was a demon, and she was one of the many innocents he killed before he was vanquished."

"I'm sorry." The words had never seemed so pathetically small, but there was nothing else she could think of to say.

"I became a cupid to honor her memory. After everything we shared, it seemed fitting to connect people with their true love so they could experience the same blessing that I did."

Elain turned to face him fully. By bringing her here, Lucien had bared a part of his soul to her. It was far more vulnerability than he needed to show in order to fix her block.

There was something more he was trying to tell her than just that she needed to believe in herself. "What makes you think you couldn't experience it again?" she said.

"It's exceedingly rare for lightning to strike the same place twice."

"But not impossible."

Lucien's smile didn't meet his eyes. "Not impossible. But close to it."

Elain couldn't help but wonder if she wasn't the only one whose past had left them blocked. But she wasn't a cupid whose expertise was matching people up with their happy endings.

Maybe…this had been Lucien's way of letting her down gently. If he wasn't ready to try again, she understood.

"Thank you for this," she said, taking another step away from him. "Really. It was all quite…illuminating. I think I might be closer to moving on."

"That's good to hear," he said, voice tight.

One last flash of light, and Elain was back at the Archeron manor, with Lucien nowhere to be found. She'd see him again—after all, she hadn't actually found true love yet—but with a pang, she realized she wished she could have bid him goodnight.

After everything she'd seen…Elain didn't want to be alone. The kitchen light was on, so she headed that way and found Cassian washing dishes. They did have a dishwasher, but it was out of commission. And since Cassian's job as a handyman repairing the manor was revealed to be a ruse that allowed him to keep an eye on his charges, nothing in the Archeron manor got fixed quickly anymore.

Ducking around one of his massive, feathery wings, Elain grabbed a clean towel and started drying plates. Might as well make herself useful.

"So what did you and Lucien fight about?" Cassian said, not even bothering with a greeting.

Elain nearly dropped the plate in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"You left to go unclog yourself or whatever and came back looking like you might cry."

"Nothing happened," she said quickly. Cassian just dropped the sponge, raised his brows, and waited. Elain sighed. "Nothing important happened."

"If it involves one of my charges, it's important."

Elain bit back another sigh—it wasn't fair of him to play the guardian angel card. She wouldn't be surprised if Nesta put him up to this. "Lucien's not a threat."

Cassian raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture, then went back to scrubbing a pan. "Good. Because if I need to give anyone the break-her-heart-and-I-break-your-face speech, I'd rather not find out last minute. And since you're dating again…"

He let the implication hang in the air. And despite herself, Elain's cheeks went pink. "It's too early for that."

"I'm just saying, since I'm banned from Adriata and all, I'll need extra advance notice with Tarquin."

Right. The wrecked building that he'd refused to share any further details about, no matter how many times she and Feyre asked about it. Elain found herself cracking a smile.

"You'll be the first to know. I promise."

"This is why you're my favorite charge. So much easier to keep track of than the other two," Cassian said, knocking a wing against her arm affectionately. Dropping his voice to a stage whisper he added, "Don't tell Feyre and Nesta I said that."

By the time the last of the dishes were dried and put away, Elain was feeling just a bit better. It helped that Cassian gave the best hugs of anyone she knew, wrapping her in both his massive arms and cocooning her with his wings, too. Once she was alone in her room, she sent a quick text message.

But somehow, once that was done, Elain was unable to shake the feeling that she'd just made a wrong choice.

#elucienweek2024 #elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra

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onedivinemisfit · 2 years

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2022 Creator’s Self-Love Extravaganza

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5 favorite works (fics, art, edits, etc.) you’ve created this year and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world in 2022. If you don’t have five published works, that’s fine! Include ideas/drafts/whatever you like that you’ve worked on/thought about, and talk a little about them instead! Remember, this is all about self-love and positive enthusiasm, so fuck the rules if you need to. Have fun, and tag as many fellow creators as you like so they can share the love!

Tagged by @bubblesthemonsterartist tho I daresay I am fashionably late at this point, more than two weeks into the new year. Did I forget? Maaaaybe. Which brings us right to the main problem;

I barely remember. Like. 2022. At all. Things happened, I’m sure, but it’s as if there’s a fine layer of mist atop my memories, stopping me from really seeing them. Last year wasn’t really very kind to me. For every up, three downs followed, and between two failed surgeries, a bout of covid, and then whatever the hell kind of flare happened in the autumn… yeah. Idek. It is what it is.

As such, I can’t really comment on my art as like, a whole process, this year. It just existed in the ‘now’, which is presently the ‘then’. I know I beat my submission record from last year, but it felt like a meaningless victory. Despite everything, I can feel it in my hand now, when I draw, that some progress has been made. Subconsciously perhaps, but it’s there.

Onto the ranking then! (I just had to pull up the archive cuz fuck if I remember what I posted, and when)

*deep sigh* we all saw this coming, didn’t we? As much as I love, I curse this image, for in hindsight it felt as if all my creative energy for the entire damned year went into this one piece! Like how dare! But yes it is one of my best redraws ever, and more so than the characters, I feel like I added to the background something even better than the original. There, I said it.

Omigod this entire thiiiiiing. Were it not for the redraw, this would be the top spot. I can’t explain, so many ideas are left in the brain for countless hours, days, months, YEARS. This was two years in the making, and never before did I manage to recreate something that had the exact same vibe as it looked in my imagination. Especially because I’m not a comic creator, hashtag compulsive disclaimer lol. Also while I was drawing it, seeing people go from “hmmm what’s this?” to “wait is that-?” and then “ooooooh it is the lead-up to The Thing” was priceless.

A last-second outlier comes in third. I admit to making this in a hurry, just to have something really nice to show for december (a month which is usually a highly productive month to me, but 2022 didn’t let me have that either) and as such, since I was struggling, both with a deadline, and a lack of real inspiration, I feel like. I managed to improve, somehow. Call it magic, but this looks noticeably different to many of my other colored pieces.

To be perfectly honest, this was a sketch. People might not think it one, for it has details, a color scheme, and even effects - but at the time I posted it, this was just a colorized sketch in my mind. Tumblr disagreed. And I was left in awe watching this first get reblogged within the fandom, then beyond, then go through a hanfu appreciation blog, and finally reblogged with a truly tender chinese poem attached that said person felt gave them the same vibe as what I had drawn. The people spoke, and I was both awed and humbled, and I learned a valuable lesson in humanity relating to art.

Unlike the others, this was a conscious attempt at something different. I can’t really say why it should go in the fifth spot, but it does; i spent a lot more time than usual on composition, colors, and most importantly, mood setting. And putting characters so solidly into the middleground can be a challenge in itself for me, as I run the risk of getting storybook-ish. Which would’ve been disastrous for a scene like this.

Honorable mention;

Coping through art. @bubblesthemonsterartist has the honor of inspiring this, or like, being the one to “give me” the go-ahead to channel some of my experiences through the characters and story-telling in general. Back pain is something I know all too well, and it was well and truly therapeutic. I also got to do another test of “can I retell this scene, even if I switch part of the cast and premise?” And it seems I did. I will always remember @what-plant-metaphor-am-i ‘s tag; ‘# I feel like I just watched an entire episode XD’ <- never has my inner storyteller been more validated.

There, that wasn’t so hard! Sometimes I’m really thankful for the internet, and timestamps, and kicking my memory back into gear etc… anyway, since I am so woefully late to the party, I’m not tagging anyone specifically; if you wanna be fashionably late too, you know who tagged you~

#2022 self love extravaganza #art meme #self love meme #2022 summary #myart #about the artiste

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apple-talk · 2 years

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Day Twenty-Four, Moo Manchu/Nefarious

Pittyober Day 24- Moo Manchu/Nefarious

In hindsight, coming alone to face Moo Manchu in his domain was not the smartest of ideas. But Erin hadn’t wanted to risk anyone else's safety, the last time he was involved her crew had faced severe injuries; she wouldn't let that happen again. Lord Chagatai had called upon her, and so she had answered, appearing before him at his call. He had told her that one of his best soldiers had been driven mad by Moo Manchu, the only words he was able to utter were the name of his tormentor…and hers. She had been given a scroll of parchment, one with Moo Manchu’s emblem sealing it shut. Erin had broken it open with hast, not daring to waste another moment, not daring to give that corrupted bastard the satisfaction of knowing peace for a second longer. It had read a foreboding message, with Manchu requesting her presence at once, and that there would be consequences if she were to keep him waiting. Maybe he knew that those words would prompt her into action. Maybe Manchu knew if he said that, she would come to him alone. She couldn’t waste a second, not even a second to think out a proper plan, and perhaps he was relying on that.

Erin made it to the icy dock which led to the Paths of Penance, where Manchu had told her to meet him. She hadn’t taken her own ship, she simply hitched a ride to the dock with a more than willing sailor after offering him a rather hefty pouch of golden pieces. She didn’t want to worry her crew, she didn’t want to give Moo Manchu the chance to even lay a finger on them. All she told them was that she had an errand to run; nothing more, nothing less. She traveled swiftly through the frigid paths, not wasting a second longer than she had to, holding her father's coat close to her to ward off the frigid temperature. The only time she came to a full stop was when she finally reached the tower of Moo Manchu, she looked up warily at the ten-story high tower with the mists of purple magic swirling around its tip. She took a shaky breath before she entered, and opened the door to face her first of many challenges.

Seven floors, Erin had fought through seven floors of creatures upon creatures. Corrupted animals, simple soldiers, those infused with a twisted sort of magical energy, and all other sorts of horrors were all that awaited her. What were all of these? Why were they all here? Why did Moo Manchu keep them here? Questions upon questions flooded her mind, causing her already heavy head to grow dizzy. She leaned against the wall of the stairway leading up to the next floor, the exhaustion she had pushed down and buried from the past seven floors was finally catching up to her. The thought had briefly crossed her mind to call for help with the communicator latched onto her wrist, but she thought better of it. She had seven floors down, only three more to go. How much harder could this be when she was so close to the end? Erin took a deep breath, wrapping a newly acquired cut on her upper arm with the last of her bandages. She really needed to keep more on her, Spiral forbid she found her in a similar situation once again. She shook off her dizziness, and hobbled up the stairs, sliding open the bamboo door leading to the next floor.

“My congratulations, Miss Devereaux.”

That bastard.

Moo Manchu stood infront of her, standing in the center of the room, surrounded by five pirates, all of the similar ages to herself. A smirk formed on his snout as he analyzed her exhausted figure. She stiffened under his gaze, quickly correcting any hint of wariness, but it was for not, he recognized it anyways. He ever had the nerve to chuckle as she readied her rapier to strike him. In turn, the five pirates all drew their weapons in one fluent movement. None of them moved to attack, but their weapons remained firmly at their side as they looked at her lazily, like she wasn’t worth their time. Manchu took a step forward and Erin took one back, right into the bamboo door. When had that closed? She pressed her back firmly against it as he approached, standing merely a foot infront of her, with her rapier mere inches from his snout.

He pushed her blade aside with ease, “You’ve proven yourself a worthy adversary time and time again, you have even passed the sevenfold test!” A sickening glee overtook his usually stoic expression. He smirked, “And despite your…condition,” she flinched, “you have managed to take it on alone.” Manchu tilted his head in amusement, “And now, I will reward you, dear Captain.”

“What the fuck do you mean, you bastard,” Erin spat bitterly, he didn’t flinch.

Simply, he pulled a potion flask out of his red and gold robes, it shone a deep red. Red like the glowing eyes of the other five pirates, she realized, a disturbing chill fell over her. He held it out infront of himself, seemingly offering it to her, “The elixir of power, my greatest creation,” he purred, something dangerous growing in his eyes. “Drink it, and you will know power beyond your greatest dreams,” his words came out smooth like butter and Erin froze, her rapier lowering ever so slightly as she gazed upon it. He hummed in approval, “You won't have to fight tooth and nail for something so simple as respect, Miss Devereaux. Drink…and you will become my champion.”

Her rapier darted back up at his words, she managed to take a step forward, even with her shaking legs. He didnt move, even as her rapier rested against his robes, cutting some of the fine silk along its steel blade. “Like hell would I ever join you. Are you insane?” She found it within herself to bark a laugh, “or perhaps you are just that stupid and arrogant that you think I would fall for this.”

Moo Manchu didn’t flinch, but his eyes did narrow. Wordlessly, the five other pirates moved to circle the pair. “You pirates are certainly…an interesting breed. You see them?” Manchu gestured to the five. “In my search for you I found others, and they accepted my generous offer, Miss Devereaux.” He raised his head, looking down upon her, “Now I will give you one final choice,” the burning red eyes of the five other pirates caused Erin to realize just how truly alone she was here, how surrounded she was. “Drink my elixir, and you will become my right hand, my champion. You will be the crown jewel of my collection.” The other pirates seemed to echo his words as Manchu spoke.

Erin regained her composure, lifting her chin to give Moo Manchu a look of disdain, “Never. I would rather die than join your little posse.” He stayed silent for a moment, “But dying would be too simple, wouldn’t it?” He handed the elixir to one of the five, a swashbuckler, like herself. “Disarm her, do whatever you must to subdue her. She will drink this, whether she wishes to or not.”

It took mere seconds for the four pirates to restrain her, pinning her to the wall of the eighth floor of this damned tower. Her rapier lay abandoned along the floorboards, far out of reach, far out of her mind. Her head whipped side to side as her body thrashed to try and get out of the grasp of the four. A buccaneer and privateer secured her right side, while a musketeer and witchdoctor secured her left. The swashbuckler approached her from the front, his hand keeping a firm grasp on her jaw. She whimpered helplessly as he flicked the cork from the potion flask, red burning eyes boring into her own. “Do not be afraid, Miss Devereaux. Soon you will no longer know fear. You will be one of us.” The witchdoctor raised her head, and with a jerk, her jaw was forced open, and the elixir was forced down her throat.

The five released her as Erin collapsed to the floor with a pained shout. She cradled herself, wishing something would stop the burning feeling coursing through her veins…and then it faded to nothing. Her mind numbed, and her thoughts were no longer her own. She was no longer herself, she was no longer in control. Her form stayed still for a moment, and when Moo Manchu approached, Erin Devereaux kneeled, bowing her head to her master.

“My nefarious sixth, finally home at last.”

#pirate101 #pittyober 2022 #pittyober #pitty101 #pitty fandom #kingsisle #writing #moo manchu #nefarious five #OC: Erin Devereaux

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gossip-girl-of-middleearth · 4 years

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The Softest Shout (Fili x Reader)

Requested by: @guardianofrivendell

Saw that your requests were open 👀 I absolutely LOVE your Legolas fics! But can you maybe write a Fíli oneshot 👉👈? Can be angst with fluff ending, or just fluff. I am WEAK for enemies to lovers or angrily confessing your love without thinking: "But why?" "Because I love you!" I'm happy with whatever really :)

A/N: here you are! My first Fili fic! Was gonna save it for Fili Friday, but couldn’t wait! Poor majestic lion deserves more love! Enjoy! ☀️

How dare he! The audacity! The nerve! What right did Fili have, as to boss those beneath him around?

Y/n grinded her teeth, as she sat on the stone steps of one of Erebor’s many halls. A battle loomed in the distance – one between her kind, and the Elves. It regarded mostly stolen jewellery, and the stubborn streak of Thorin, which she saw all too much in his oldest nephew.

Y/n was just as adept in battle as her male counterparts were. However, Fili apparently thought not.

He had always treated her unfairly, Y/n mused. He was always mean – pulling on her pigtails, making snide remarks and all-around teasing. Oh, how it made her blood boil.

However, this was the final straw for the woman. She was a grown adult, and yet, here she was – sidelined, and forced to sit out the approaching war.

It had startled her, to say the least, when Fili snapped earlier. She was arranging plans for the fight ahead, regarding her armour. However, Fili quickly stormed into the room, and took the chainmail right from her hands.

He then proceeded to seethe and scold her, claiming that she had ‘no place on the battlefield’. She too had said some choice words, which in hindsight, may have been a little brash. Though, she did not regret them at all, for they were birthed from nothing but truth.

So, now here Y/n sat – furious on the stone steps.

Dwalin soon walked past. He stopped, confused, for a moment. Why was she sat down? By Durin! There was a war to prepare for!

“Lass,” he began scolding, “I know for a fact you are not sitting down right now – not when you could be readying yourself to fight against those pansy peacocks!”

“I’ve got nothing to prepare for,” Y/n glumly said. She held her chin in her hand, and glared up at Dwalin.

“Whatever do you mean?” Dwalin asked, creasing his features.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Y/n started, with a roll of her eyes. “Our brave and true heir to the throne apparently has a superiority complex. He has removed me from the ranks. I am not allowed to fight.”

If Dwalin was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, puzzling Y/n, he merely only clicked his tongue, and muttered under his breath. It sounded like something along the lines of ‘that darned boy is utterly hopeless at these sorts of things’.

Y/n tilted her head, and parted her lips. What things? What was Fili hopeless at? He was sure a lousy comrade, that much was for certain. She herself would never have chosen to spend more than five minutes with him, but alas, the journey to Erebor deemed she would do so.

Finally, recalling the woman sat beneath him, Dwalin returned his attention to her.

“I know it isn’t my place to question our leaders’ authority,” he began, sighing, at the thought of Thorin, “but, I think you’ll find better luck in speaking to him again.”

“Shouting, you mean,” Y/n knowingly corrected.

“Aye, that’ll work too,” he mulled.

Smiling through a quick huff, Y/n dropped her eyes to the ground. She definitely had a lot of pent-up anger, so even if she couldn’t take it out onto the battlefield, she knew Fili would do just fine. After all, he was the reason she was so furious in the first place.

“You’re right,” she sighed, standing to her feet. “I’m going to go give him a piece of my mind!”

As she sauntered past, with squared shoulders, a set jaw and burning eyes, Dwalin chuckled, and responded aloud.

“Good luck...”

~ Fili was located in the armoury, and fiddled with the drawstring of his armour. Without so much as announcing herself, Y/n filed into the room.

“I have a bone to pick with you!” she seethed, marching on over to him. “How dare you take me out of this fight! I am warrior, just as much as the rest of you! You may be the future king, but you aren’t one yet! I demand a reconsideration!”

He was startled, but only for a minute. By the time she stood before him, he had regained his ever-cool composure.

Pretending to think, Fili hummed. He then smiled back down at her, but in a very smug way.

“Okay, I’ve reconsidered,” he said, earning a slight glimmer of hope from the woman, “and the answer is still no.”

Growling, she pushed his chest backwards. She spoke with much fury, which did nothing to unnerve the Dwarf.

“How dare you!” she shouted again, with anger written all over her face. “Why? WHY? Why must you always be like this? You treat me the way the men from certain human dwellings treat their spouses – like nothing more than little housewives!”

Fili blushed at this. Did she not hear her own words? Oh, if only she knew how close her accusations were. Of course, he didn’t do this for any narcissism. No, Fili did this for reasons he thought Y/n surely must have already known.

Kili told him how to acquire a woman’s heart – ‘they like it when you’re mean to them, sends their hormones haywire’, Kili had said one day.

Perhaps his little brother was wrong, though? Y/n certainly didn’t hold love in her eyes. Instead, she revered him in disdain. That was not what he wanted.

“You do not know of what you speak of,” Fili warned, raising his brows in gesture.

“Oh? Then perhaps you’d like to clarify for me? Because I’m lost,” Y/n seethed again. She folded her arms over her chest, and quirked a brow.

Fili was at a loss himself. He stammered over his words, before he realized none could form, and sighed.

Dissatisfied with his lack of response, Y/n flared her nostrils. She bared her teeth, and began shouting again. If he would not answer, then she would fill the silence.

“Why do you say nothing?” she began, revving up in her tone, which only hastened Fili’s heart, with every passing second. “Why? Why do you treat me so poorly? Why am I to be sidelined, when all my friends must fight?”

“It simply has to be this way,” Fili said at last, shaking his head at the ground.

“Why, though?” she tried again.

“Because, I said so,” Fili once more said, feeling his own anger boil.

“Yes, but why?”

“Because, I said so,” he growled again.

“But WHY?”

“Oh, for the love of Durin, because I LOVE YOU!”

“Yes, but why-“ Y/n had gone to say.

However, the moment his words met her mind, she halted. What had he just said? Surely her ears deceived her?

“What?” she next quietly whispered.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, and studied her nervously. Well, there was no turning back now.

“The reason I do not wish for you to be on the battlefield,” he slowly began explaining, “is because I care, very deeply, for you, Y/n. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

A pregnant pause ensued.

Oh.

Oh dear.

Pursing her parted lips, it was now Y/n’s turn to stutter and stammer. However, when no words of her own would form, she closed her mouth.

She stared at the ground for a moment in thought. Fili picked at his drawstring faster, for he figured she would now reject him.

Dammit, Kili, he thought. He knew he should not have taken his little brother’s relationship advice. That darned brunette couldn’t even grow a beard!

Lost in his seething thoughts regarding Kili, Fili was startled, as Y/n spoke again.

“Well…that certainly places things in a different perspective,” she said at last.

“A good perspective? Or a bad one?” Fili bemusedly pressed.

“That depends,” Y/n shrugged, “I wouldn’t wish to court someone who taunts and belittles my skills as a warrior.”

“I never meant to do such a thing,” Fili apologised, shaking his head. “I merely only want you safe, and as for the taunting, well…let’s just say Kili gives terrible advice.”

Unsatisfied with his lack of accountability, Y/n quirked a brow. Noticing this, Fili sighed again. He slumped his shoulders, and pressed on.

“And…let’s also just say, for argument’s sake, that I’m quite stupid?” he tried.

This gently extracted a bright grin from Y/n.

“Aye, that works better,” she warmly remarked.

Both then laughed, and reduced the bubbling tension in the room, to nothing but mist. Catching the other’s eye, both slowly died down. Y/n saw Fili in a new light – someone worthy of her consideration. Of course, Fili would still have to work for her approval, nonetheless.

“I’ll tell you what,” she began, “I’ll consider removing the layers in my heart, as to search for what I really feel towards you, if you allow me in this fight. I’ll have no such partner denying me the thrill of a battle.”

“Aye, you certainly love fighting…” Fili sighed, staring up at the ceiling.

“Indeed, and I’d urge you to make haste and find an answer, before you earn yourself another one,” she sassed.

Unable to fight the grin over her attitude, one he knew certainly couldn’t be missed in their ranks on the battlefield, Fili responded.

“Very well,” he said at last, “I will…step aside, although, let it be known that it deeply irks me!”

Rising up on her tiptoes, Y/n planted a swift kiss to his cheek. Fili then turned five shades deeper, and felt his mind burn into nothing but revving sparks.

“Good choice,” she commended. She then made a move to string up his armour, and spoke again. “Now, how would you like to assist me with putting my own armour on?”

#fili x reader #fili #hobbit x reader #the hobbit x reader #x reader #Tolkien x reader #lotr imagine #hobbit imagine #thorins company x reader #company x reader #the hobbit #hobbit

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jessiebanethedragon · 4 years

Note

so i randomly thought about a fic with crosshair with his iconic line "you miss me? how touching" and im kinda shocked about how it doesnt exist! so i went to you to request this 👉👈 bcs you're one of my fav fic writers and i'd like to see it from you, no pressure though! bcs i know you dont exactly have all your hours to provide us with fan content :] <3

Hello! thank you so much for this request i’ve been in love with the idea for so long sorry it took me ages to get it written! anyways here it is!

love ya oxoxox Jessie

Miss you (Crosshair x separatist!Reader)

You met Crosshair in a hurricane of cruses, punches and a bloody nose on his part. And from the glare he sent you way after Hunter had wrestled you into binders, you knew the mutual feeling of hatred was obvious. And of course, when the republic so graciously offered to help you make amends, in return for separatist intel and a forgoing of your prison sentence they put you back into the clutches of Clone Force 99.

Crosshair could not stand you. With enough cheek and sass to rival his own, and looks that were infuriatingly good, the resident sniper had it out for you.

But to be fair, you hated him as well. You hated how tall he was, how his deceivingly slim frame gave way to sturdy muscle that your hands had been over top of on a singular occasion that you couldn't get out of your head.

“Tell me the layout again.” Sergeant Hunter demanded, standing over a disastrously incorrect map of a separatist base.

“You’d be better off without a map at all!” Exclaimed throwing your hands up in defeat, “the weapons room is here, on the west side of the basement. Not on the east side of the top floor.” You went through the entire map again and again, in order for Hunter to relay it to Tech when him and Crosshair got back from intel.

“I still don't understand why we have to be out in the middle of nowhere.” Tech’s voice crackled through the comms.

“Because She can’t be trusted.” Crosshair hissed.

“She has been completely honest with us thus far.” Tech retorted,

“She has a name” You called into your vambrace,

“Fine, The separatist cannot be trusted.” Oh you could hear the smirk in his voice now. And the damn sniper wore it so well…

“Ex-separatist.” Wrecker kindly pointed out in your defence.

“Enough. All of you, Tech what's your status?” Hunter cut in, giving up on the holo-map completely.

“Approaching the south entrance stand by.” You furred your brows, south, why did they go to the south. You distinctly remember telling them to go North… oh, oh shit.

“Tech! Abort mission!” You said into your comm, grabbing your blaster and pack off of the walls of the ship. “Tech! Do not approach the south entrance. I repeat do not engage at the south entrance!” Why, Why did they never listen! You looked at Hunter and Wrecker who seemed unbothered.

“Where do you think you’re going, Spitfire?” Wrecker asked teasingly, “South entrance is unguarded.”

“According to your map, but according to me the south entrance is next to…” “The Barracks.” Hunter finished for you, before running into the cockpit shouting into his comms. You and Wrecker shared a look of panic.

“Are you coming with me or not?” You asked him, and his eyes darted to the cockpit where Hunter was currently firing up the engines and the ramp that was beginning to close.

“I’ll meet you there Spitfire.” He promised, brothers come first, you could understand that. And even though you knew the Havoc Marauder could get there faster, something other than your brain told you that you had to go on foot. And so you threw yourself out of the rising ship, and onto the forest floor of a separatist planet.

And that, well that brings us to the present situation, finding yourself once again in a pair of binders and your comrades nowhere to be found. In hindsight, trampoline through the undergrowth like a bantha on spice wasn't the best idea. But maybe you cared more for Clone Force 99 than you’d like to admit.

“Where are they?” Whorm Loathsom sneered, far too close for comfort.

“The term ‘they’ is pretty ambiguous, could you perhaps speci-fy” your sentence was cut off as his clawed hand met your throat, your own hands fumbling at his face as you struggle for air.

“I’ll ask you again, traitor. Where are the clones you’ve been travelling with?” Loathsom didn’t let up on his grasp, and the corners of your vision were beginning to blur.

“At... your... mother’s.” You choked out, still trying to wriggle out of his grasp. His claws were beginning to cut into your skin, and you knew blacking out was imminent.

“I don’t think you have the time for sarcasm.” He hissed, increasing the pressure causing you to flounder in his grasp. “Now, i’m giving you a chance for redemption here. Tell. me. Where. They. Are!” Maker, you realized, he’s going to do it, he’s actually going to kill you. And just as yours eyes fluttered closed and you began to black out, you hit the floor with a resounding thunk. Only to be pulled onto your feet again and into something familiarly solid.

“Miss me?” Crosshairs voice was heaven layered honey over the sounds of wheezing and laboured breaths.

“Crosshair?” You gasped up at him, his arms around your frame moving to pick you up.

“How touching, you almost look pleased to see me.” You blinked repeatedly at his smirk, before wincing as he began to move.

“Where?” He asked, setting you down again. You tried to speak again but your lungs were still working double time. “What did they do to you?” He whispered, “I should've been faster.”

“Crosshair,” you tried again, essentially mewling into his chest, “I can’t…. Can’t” you were panicked, scared, trying to chase a breath you just couldn't catch.

“I’m going to kill them. I’m going to kill them all.” He snarled, standing up again with you safely in his arms. Maybe Clone Force 99 cared for you more than you thought.

Bed rest sucks, you decide about one day into Techs mandated recovery schedule. What sucks more is him and Hunter marching you back to you bunk every time you try to get up. So, naturally, you resort to sneaking around during the night when the self-proclaimed medics of the Bad Batch are asleep.

You clutch a cup of some kind of herbal drink, Wrecker and Tech keep them by the box load so you figured they must be at least decent. But right now you’re wondering if you missed something because the stupid wet herb-flower bag thing keeps flopping around in the cup every time you try to take a sip. And the thing is way too hot, so you resort to blowing the steam away as it rises.

“Shouldn't you be in bed?” Crosshairs voice comes from the doorway into the hull of the Marauder.

“Miss me?” You ask, mimicking him from before, enjoying the irony.

“Nope.” He says, popping the ‘p’. You scoff at your mug of hot herbal whatnot. “Wrecker was beside himself though.”

“Was he?” You tease your sniper, and a part of you wonders when he went from being ‘the’ sniper to ‘your’ sniper.

“Yeah, inconsolable in fact.” Crosshair moves from the doorway over to your spot in the hull of the ship.

“Really?” you arch an eyebrow, standing in an embarrassing attempt to meet his height. But he’s closer than you calculated and in your adjustment you fumble and find yourself against the wall.

“Aw, little Spitfire’s all choked up, mind the pun.” Crosshair sneers at you, stepping firmly into your personal space.

“I do in fact.” You retort, “mind the pun, i also mind you in my personal bubble.” You go to plant a hand on his chest to push him away, but he’s so solid. Maker, why is he so warm and firm under your hands. Why, oh why, does he have to feel so perfect to your palms. And in the three times you’ve now touched him, Crosshair’s starting to feel familiar.

“You gonna push me or just cop a feel?” He raises an eyebrow, but you miss it under the blush on your cheeks and your gaze hits the floor. His hand comes to your chin, index finger underneath while the thumb caresses your cheek.

“I didn't get to thank you… for coming back for me.” You’re not sure where this is coming from, but it happens anyways.

“You’ve got a weird way of apologizing Spitfire,” He murmurs looking back to your hands in his chest, watching your eyes react as he moves his other hand to your hip. He smirks oh so proudly when you sigh and relax into his hands, and move yours to hold his face and lightly scratch at the short hair on his neck.

“Crosshair…” You exhale looking at him, and the energy between the two of you does the rest of the talking as he leans down to connect his lips to yours.

Kissing Crosshair seems to contradict everything else about him. It’s slow and soft, he takes his time memorizing the feeling and shape of your lips of his. And with all the time he’s spent pushing you away, now he’s pulling you impossibly close. Your kiss is akin to the second half of your nickname. Crosshair is on fire, but he can't bring himself to care. For you, he tastes of a forest after rainfall, crisp with mist and peaceful. You don't want it to ever end, but the burning in your abused lungs forces you to pull away. Immediately he pulls your foreheads together, a Keldabe kiss, because it’s the best he can get as you both heave for air.

“I did miss you. And I was worried.” He tells you, lips brushing against your own as he speaks.

“I know,” You say, pressing a second kiss to his lips where you can both feel the other smile.

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infinite-xerath · 3 years

Text

Runeterra Retcons 1: Thresh

This is something that I did today. I plan to make this an on-going series (might even take it to YouTube someday if I get the nerve to share my voice), but for now have it as a tumblr post.))

The world of Runeterra is one of the most interesting and complex fantasy settings in modern gaming; a fictional realm bustling with fantastical beings, characters, and a wide variety of plot points offering near endless potential for story-telling. The story of League of Legends is not, in fact, a singular narrative, but rather a collection of different stories spread out across a variety of fictional countries, continents, and even dimensions.

Runeterra as we know it today wasn’t always like this, however; in 2015 Riot Games opted to effectively reboot the lore of their world to be rid of the more restrictive plot elements like Summoners and the Institute of War to allow themselves more wriggle room to tell the stories they wanted to tell. While the decision to effectively make League of Legends non-canon to its own story was initially controversial, the writers of Riot Games have effectively proven themselves extraordinarily capable of using this newfound freedom to its full potential… For the most part.

With a retconned world came the need to retcon characters; Riot has made a substantial effort in the last few years to reimagine and redefine the backstories of the iconic Champions to make them fit into the new narrative, albeit with mixed results. Let’s face it: no writer is perfect and hindsight is 20/20, so a number of characters throughout the years have been left with less-than-stellar backstories compared to most of the roster.

Welcome to Runeterra Retcons, a series in which I’ll be analyzing some of the more controversial champion bios in the game to pick apart the good, the bad, and the horribly missed opportunities. With all that out of the way, let’s begin, shall we?

Episode 1: Thresh

Thresh is at once both an interesting and a bland character. He’s arguably one of the more iconic characters in the game, to the point where he’s practically become the unofficial mascot for the Shadow Isles. In-spite of this, I’ve long felt that Thresh is one of the most awkward fits into the region; before we can discuss the problems with his current lore, however, we first need to address Thresh’s backstory pre-retcon and see if we can analyze the core of his character.

Insert original lore here

So, we can see the concept behind Thresh’s character pretty easily: he’s a jailor who loves tormenting his charges, so much so that he continues to do so even after death. If you were to describe Thresh in a single word, it would probably be “sadistic.” Unfortunately, the original lore doesn’t give a lot beyond that; not where he’s from, not when he died, not even where his prison was located. The bio itself literally says that no one knows the details, and while that does add a faint air of mystery to the character, it doesn’t do much to tie him into the faction he’s supposed to represent: The Shadow Isles.

With that out of the way, let’s now take a look at Thresh’s new bio and see how Riot decided to change him after the retcon.

Insert new lore here

Alright, so, there’s a lot to unpack here. Perhaps the most notable change is that Thresh went from tormenting people to… Tormenting “living relics.” The relics are offered no further explanation in the lore or given any prior context. There’s just… A mirror with a soul in it. There’s a sentient book hidden down in the vaults. For some reason, the monks of the Isles even decided to stash a living person down there because he infused his body with raw magic. Why? Who was this person? What did he do to end up in chains? If this was a dangerous mage, wouldn’t it be better to build a proper prison for him rather than stuff him in a vault full of powerful, dangerous artifacts?

There are so many mysteries here, but perhaps biggest one is this: why was Thresh changed from a warden of people to a warden of relics? Why did they feel the need to turn him from a jailor who enjoyed tormenting his inmates to a curator that was slowly corrupted by the very magics meant to help him do his job? Well, I believe that’s meant to tie into the change made to the Shadow Isles themselves, or rather, the Blessed Isles.

While we never had much info on what the Isles were like before becoming an undead haven, a lot of the lore suggests that they were effectively a paradise, hence the name “Blessed Isles.” This was a place without war, without starvation, without corruption. Naturally, there would be no criminals in paradise, and so this of course means that to make Thresh a warden of things that are inhuman… At least, this is the thought process one might have until they introduce the mysterious regenerating mage, but I guess he’s meant to be one bad egg amidst the crowd, assuming he even came from the Isles at all. Again, it’s never really elaborated on.

So, while the change does make a degree of sense, it kind of feels… Flat. I mean, a guy who enjoys tormenting prisoners in their cells to hear their screams sounds a lot more terrifying than a guy who just stops his sentences halfway through to spite a book. Also, the fact that his lantern just becomes a seemingly endless vessel for souls because of the Ruination is a little silly; like, I know the Black Mist does all sorts of nonsensical things to matter, but the fact that an ordinary lantern gets turned into a relic arguably far more dangerous than anything Thresh was ever guarding seems kind of backwards, at least in my opinion.

So, how can we change this? How would I, personally, retcon Thresh if given the chance? Well, there are a lot of base elements that I would keep, but also some key components I’d like to alter. I’ve written up a short bio of my own for you all to enjoy, so without further ado…

In an age all but forgotten to history, there existed a realm known as the Blessed Isles. Hidden away from the world by a veil of magical mist, the Isles were a place of peace and prosperity; a land free of war, corruption, plague and misery. This paradise was ruled by an order of sacred monks devoted to learning and enlightenment. It was within this paradise that Thresh was born and raised by a pair of humble farmers, growing up surrounded by nature’s bounty.

Though expected that he might follow in his fathers’ footsteps, Thresh showed an aptitude for learning from an early age. In-particular, Thresh seemed fascinated with matters of philosophy; the nature of the soul, morality, and other complex subjects were frequent on the boy’s mind. This attitude quickly earned Thresh the attention of the brotherhood, who invited him to join their order as soon as he was of age. Thresh agreed without hesitation, leaving the farm behind to study at the Isles’ monastery.

For many years, Thresh studied under the tutelage of the order, distinguishing himself from his peers for his ability to grasp complex philosophical issues. Though acknowledged by his teachers, Thresh was met with looks of envy and scorn from his fellow students; rather than let himself be disheartened, however, Thresh instead took an interest in the root of their envy in scorn. Upon approaching his elders with such questions, Thresh found himself being led to a secret chamber deep beneath the monastery, guarded by powerful wards and runes. It was here that Thresh learned the truth of the Blessed Isles.

Thresh watched as one of his fellow pupils stood surrounded by figured in ominous robes, chanting an ominous spell in unison. Thresh’s teacher explained to him that this was ritual had been used by the order for ages to ensure that the Isles flourished. Evil was present in all humans, and so the only way to ensure it did not corrupt their paradise was to extract it from the soul, and seal it away. As the ritual drew to a close, Thresh saw the essence of all the other student’s hatred, envy, malice and warped desire ripped from his body, and placed into a special lantern made to contain it.

Thresh was intrigued. He approached the lantern without hesitation as the other boy was escorted from the chamber, and to his surprise, he heard voice whispering to him from within. The monks explained that though the evils of humanity could be removed, they could not be truly discarded. They needed to be contained, and more than that, they needed a warden to watch over them. Thresh volunteered in a heartbeat, and the monks smiled, pleased by their pupils’ devotion.

What they did not know, however, was that the whispers in Thresh’s mind had already begun taken root. From that day forward, Thresh vigilantly stood guard over the lantern, watching each successive cleansing as it took place. Each time, the wicked essence in the lantern grew stronger, as did the whispers in Thresh’s mind. He began to dream of enacting twisted torments upon the monks, the other disciples, and even his own parents. Slowly but surely, the brotherhood noticed a change in Thresh’s behavior. Fearing that he himself would be subjected to their cleansing rite, Thresh stole the lantern and fled the monastery.

The monks chased Thresh for days, but their search was brought to an abrupt end when strange ships arrived on the Blessed Isles: something Thresh thought impossible. From the safety of the cliffs, Thresh watched in delight as a soldiers led by a foreign king massacred his fellow monks. Their screams were music to the warden’s ears, and as the chaos spread, Thresh found himself reveling in the suffering of all who fell to the foreigners’ blades. Even at the cost of his own life, Thresh dared to move about the battlefield, searching for survivors left in the king’s wake only that he may snuff out the remnants of their lives himself.

Finally, as the screams of his victims began to subside, Thresh turned his attention to the heart of the Isles. From there, he saw a cloud of pure darkness rushing to meet him, and opened his arms wide to embrace it. In that moment, all the wickedness trapped within Thresh’s lantern was freed, bound to his soul through the power of the Ruination. Thresh emerged a being of pure maliciousness, and his lantern, now empty, would serve as the perfect vessel to enact his twisted fantasies.

Thresh now roams Runeterra as an avatar of sadism, bringing pain and misery to all unfortunate enough to cross his path. He stalks his victims and torments them by slowly stripping them of their sanity, before finally prying their souls from their bodies with his wicked sickle. If you hear the sound of chains in the dead of night, run… Though it may already be far too late.

So, what did you think? Now, it’s at this point I feel I need to clarify something: I’m not trying to bash on Riot’s creative team, nor am I saying that I can definitely make a better version of someone else’s character. Hell, I’m not even really saying that my version of the story is flawless; it would probably need to go through several more rewrites before I’d ever consider publishing it as canon, not that I have the power to do so, of course.

Rather, I wanted to take a closer look at Thresh’s character and how well his current lore represents him. I said earlier that Thresh is at once and interesting and a bland character. I consider him a little bland because you can sum him up in a single word: “sadistic.” He has no goals and no motivation other than to cause pain and suffering. Even the other undead of the Shadow Isles typically have some kind of agenda, even if it’s only to spread the Black Mist’s influence. Thresh doesn’t care about that; he just wants to see you writhe in agony, both before and after death. I’d argue he has more in common in with League’s demons than the other specters of the Isles, but it’s BECAUSE Thresh is undead that he has so much potential for an interesting backstory.

The main points I wanted to emphasize in my rewrite are: expanding on the magics that corrupted Thresh into being so sadistic, giving his lantern some greater significance in the story, and replacing the vault full of otherwise pointless macguffins with something a little more sinister that gives the Blessed Isles a hint of dichotomy. Riot loves adding a little morally grey to all their characters and factions, after-all.

Anyways, what do you all think? Could Thresh’s lore be improved, or do you all like his story the way in currently is? Lemme know down below, and I’ll see you all next time!

#Outofpower #League of Legends #Runeterra Retcons

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phoenixtakaramono · 4 years

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The Untold Tale - Ch4 Preview I

This was the second time they’d held hands. Fingers threaded together, palms touching. A significant amount of information could be communicated in the simple act of taking someone’s hand—the shape and texture of it, the roughness or softness of the life they’d led, and the strength or fragility of their grip. Luo Binghe would remember the feeling of that pale hand gripping his tightly for the rest of his life.

The mist billowed under Luo Binghe the moment he was allowed entry into the dream realm of the divine. Instantly, he was besieged with the feeling of falling into a frozen lake. The cold was a shock through his body, forcing his hand to convulsively clamp down.

Foolish, Luo Binghe berated himself. Instead of a composed and dignified air, he’d just shown his weak side.

To have been finally welcomed inside the dream realm of a celestial being meant this version of his shizun had thought highly of Luo Binghe and his constitution.

Shen Yuan halted midstride. Concern was written upon those white brows upon seeing his reaction.

Luo Binghe forced an amiable smile as he pretended to be oblivious, masking any sign of his discomfort. The sensation of pins-and-needles assailing him wasn’t something he couldn’t tolerate, but it was unpleasant. Except for their one point of contact, no part had been spared. His gaze lingered on the long scholarly fingers wrapped trustingly around his, before sweeping a glance over their new surroundings.

He felt like he’d stepped into a world composed of silk screens. Ahead, the fine mist passing through the painted scenery shrouded the outline of the tall mountain range and forest. Even the walls of the buildings were composed of firm brushstrokes and soft ink wash.

Droplets of water splashed quietly from their strides as Shen Yuan guided him in the direction of whatever he’d wanted Luo Binghe to see. Like black ink that had been dipped into clear water, the transparent surface was beginning to darken with every tread Luo Binghe took.

He stared down at his feet. The sight of the ink and water swirling into one another as though they were made to be together gave rise to the tide of emotions which had been circulating within his mind.

In the newly fallen darkness, he could sense his companion had fallen into another state of deep contemplation. As the two men shared a companionable silence, Luo Binghe took a long, measuring look at the landscape—at the secrets hiding within the fog, behind the translucent silks.

The atmosphere was incomparably resplendent and harmonious, yet it painted an undeniable fact about his companion who had been secreted away from him. More knowledge could be gained of how such a revered existence perceived the outside world.

“...You’ve always had an unruly habit to roam and draw unnecessary attention to yourself!” An insidious and vicious whisper brushed against Luo Binghe’s mind like a wisp of smoke. “To think you’d chase him here on impulse!”

Hearing the litany of grievances, Luo Binghe hid the blade that was his smile. Unlike himself, he had no doubt that his senior might have been exorcised had he not taken refuge in him. However convincingly the Meng Mo conveyed his displeasure, his voice was weakened.

Earlier, Luo Binghe had gambled that on this fateful evening that the celestial fortuneteller would have no choice but to attend to his growing fatigue. His guard would be lowered and that was when the opportunity would present itself.

The practice of invading and manipulating a person’s dreams was nothing new. With his secret tutelage cultivating on the demonic path, beginning from Luo Binghe’s past as a mere Cang Qiong Mountain sect disciple, he had learned to infiltrate many minds.

Several had been his lovers—the first being his shījiě, accidental as it had been pulling his martial sister along with him—although the treatment his women received was far more considerate than the cruel methods he inflicted upon all those who opposed him.

He had seen the duplicity of people’s hearts and reproduced illusions of varying natures. He’d learned how to lure others when they were at their most defenseless and be able to find their worst fears and memories to inflict the maximum psychological torment.

With his enemies who were impervious to physical torture, few could claim immunity upon being confronted with their own inner demons.

With his lovers, he could skim their memory fragments and indulge any spring dreams either of them had fantasized about.

Because unlike the waking world, the dream realm was honest.

It was a glimpse into one’s truest state. The capability to doubt was stripped away. Memories could be spied on. Falsehoods were exposed. And no secrets could be kept from him.

Meng Mo’s withered voice interrupted his thoughts.

“You should be more prudent in choosing your words around him. The ways of those of the Heavenly Realm are mysterious—but they are proud and have always held contempt for our kind. Don’t be muddled in the head just because you believe he can replace the late Qing Jing Peak Lord…. His looks aren’t bad but to eat the tofu of the one who bears the farseeing, discerning eyes of the heavens….” A mocking edge had crept into Meng Mo’s tone. “You are shameless. This elder doesn’t know whether to be impressed or scold you for holding that ambition.”

Although his lips had thinned into a white line, Luo Binghe remained silent.

Water shaped its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flowed. Tonight, many of his initial plans had been waylaid. Although he couldn’t have predicted its trajectory, he wasn’t discontent with the final outcome. He’d gained information that would be invaluable to him—and he’d finally found his shizun.

There had been a quiescent anticipation in the night as Luo Binghe waited like a spider spinning its web, searching and reaching for the only mind of this residence who was of interest to him, until he’d finally sensed the faintest reverberation of the otherworldly and ephemeral—a presence that could only belong to him.

And he’d pulled.

As someone who used to humbly occupy the Mortal Realm, never in his imagination did Luo Binghe expect he could claim success to the achievement of accessing the dream realm of an immortal celestial being.

The rush of triumph had been dampened once, upon seeking Shen Yuan, Luo Binghe encountered a Qi-condensed barrier—a mental defense meant to repel demonic influences. Impenetrable even against the combined efforts of himself and his senior who had centuries worth of infiltration experience, no matter how much he’d concentrated—redirecting the violent and rough flow of his Qi into something more finessed—he was unable to cross the boundary to meet the precious person inside. Breaching it would require a much greater display of force.

Luo Binghe had been stuck at an impasse. He’d realized, unless he wished to cause Shen Yuan psychological pain, the barrier had to stay.

In hindsight, his action had indeed been too rash.

Time was immeasurable in the world of dreams, but with every moment that had passed without Shen Yuan revealing himself, the fear mounted. Perhaps Shen Yuan had predicted such an incident would occur and had taken precaution. The opportunity would have slipped through Luo Binghe’s fingers like water.

It was inevitable that they would be going their separate ways in the coming morning. And the last deep impression he’d leave behind would cast Luo Binghe in an extremely bad light, with Shen Yuan withdrawing back into seclusion and harboring a grudge for being taken advantage of.

All would be lost. Faced with the possibility of being abandoned, Luo Binghe had been inconsolable. The tension in the air around him had been so thick, it presented a heavy atmosphere in his own dream realm.

The giant boulder which weighed down his heart vanished when, with the keen senses of a cultivator, his five senses had detected a ripple in the fog.

From faraway, he’d been spellbound. He’d seen a sight resembling that from legend, with the unattainable moon that was Shen Yuan descending down from the stars which glistened like shards in the night.

He had chosen to come to Luo Binghe out of his own volition.

Another realization had struck Luo Binghe. Seeing the regal figure out of his immaculate finery—dressed down to his inner clothing and with his moonlit hair undone, without a headpiece in sight—was a rare and intimate sight. Aside from the servants who tended to their peerless master, no one else must have been bestowed such a gift.

It’d been fascinating observing how someone of the Heavenly Realm would interact within his world. Shen Yuan had assimilated quickly. Wandering aimlessly in an unfamiliar environment, his appearance reminded Luo Binghe of the purest white snow, high above and unreachable, the likes of which could not be tainted. His manner had been aloof and vague; such bearing was similar to what Luo Binghe expected for someone of high status. The only difference was that his attitude toward Luo Binghe had not been indifferent or uncaring. Courtesy had been given, even knowing who he was.

“...Xiōng dì.” A deep and steady voice trickled into Luo Binghe’s awareness, pulling him from his deep reflection.

An invigorating energy suddenly blanketed him. All discomfort fled, replaced with the refreshing coldness of a spring brook. Shen Yuan had fallen a step back so that they were now shoulder to shoulder.

Shen Yuan’s gaze was appraising as his breaths feathered the fur. “I had not expected you being here would be strenuous on you. Please take care of your body.” A hand went up to clasp him on the shoulder. “I think, for now, it’s better to stay close to me until you can stand on your own. You’ll be safer by my side.”

Luo Binghe inhaled sharply.

“Hoh. How considerate!” Dryness filtered into his thoughts. “Such goodwill. He must really have a good heart.”

Stay out of this, Luo Binghe rebuked. Scram!

He ducked his head. The hidden meaning of Shen Yuan’s words had not been lost on him. He simply hadn’t expected how protective Shen Yuan was of him.

In this lifetime, Luo Binghe would like to think he could recognize his shizun even if he turned into ashes—or took on a different appearance. Even the slow-witted were able to see that Shen Yuan was of different temperament, reminding Luo Binghe of the other “Shen Qingqiu” of the mirror world. This fortuneteller had a sincere and utterly honest personality.

This night was the first time they’d met, but it was undeniable that there was a flow to their conversations—as though they were not strangers but instead dear friends reuniting. It was like someone had peered into his heart and crafted him a person according to his desires. Being with Shen Yuan felt like the most natural thing in the world.

There was no such thing as a string of coincidences. Since they have finally encountered, it must have meant they were fated. Since fated, one must live up to the fate that the Heavens bestowed.

When his host had yet to retrieve his infatuated eyes, Meng Mo’s tone changed into that of a fussy steward coaxing his headstrong young lord. “Have you not wondered what he’s after? What his true intentions are? This fortuneteller’s character and actions have been truly mysterious. He seems to be an intelligent person. For him to offer his assistance to change your fate, he must have plans for you. We must figure out what they are.”

What do you know? Luo Binghe’s remark had been as cutting and swift as a blade. Don’t exaggerate. You know nothing.

“...You’ve finally gone insane.” A heavy sigh was heaved. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss my words as superfluous. His kind has no qualms destroying us both if your existence is implicated as a calamity-sized threat. ...But knowing your wicked temperament, listen to me very carefully: you’d best prepare to make sure his cooperation doesn’t deviate. If he is speaking the truth, you already have one meddling benefactor in your life.”

One hand curled into a fist at his side. Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī…. It took everything in Luo Binghe’s willpower to keep his expression from becoming unsightly.

It was a detestable name he vowed to never forget. While he was grateful to know now the one responsible behind his every misfortune, the mere suggestion of such an existence stoked the flames of resentment.

To a higher being who crafted this world, the realms were a pond. And Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī had caused too many ripples. To have planned everything in Luo Binghe’s life, that wily schemer must feel quite pleased with himself. He’d treated his creations—he’d treated Luo Binghe, his supposed “original masterpiece”—as helpless pawns of his mind games, not putting the sufferings of others in mind.

And why wouldn’t he? Such conceit was ordinary among those who occupied the realm of gods, immortals, and fairies.

Had Luo Binghe been raised under different circumstances, had his benefactor been more caring and had not made his life all the more difficult, had he not had to suffer the countless humiliations and injustices, his soft heart of the past would have felt moved to discover he had the backing of such a great and magnanimous patron behind him. He might have even expressed gratitude to such a “creator” for teaching him the lessons that could only be learnt through adversity!

Luo Binghe hid the spiteful sneer in his heart. If there was an altar dedicated to Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī, Luo Binghe most certainly would find a way to desecrate it. He felt no filial piety for such a callous being.

What reasonable person would appreciate their life being treated as a stage play? Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī’s favor was a terrible burden. He had placed Luo Binghe on a path of greatness that led to a cliff to his death.

Hearing his vicious thoughts, Meng Mo murmured, “Even so...the will of the heavens has always been enigmatic and impossible to predict. For two heavenly beings who wish to stake their claim on you...an immense honor has been bestowed. Be careful of how you act with this one; he must be testing you.”

Allowing the weight of his words to sink in, Luo Binghe gazed at Shen Yuan. Even though he had tacitly implied a falling out, there were signs of obvious estrangement between himself and Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī.

Himself being here must have presented Shen Yuan an irresistible impulse to take initiative. Had he not intervened, Luo Binghe would have blindly followed Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī’s design for him like a clay doll.

A thought suddenly occurred to him. Wouldn’t Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī be angered if his clay doll spurned him and had instead sought another benefactor? It was an alluring prospect. The advantages of having someone like Shen Yuan on his side far exceeded anything else. He was hidden like a song heard by the river. And he knew the way of all the heroes of the world.

...What does Senior think? Shizun has foretold this lord’s fated one to be an indispensable source of wisdom. Naturally, my future prospects are limitless if this astute person becomes tied to me. You’ve said the heavens were unforgiving against those of demonic blood, so would this not grant the greatest protection if they witness how this lord cherishes and protects one of their own? If such a revered existence becomes known as this lord’s closest person? Great heroes and wise scholars live freely without guile or contrivance.

A moment of silence passed.

Eventually, disbelieving laughter ghosted along Luo Binghe’s mind, as faint as autumn leaves rustling in the wind. “This elder has done well to have chosen you as my successor. You have a one-track mind that cannot even be reined in by eight horses!”

Luo Binghe hid the cold smile in his heart. He had not outright stated it, but he knew Meng Mo could read between the lines.

Since he had two benefactors wishing to stake their claim on him, then it was only fair if he staked his own claim over one of them. But to do that, he had to reach the pinnacle. Only then would he be in a position where he could not be crossed, and his image would be elevated in the eyes of others.

Resources must be consolidated. The more meritorious his achievements were, the more he could make a name for himself and demonstrate his capability as a leader. He had to expand his prestige and quickly spread his power; connections were needed.

He refused to die a dog’s death like how Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī had planned for him after his use had been expended.

Like how it had been when he’d been weak and defenseless, it was either Luo Binghe moved forward—or he’d die. With a handsome and refined match by his side guiding him, the Three Realms would be his.

“Have patience,” Meng Mo chastised. “You’ve only just met him. From now onwards, until you have determined which benefactor provides you the better benefits, it is better not to provoke either.”

There was a grain of truth to his advice. There were no good prospects if a dulled knife became sharpened. Likewise, as soon as one underestimated their prey, they were done for.

Luo Binghe couldn’t help recalling his past little by little. The Cang Qiong Mountain sect had opened its doors only once every few years to recruit new disciples. It didn’t feel too long ago when he’d been handpicked from the selection of people hoping to have the potential to develop a golden core. In his youthful ignorance, bearing a poor orphan’s hope to live a better life, Luo Binghe had not known the path to enlightenment would be treacherous. Many of his martial siblings, his masters, and his own shizun had exposed themselves to be snakes and scorpions.

They were as corrupt as the very evil they opposed, their injustices hidden behind the veneer of being virtuous and just.

The side of the righteous was filled with hypocrisy. To hold steadfast to the ethics of a disciplined cultivator was not enough. He had to be ruthless.

Just like then, there were all kinds of hidden talents and geniuses in the world. To be blessed by the grace of a celestial being—the very height of immortality—was unheard of. Preposterous, even. Yet he had managed to accomplish such a feat.

Had Meng Mo not claimed, because of Luo Binghe’s inheritance as a Heavenly Demon, that cultivating on the demonic path would allow him to grow by leaps and bounds? That he would stand above thousands? That the entirety of the Three Realms, of the heavens and the earth, would be swept away by his mere existence once the seal was lifted? He had a bright future, if he just reached out his hand and grasped those opportunities with an iron fist.

To have aspirations and goals was high and admirable.

A fine owl would perch on a fine tree; a good servant would serve a good master. As a worldly man, there was nothing wrong for him to pursue ambition. In this world, power was authority.

It had been preordained for him to climb into a position of power. Even Shen Yuan had said so himself, both in his reading and just moments prior. He would obtain it all in the end.

And even if it took him his entire lifetime, in one way or another Luo Binghe would ensure to repay his “gratitude” back to Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī for his consideration.

“Since you value loyalty and bonds...who knows, perhaps being chummy with this one might turn him into a loyal dog…. This senior looks forward to the day an emissary from the heavens comes to pay respects to the last bloodline of the Heavenly Demons.”

——————————

Notes: “Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī” is referring to Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky. Since this sneak peek is from the first draft, some details will be subject to change when the final draft is published on AO3. Since this chapter is mostly Bing gē simping for SY, to balance out the loveydovey majority, Meng Mo is, as the Chinese saying goes, “kicking up/ raising a stink” (at least in the beginning of this chapter).

Link to ch 1-3 on AO3 can be found in my profile!

#svsss #bingqiu #scumbag system #the scum villain's self saving system #bingyuan #luo binghe #luo bingge #the untold tale #celestial shen yuan #phoenixtakaramono #preview

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grim-faux · 3 years

Text

2 _ 30 _ All Seeing Patience

First

In hindsight, perhaps being so lenient with the boy was not wise given how Mono could be so driven and overbearing at times. However, he was no stranger to this behavior. It wasn’t a frequent matter, only when he returned from a venture through the city.

At first it was pleasant, Mono was unbothered by his return and let him be. The child lingered around, checking in on him as per his way, or watching from the shadows of some furniture. Likely, the boy had gotten his exploration quota exhausted of the upper rooms, though, he was uncertain with how far Mono would extend his searches. The boy had no issue returning, to hold down the fort as it were. He couldn’t recall if the child faded off once, thus, he deduced Mono remained in or near the vicinity of the room. The further away the child ventured, the more ambiguous the transmission.

This slight distance preserved time for the Thin Man to ponder hypotheticals, of the Pale City, of his purpose now. A never-ending contest to deal with this child, content to keep on his heels, unwilling or indifferent of returning or departing to the hostile world he condemned that boy to. At times he did rouse from rest with a new creeping anxiety, this uncertainty of providing adequately the resources scrounged from a world that would not tolerate betrayal.

Betrayal. That made Him seem like the villain. That was laughable.

Then the source of his apprehension, on the floor tugging at his cufflink. “What?” No response. Just more of that insistent tugging. “What do you need?” Why did he even bother?

For some while the room was plain, the dull light gleaming more vivid than an incriminating spotlight. He settled on the recliner with a set of fingers digging into his temple, musing that he needed to do better of keeping track which districts of the city he visited. Likewise, track which areas might be suitable to escort the child through. The safest route.

Said child had come in, as he does whenever it suits him. Occasionally a toy accompanied him, and the few he brought stayed on the floor by the chair. The Thin Man tried to return them to the nest room, but they kept reappearing while his guard was laxed. He began shutting them away in cupboards, but they kept cropping up!

Now the only difference, the child began a tactic of prying at his suit and arm. Excessively. To an annoying degree. And refused to answer questions.

“What is it?” “Do you need something?” “Child?”

He tried to snatch the child, blindly and not driven. It usually worked to spook Mono off for a short while, if not longer. Alas, within a crying brief span, the child was back. The brash nuisance hauled himself up onto the arm of the recliner and shoved at the arm kneading at his hair line.

“Mono. What? What is it?”

The boy made a little noise and shoved his shoulder, his bare feet braced to the side of the recliner. “Go.”

“Go? Go where?” He reached over, but the child ducked away. Briefly, he debated stalling time and seizing the child. But the boy vanished, and he collected himself to check. He was somewhere. Desperate, he glanced up half-expecting the child to be on the headrest perched like a gargoyle. That persistent tugging returned, to his ankles.

“Why? Why are you like this?” The boy pulled and then pushed his leg away from the recliner base. He leaned over, but Mono flickered out with a squealing crackle. “Mono! Stop. Go play or something.” The voice piped up, beside him:

“With. T’look. Th't important,” the voice rasped. Before he could react, the boy once more flittered out in a glitch. Very reminiscent. He’d forgotten what that looked like, though, he supposed it looked much different when he phased around.

“No. There is no need! There are no dangers.” He looked around, perplexed to where the child with his limited skill might’ve managed. “Nothing for you to be afraid of. Are you listening? I am here.” Eventually, he’d wear himself out. That’s how this went.

“R'sad,” Mono whispered. Ah, there he was on the opposite armrest, and stumbling onto his lap. “Shu’d go.”

“No. No. No. No.” The child glared at him and tugged on the front of his coat. “No.” He went to snatch him, forgetting entirely to slow time. Mono vaulted, or might’ve teleported again. Sooner or later, he seethed. Shoving himself forward from the recliners back, he searched across the floor. Where now? Who knows? Probably to bite his ankles.

He snapped his leg up. “Mono!” The child was there, but vanished before he caught full view of him. Enough of this, he flickered into standing and abandoned the area completely. “I will not ț̶̅o̵̘͋ļ̷̈́ẽ̵̯r̶̝̽ȃ̷͉t̴͒��e̶̻̒ this. That behavior is Ä̸̡́b̸̜̈ḥ̶̋o̶͚̐r̷͙̃r̸͓̈́e̵̝͐n̷͖̉t̴̓ͅ.̴̡̚” The diluted rasp peeled up from beneath his heels.

“H’vee look? Go? Help t’watch.”

The child followed him down the corridor. Of course he would. “For the last time, N̸̘͋o̵̺͘!” He pivoted and made another reach, this time drawing on time to drag on the boy’s movements. Mono still managed a good teleport to compensate, but it was lagged and not as impressive as his previous shifts. “Y̶o̷u̸ ̶A̸r̵e̵ ̸G̸r̵a̵t̴i̵n̴g̸ ̵O̸n̴ ̸M̸y̷ ̶L̵a̵s̵t̴ ̸N̸e̷r̶v̴e̷.̴”

Another shriek and crackle, as another propelled Mono beyond his grasp. Again, limited. The child scrambled toward the room, where he set up his nest. The Thin Man stooped in the doorway, while Mono rushed among his gifts, aimed for the crumpled mattress against the wall. Time resumed its normal wade, and the boy crashed into the lone standing leg post.

“Y̵o̷u̷ ̴A̶r̵e̶ ̴G̴o̵i̴n̷g̴ ̴T̴o̷ ̵S̶t̷o̴p̸ ̶P̸e̵s̸t̵e̵r̷i̶n̵g̸ ̷M̵e̴,̷ ̶U̴n̶d̸e̵r̷s̷t̸a̷n̵d̶?̷ ̸ Ň̷̺O̸͕͘!̶̧̋ ̵I̸ ̴A̷m̶ ̴V̵e̶r̶y̵ ̸B̵u̸s̸y̸.̷”

Mono wound around to him and began bouncing in place on his heels. This probably would go on for some time. Hours.

“I̷̤̾ ̷̤͑Ḍ̶͠ö̸̹n̶͕̚'̷̈́͜t̵̘̏ ̴̮͊H̷̠͛ä̶͚v̶̨͊e̸̪͗ ̸͔͗T̴̙̂i̴̠̐m̴̡̂ē̶̹ ̵̦͝F̷̞̑o̷̥̊r̶̝̾ ̸̟͂T̸̮͐h̵̝͠e̸͜͝s̵̳̽e̸͓̐ ̸̯̚G̶̨̕ą̴͘m̵͎̍e̷͎͘ș̷̋!̸̟̿” And snapped the door shut.

It was one of those games the child liked to play. Lurk around, get in close, and harass him mercilessly. He had to learn ‘No’ meant ‘Stop’. It was obnoxious and he wouldn’t be subjected to it.

The Thin Man straightened his hat and resumed his course through the corridor to the main entry. He needed to take off and have a look around, perhaps find a new area to deposit the child. Give the boy a while to settle down and think about this. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty of toys and books to destroy.

Nothing of the Pale City’s roads or alleys appeared out of place, not even the gaping wounds winding through the city thoroughfares. For some time, days if the Thin Man wanted to get technical, the weather was in moderate order. It would have suited to depart the shelter and escort the child to a new station and provisions. However, he recognized that the child needed to recuperate from the long drag through the between. The whole of this process tedious.

Of the multitude of stores he perused through, none of the books nor literature provided insight to the Tower, let alone made mention of it. He is not surprised, given that he grew up within the endless corridors and coils, and in the end knew nothing of it. What he learned from the Tower, was that it was a bastard, and knew too much about him. He didn’t even know if the cycle was a reoccurring anomaly set in time, or if it was a repetitious recycle.

He knew only of his short time as a free child, and his time now as an adult. The few memories he shared with Mono… didn’t feel like they were truly his; a film projection or movie segment, he had no business or involvement in. If possible, they were fabricated somehow by the Tower, to mock him. Even when he was released to pursue his child-self, was not a similar event to when he – as a child – had fled from his distorted future shadow.

The upward ascending steps ended at an open wound which capped the remnants of a building, much of the brick and rebar pried from the ravaged cement stuck loose like fish bones in a spoiled carcass. In a flash, his form skittered around debris layered across what was a building interior. He idled around the wreckage determined to leave no stone unturned, regardless how pointless it was, how cemented it was to a forgotten road. Across the crumbling walls lay pages and some folders, rotten to tatters and barely discernable from the decayed bodies of a Viewer or other creature, perhaps a partially corrupted adult. Not quit a Viewer, not so far gone yet.

A drawer in a bleached desk popped open, and he cut the distance in a flicker to check what might’ve survived. Much of the folders and notebooks are overtaken by the merciless storms, stained and caked with mildew. With a curse, he tossed the package of pages to the floor.

In one of the partially built stone cubicles, a chair creaked on what remained of its wheels as it spun against the lashing mist. The clouds slathered the surface exposed to the air with thousands of glittering beads. The bill of the Thin Man’s hat whipped against the gusts, but he remained unbothered. He touched the cigarette at his lips and let the ember gleam.

Sometimes he found a calendar in an office or store, or room; they came about in frequency, but described nothing. The dates would always be wrong, the year and time of month. Not that time mattered at all in the Pale City, where the sky was choked by clouds and storms, driving rains to scrub off the city from the face of the wretched world. The Viewers were too preoccupied by the televisions which sprouted freely, all of them too busy to realize the days escaped them, that time was lost and forever gone. Abandoned….

Time was lost to him. To the Tower. Endlessly waiting.

He stepped to the edge of the sheared concrete wall and peered down, at a roof not far below. Lined along the furthest edge, the Viewers. All their affection to the entity which promised release, peace, everything this horrendous world would deny them. Even without his direct presence, they remained grotesquely devoted to the summons.

There in the distance, the gleaming piece of his burning ire. The Signal Tower cut through the storm and delivered its impassioned hypnosis over lesser creatures. Featureless bland and boring as the shell is, concealed the true horror of the thing within. Nothing so dangerous or depraved has ever been such a beacon, though ironically the Signal Tower is the beacon. And for some reason, no one ever thought of it, let alone gave the thing the time of day. It existed, to be ignored. It thrived on the dismissal, until it began to make promises. He imagined each contract it made to each denizen of the Signal, it kept. How lovely.

“It calls to me.”

The Thin Man bore holes into the horrid sacks of flesh blow. The ember chewed off a little more of the cigarette as he drank down the smoke. They deserved this, he reasoned. It was true, without a doubt. Mindless and deranged, infatuated with a private deception that promised without true fulfillment. Was it even a negotiation, if the Tower held no obligation to fulfill anything? It gave them what they sought, an easy way out. He supposed it was easy to make promises to those who had no idea what was truly good for them.

None of the artifacts strewn over the floor or desks could impart of what the building was, of what these offices catered to. The search was hopeless, but still, he sifted through the remaining filing cabinets seeking a shielded hollow which might hold insight. Perhaps, a dying smolder of light stuffed into a dusty corner. It was no different than seeking insight from a long dead writer, such as Jules Verne. Where was he to suspect where and when the Tower first appeared? Someone, somewhere in the entire time of the world, must have witnessed something pivotal.

He only knew the Pale City. Knew that he was meant to fall in the road, before the doors of the Signal Tower. So that a child could take his throne and assume his role.

The last shop he made point to search through had more promise than the office, or so he hoped. It was all pointless, he mused. Nothing ventured nothing gained, as the saying goes. He located a tattered and yellowed newspaper, beneath the counter of the cash register.

In cylinder racks besides the windows, the tattered remains of a dozen or so magazines. A few fresh pieces had been replaced, perhaps by Stockers. The shop didn’t cater entirely to literature, but held a few other pieces of inventory scattered about. It wasn’t much to pilfer, but he acquired a few books that had not been seized by the weather.

Upon returning to the location where he left Mono, he kept attention to the corridors and the few doors torn down or left open. The upper floors did not have active televisions, and none of the open dwellings appeared tampered with during his absence. All was in order.

The residence, as well. Even before he opened the main door, he knew the child was still within. He loosened the books against his side and leaned up, at his back, the door gave a soft click. At his proximity, the lamps flashed as he trailed through the rooms and corridor, ever cautious with his steps. Mono was very prone to be underfoot when it was not practical, which is never.

It’s odd… the child did not emerge. He flashed into the the spare room and set the books beside the recliner, his eyes shifted across the walls, searching for the unlikely glimmer of movement. No new plushies have come to invade, the transmission is not here. In a glitchy screech, he relocated to the corridor. Mono remained in the room, but usually he would appear and check the intruder. The tinge of the transmission hovered within the room. He didn’t… did the child leave at all?

He took the handle and cautiously pushed the door in. Not sure of what to expect, let alone lost to what might’ve happened. This could all be blown out of proportion, but he would be lying if he insisted he wasn’t fearful.

“Child?” He scanned over the floor and the broken bed. Then, a corner of a room, which imparted results. There the strange child sat with his knees tucked into his coat, and the paper bag on his head. The Thin Man sighed. “What are you doing?” He hated how the paper bag just gazed at him, impassive and blank.

Mono shrugged.

He pushed the door open further and leaned up, once he cleared the frame. “You didn’t wallow in here all this time, did you?”

This time, the child flecked his palms up with his shrug. The paper bag crinkled a bit, as he turned his head to examine the area over. The toys, intact. Untouched. Even the books didn’t appear traumatize, no more than when he first found them. It shouldn’t come as a grand revelation, the Thin Man after all spent the better part of his life in a room. Though that too irritated him.

Now the child climbed to his feet, using the wall to balance himself as he stood and began tracing the perimeter. When he neared his shoes the boy inched over and flipped the paper bag up and regarded the tall-tall figure. The Thin Man glared back, a lone eyebrow arched. This little stare off was unsettling; the child stood motionless, aside from his fingers working at the edge of his coat.

At long last, the boy dipped his head down and slipped past the Thin Man, to wander through the hall.

Curious, the Thin Man flashed into the corridor and observed from a distance, while Mono went to the other rooms. He followed to the entrance of the room with the recliner, and spied the boy give the entire area a strict examination from the vantage of his paper bag. He hesitated to admit, he didn’t like this.

The boy ventured to the other room, and the bathroom, skimming by the walls and homing in on any imperfection. As if he never saw this place before. From there, it was hurry past the Thin Man and go perform his exploration of the living area, the kitchen. Especially the kitchen, where Mono opened a few of the cabinets and checked the contents. He clambered onto the countertop and pushed up the paper bag, in order to scarf some of the food left sitting out. Unbothered that the Thin Man was beside the threshold, watching. What appeared last on the agenda was the one closet, then the main entry. Mono inspected it, ran another lap of the main living area, then scurried over to the collapsed sofa chair.

Mono went to the side and situated himself beside the wall and the fabric base, with his arms wrapped about his knees. Sleep, most likely. Or half sleep. Perfectly normal.

Uncertain, the Thin Man drew closer. “Do you understand… you were not meant to stay in that room?” Mono tipped the paper sack a little, but settled back down. “You could have left at any time. You did leave, didn’t you?” Once again, a shrug.

This infuriating child….

He took a book from his pocket and knelt, to set it beside Mono’s feet. He anticipated complete indifference, but he is optimistic when the boy uncoiled a bit and began flipping through the pages. That was better than the alternative ‘bad ending’ scenario he anticipated, but it was still too soon.

“How… are you?”

The child scratched at his bare shin and looked up at him. The bag nodded, and he went back to turning the pages in his book. Just nodding. No speek, for now. He supposed the child would be in this mood.

He shifted on his knee. “Well?”

Mono tiled his mask up. “Mm… t’danger,” he croaked. “Shh. N’wait f’r safe.” He kept prattling on about something or other, but the tone was very soft.

“What danger?” He could barely make out one eye in its little dark cutout blink at him.

“Dang-err-ous,” he whispered. “T’danger. Out. N’stay. F’r k’p safe. I… um, D’hide. Good.”

The Thin Man pinched the bridge of his nose. This child did not really isolate himself to a room he was not confined to. “Child. There was no dangers. None at all. I did not want you to bother me anymore.” A very quiet:

“D’t.”

Why? That’s all he asked. He would trade any knowledge of the Tower, if he could grasp why the child was so difficult.

“Mono,” he rumbled. The light in the room flashed. “Y̶̹o̷͎̍u̶̬͗ ̶̠Ḱ̶̙n̵̻o̷̙͌w̶̳̅ ̸̘̈́B̴̞̂e̶͕͑ṯ̷̍t̷̥̚e̸͉͠r̶͉̚.̴̦͋”

“Sure.”

He glared down at the child, watching him with that ridiculous mask. “What does that even mean? This ‘̶͇̓S̸͖͑u̵͈̇r̵̬͊ĕ̷̟’̴̬́?̷̠͠ It clearly Ḑ̵̛o̸̹͝e̸̡̛s̸̜̆ ̸̧̈N̸̻o̷̹̒t̷͈͗ mean what ̷̝͗I̸̹̚ ̸͙͝T̸͚̆h̴̜̚i̶̫̊ņ̷̒k̸̝͐ it M̶̧͆ê̴̺a̴͍͌n̵͈̆s̸͚͊.̶̝͠”

Rather answer, Mono hefted the book into his arms and began strafing along the wall, facing the Thin Man. The Thin Man flashed to his full height. “Mono!” The boy dumped the book and took off. “Don’t you dare go back to that room, or I̴̼͊ ̵̲̉W̵̫̊i̶̼͗ľ̵̫l̷̺̋ ̷͈̄W̸̨͊ǎ̸̙l̶͍̕k̵̫̔ ̸̝̌O̷̤͆u̸͕̚ť̸̜ ̷̮̂O̵̳̕f̶͙͊ ̵̥͑H̸̤͘e̸͓͑r̷ͅe̸̠ ̵̡F̴̬̀o̶͕̅r̸̛̫ ̵͉͊T̴͈̉h̷͍̍é̶̩ ̵̜̔L̶͍̒a̸͔̔s̵̩̚ṭ̶͛ ̵͈͛T̷͠ͅǐ̸̟m̵̦͊e̸̺͊!̷͈͗ Don’t T̷̥é̴͖s̶͙t̶̞͋ ̷̟͌Ṁ̸̩ȩ̵̚!̵̈́ͅ”

Mono tripped at the corridor’s entrance and toppled to his front. He recovered quickly, standing up by the wall and fidgeting, looking toward the open hall and then back to the tall figure. “T’n… w’leave?”

He was frustrated and angry at this child for so many reasons. Perhaps not the right reasons. Mono was absolutely perplexed and distressed, struggling in the looming shadow of what he was to become. Utterly unaware and helpless, in all regards.

With a grunt, the Thin Man turned away. “Mono. Come along.” As expected and as hopeless as his suspicion was, the child followed. With a hesitance in his step, he trailed after the tall thin man.

In the kitchen, the Thin Man went through the cabinets until he found the cups. The pressure in the faucet pipes was depressingly slow, but the water clean. He filled the cup halfway and lowered it to the child. He stood there watching this child practically inhale the water, at last seeing the face revealed. If briefly.

“Slow down. You’re not a fish.” Half a cup, gone. The child held the cup up to his fullest reach. “No. Wait a while, or you’ll make yourself sick.” He still relinquished the boy of the cup, and set it aside for later. He looked down at Mono, gawking up at him and waiting. Motionless like a statue.

“You are not confined to rooms, you know this. Don’t you?” He peered down at the boy, while Mono jammed his hand up under the paper bag to chew out… callouses, he suspected. “If a door is shut, it is not to trap you.”

Mono didn’t waver under the intense glare. Or maybe he did, and the Thin Man couldn’t see. “S’not safe.”

How to get through that barrier? “True…. When I leave you, you should not follow. But it doesn’t help, if you remain in one place. To trap yourself. Does that make sense?” The paper bag tilted. “Doors are only meant to keep dangers out. But it doesn’t always stop hazards, now does it?” Mono shook his head. That was better than a nod or shrug, he supposed. “You know not to stay put when you suspect you might be in danger, don’t you?”

“D’d’t leave,” he murmured. “Safe.”

Well, that was true, though the Thin Man didn’t want to tackle that topic branch. He sighed into his hand. “Listen carefully. You do not understand, or you can’t, I should say. There are things I need to do, and it’s too dangerous for you to come with me. I have much to do. One day, it will all make sense.” He took a glimpse of the child, still gazing up at him.

“Sum’busy,” he uttered, and turned away. “T’n d’watch. See.”

Though the boy appeared pacified and perhaps better equipped, who could say? — It… did not go well at all. What or where in all his little head, did that child… he was strange, and entirely too dutiful and trusting. Possibly, that hurt worst of all. At times timid, then on other (impractical) occasions that rebel cut loose. The child he had been, before he was discarded into the harsh pit of reality.

In ways he and the boy were polarities, while at the same time identical. The Tower promised him the opportunity to grow up, sheltered, provided for. The boy didn’t understand any of this. It was not his fault. The Thin Man was the child’s Tower now.

It knew him so well, the Signal Tower. The Flesh. The thousands upon millions of Eyes, swarming, laughing. It insisted and promised that one day, he would return with the child.

The Thin Man leaned back on the countertop and brought his hands to his face. An ongoing cycle. A never-ending loop, connected and spiraling far out of control. Not until the two ends connected, would he ever contend with the truth.

A short while later, he abandoned the kitchen to relocate the boy and see what he was getting into. The child had only returned to the side of the sofa seat, and crammed himself into the wall against the fabric side. Upright, with the new book clutched in his arms, his paper bag bent sideways.

The Thin Man leaned far over and reached out, to nudge the shoulder. Not even Mono’s steady breathing sputtered, the child was utterly out.

Once the boy roused, they could continue on this disastrous journey. For the time, the Thin Man flashed into the room with the recliner. His focus has not returned, the pages within the tomes impart nothing but dull prehistory, as bland and pointless as wilted flowers pressed between pages. He mused on what the chances might be, of if he did secure some media piece about the Tower – a piece that was not tarnished by the elements, after so long neglected?

He lit a cigarette, and recovered the folded newspaper tucked into his suit. Some of the marks are illegible, there’s a picture and a column about a missing child. He takes interest in a building disaster, but that is nothing more than a ruptured watermain or something. Disappointing. Still, he flipped through the soured pages, seeking something, anything. Any small sliver of salvation from his eventual schemes.

#little nightmares #mono #the thin man #thin dad #little nightmares fanfic #little nightmares fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #the man in the hat

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purplecatghostposts · 4 years

Text

Okay so I can’t stop thinking about The Mesa Archives AU and specifically that one scene from TMA Episode 159- The Last and I wanted to write something inspired off of it.

That being said, two things to note! One, this likely won’t end up being canon to the AU as I have other plans but I still want to write a What If in its place. And two, spoilers for TMA Episode 159, as you can imagine. With that, let’s go.

—

He almost doesn’t see him. He blends in far too well.

The sound of waves softly lapping against the sand would be calming any other time but Bubby can’t help but be on edge now. It’s all so wrong, he shouldn’t be here. The thick, never ending fog tries to numb him and the only thing keeping Bubby sane is, ironically, his own anxiety. The edge allows him to trudge through the sand, calling out one name over and over again.

His throat hurts. He can’t tell how long he’s been screaming but it’s enough to where he’s finding it hard to breathe. Or perhaps, that’s just his anxiety again- a double edged sword as always. Either way, Bubby’s legs threaten to buckle from under him. Bubby has to stubbornly keep them rooted in the sand to remain upright.

He was too late, wasn’t he? Bubby came as fast as he could, plunging head first into The Lonely in hopes of getting to him before he lost his chance. If he ever had a chance at all. Maybe it was pointless from the start. Maybe he isn’t even here- or maybe he’s long gone, one with the fog, and Bubby’s only dooming himself by going on a wild goose chase for a man who is nothing but mist in the wind.

Bubby swallows thickly and calls out again into the heavy fog. His voice echoes but gets no response. He’s alone. He’s so very alone. Bubby doesn’t have anyone left- he hasn’t for a long time. He never did. His friends- they never truly cared. They were just sucking up to the boss so they wouldn’t get fired. Bubby’s always been alone and that’s never going to change-

Bubby’s hand squeezes around his chest as he sucks in a deep breath. He almost didn’t notice the color from his fingertips fading for a moment there. His hands are returning to normal now but is scares him how deep his thoughts cut. The Lonely is far more dangerous than he could’ve fathomed. He needs to find him- and soon.

“H- Harold?” Bubby tries again, feeling more breathless than before. He needs to get out of here as soon as he can but not before he finds Coomer. There’s no way he’s leaving without him. “Harold, where are you?”

“...Bubby?”

Bubby does a full 360 in an effort to find the source of the voice. He almost doesn’t see him. He blends in far too well.

But even without his color, Bubby manages to See Coomer.

His eyes are far too dull and all energy left in his voice is long gone. He stares at Bubby, mildly curious but empty all the same. He blends in with the fog, his entire form being nothing but shades of gray.

Bubby freezes when he sees him but lets out a relieved laugh. He’s still here- he has a chance! “Harold!”

Bubby rushes towards him but stops when Coomer takes a step back. It hurts more than Bubby would like but he shakes himself. Getting denied a hug is the least of his worries. Even if Coomer’s never done that before.

He hates you. He always has.

Bubby pushes the thought away. They need to leave The Lonely as soon as they can.

“Bubby...” Slowly, the dull gray eyes look over him, almost in disbelief. It’s hard to tell, he doesn’t seem to have much emotion left in him. “Is it really you?”

“Yes- yes!” Bubby nods enthusiastically. His chest squeezes just looking at him- it’s not right. Coomer’s always been so full of life but this... This isn’t him. “I- there’s so much I want to say to you right now but we don’t have time. We need to get out of here- I can lead the way! I- I can See it!”

Bubby holds out his hand, trying not to give away just how desperate he is. The Lonely is truly insufferable and Bubby doesn’t want to spent another second in it. The only thing holding him back from running away to find the exit now is the one now lazily looking over him.

Coomer sighs softly. Bubby’s heart drops before he even says anything. “I’m not leaving, Bubby.”

“Wh- what?” Bubby swallows again. A nervous smile forms on his lips. “Harold... You don’t mean that. You don’t belong here.”

You belong here more than he does. Stay for a while, Archivist. You’ll feel so much better. Bubby ignores the thought, eyes fixated on Coomer’s face.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Coomer’s eyes drift to the endless beach before his eyes close. “I’ve always belonged here... This is where I’m meant to be. I’ve never felt peace like this before. No fear or pain or... Anything, really. Nothing at all. Isn’t that better?”

Bubby’s head shakes. His hands reach out but just before he can hold onto him, they fall back down uselessly. It’s all so wrong. “You don’t mean that.”

Coomer’s eyes open again and meets his gaze. He looks more tired than Bubby’s ever seem him, and worse, he looks defeated.

“But I do. My house was so empty when my wife left. Not just because she was gone and I was alone but because she took her things with her too. Half the house- gone. And I tried so hard to keep on moving like I always do but I realize now... I would’ve been so much happier had I just embraced the loneliness rather than fight it.”

“Harold-”

“And I get that now.” His plea fall on deaf ears. “It’s so much easier. Let it all drift away. That’s our fate in the end- drifting away. Letting go. There’s nothing we can do and... That’s for the best.”

“Are- are you hearing yourself?” Bubby takes a step forward but he can’t seem to touch him. “You never give up. Your will is stronger than mine! Than anybody’s! You’ve never been afraid of pain or fear before- you’ve embraced it! You love boxing for fuck’s sake- that thrill- don’t you remember it? Your name is Harold Coomer and-”

“My name was Harold Coomer.” Coomer sighs to himself. “It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters now.”

His chest aches and it isn’t because of The Lonely. “This... This isn’t you.”

“And what do you know about me?” Coomer asks quietly. “You only know what I’ve told you and...”

He laughs, though there’s no humor in his voice. “There’s a good reason why The Lonely targeted me, Bubby, don’t you get it? I don’t take. I never have. I give until there’s nothing left- and now there truly is nothing left. It wasn’t healthy but... Hindsight is 20/20, isn’t it?”

“So- so tell me something. Anything- I’ll give you anything.” Bubby hovers over him now and finally gets the courage to put his hands on Coomer’s shoulders. Even through the fabric, he’s deathly cold and sends a chill straight to Bubby’s spine.

Coomer’s dulled eyes glaze over him before a small chuckle escapes him. “I really loved you, you know?”

Those six words alone are enough to plunge a dagger into Bubby’s heart. The fact that he stays standing is a miracle on its own.

Loved. Past tense. He doesn’t care about you anymore.

You can shut up. Bubby thinks viciously. Harold needs me and I don’t care if he loves me or not right now because- because I’m going to get him out of here either way.

“You never listened to me...” Coomer continues but doesn’t meet his (admittedly shaky) gaze. Instead, his eyes look far away, but not quite gone. “I tried so hard to help you but you never let me. I loved you and I watched you tear yourself apart. Why- why wouldn’t you listen?”

For a brief moment, his eyes flicker green. Hope ignites within Bubby and stays even after it fades. Coomer searches his face and frowns.

“Go on- I’m listening.” Bubby prompts him.

“I’m upsetting you.”

“Yes but that’s good in this case.” Bubby assures him. “It’s- it’s rough to hear but I need to hear it. From you. Please, go on.”

His blinks are slow but eventually, he nods. “You wouldn’t take care of yourself and wouldn’t listen when I told you too.” Coomer tells him. “Instead you- you pushed me away. Not just you either... Gordon pushed me away after-... After Benrey... And I realized that none of you ever really needed me in the first place.”

Bubby’s heart seizes in his throat. “That’s The Lonely talking.” He says quickly.

“Just because it comes from The Lonely doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“No- you don’t understand, I-...” Hesitantly, one of Bubby’s hands rises until he’s holding Coomer’s face with it. He gulps down any insecurity he has and pushes the words out of his mouth. “I need you. I’ve always needed you and I’m so- so sorry that it took me this long to say it but Harold, I need you. And... And I think you need me too.”

Coomer’s eyes flicker shut, another sigh leaving him. “I don’t need anyone. I’m alone now. Always have been.”

His form flickers, becoming intangible for a second. Coomer is looking more and more like a ghost which each passing minute and Bubby refuses to let them take him away from him. Not now, not ever.

Power weaves its way into his words and for once, Bubby is glad it does. “Open your eyes.”

Even with as far gone as Coomer is, not even he can resist the thrall that compels him. His eyes peek back open, almost curious now but mostly looking tired. Bubby takes in a deep breath before giving one more commandment.

“Harold, what do you see?”

The power in Bubby’s voice does more than just make Coomer answer the question. Instead, it opens his eyes- truly opens his eyes- and he blinks as if he’s seeing Bubby for the first time in his life.

“I...” His words are quiet at first but then he laughs and does so loudly. Color spreads across his face and down his shoulders with each second and there’s emotion in his voice.

No longer is Coomer a ghost, but instead, full of life, as he should be. “I See you, Bubby Dear.”

Joy bursts out from his chest and Bubby laughs alongside Coomer. His grip on him tightens just a little bit more and he nearly crumbles on the spot. The only reason he doesn’t is the fact that he leans on Coomer for support.

“And I see you.” Bubby whispers to him. “I... I See you.”

Coomer smiles softly. His skin begins to feel warm again, though parts of him still lack color. “Perhaps we should leave before The Lonely catches up to us again. We don’t belong here.”

Bubby nods in agreement, catching his breath. “Of course.” He steps back but only to offer a hand for Coomer. He’s take aback by how quickly Coomer takes it.

Bubby turns to lead the way but stops. Slowly, he turns back, doubt plaguing his mind, through only for a moment. “Don’t let go, okay?”

Coomer only smiles at him. “I would never.”

#SB Speaks #SB Writes #Drabble #The Mesa Archives AU #hlvrai #hlvrai au #hlvrai boomer #Bubby #dr coomer #I’m low key very proud of how this came out #I wrote this from 4-5 AM last night #And edited it today #that’s the power of Writing Inspiration #Ask To Tag #trying to think of what I need to tag but I’m not sure?#So tell me if I need to add anything

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lumikatdraws · 4 years

Text

#1: Crux

(”T,” named fWoL/G’raha. Nights in Mor Dhona during CT. Feelings, nostalgia, mildly abstract.)

- - - - - - - - - -

His chuckle was warm summer sunset tasting of autumn, rich and rustling and crisp around the edges. “Take my hand,” he laughed. “I want to show you something.”

A smile tickled her lips but she opted, again, to pretend—to play-act that her interest was dim. And it was an effort to lie to him; to imply she spent her precious stolen respites daydreaming of anything other than him—G’raha’s eyes, his smile, the wish of his hands thumbing and trawling every riddle of her skin.

From the way he buffed his clawed nails to blunt tips, she wondered if he dared imagine the same; if perhaps in some quiet corner of his raucous, rambling mind, he hoped he might also have the chance, yet, to cross that line.

She half-shuttered dark eyes and cocked a tense brow. “Where are we going?”

His grin bent at the corner like the happy shepherd’s-crook of his tail. His soft mouth hid mischief and pleasure. “Do you trust me?”

It was a dare.

Rather than surrender, she wove them fingers to fingers and held his puckish stare.

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

The Tangle was wild at night, full of hazards; patrols of guards from the Castrum, monsters and morbols and mercenaries alike. “Where are you taking me, exactly?”

G’raha was smaller and faster, dragging her along behind. “Trust me,” came the echo.

Dusk fell in phases around them, the haze of the Fogfens crowding her nose. Though Samantha Rosalyn Floravale was hailed by her blessing of Light—eikon slayer—she shivered and was frightened. She was budding, a still-nascent hero; thorns and brambles cut just barely on Baelsar and Ultima and the Ascian, Lahabrea—

The Warrior was dawning, while Eorzea expected her to shine.

G’raha gripped her hand tight. The press of his calluses felt like a kiss. A bark escaped her lips, the knit of their fingers a ladder stitch. “Tell me again why I bother to listen?”

“Because I think you might like me,” he quipped—and it was something she said, some days prior. He tossed back bright red hair to grin up into her face, and his warmth prickled through her, hot like high noon.

She stared down, dumbfounded.

Instead of saying something milder, she scoffed and scowled. “Insufferable.”

His mirth was spicy, heady as liquor—his purr far more potent. “My pleasure.”

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

“Rathefrost,” he said, yanking her down by the hand.

Her long skirts were damp with mud and muck from the hike, her blood filled with wanderlust. G’raha had a habit of accidentally making her ecstatic. Her thighs ached and strained and something astral licked up her backbone as she squatted. “Is that what they call it?”

Amid the dim gleam of omnipresent crystal, the thrumming of ambient aether, the witch and the knave-kit crouched at the edge of one cliff in Mor Dhona and gazed at the shell of the Agrius, the Keeper. “As you know,” G’raha began, and the velvet curl of his voice suggested a story, “Among the Twelve, Althyk was warden of time—keeper of past and of future.” Cool stone bit her palms as she leaned back to listen; let the sultry smoothness of Sharlayan jargon envelop her as wholly as the night that veiled the stars. “His sister Nymeia was spinner of Fate—master of water and watcher of skies—” he paused until she glanced at him and chuckled, “—and she, along with Brother Time, saw the Falls for their ultimate nature—”

“A font of unspeakable power,” she whispered, tracing constellations. Her stare flicked back to meet his.

The bluffs and crags of crystal all around them reflected in his eyes. “Aether,” he agreed. “The center of all that was, and all that ever would be.” His words were filled with weight and whimsy. “The Falls desired a keeper, and Time and Fate conspired—begged the king of wyrmkings to play custodian, to guard them.”

She let her gaze linger on his features; traced, too-long, the lush curve of his mouth. “Althyk was the father of Azeyma,” she said quietly. “Goddess of Truth and of Fire.”

“And Menphina.” A grin crept forth and she looked away before he could gesture with his brows.

“Honestly, Raha.” She huffed a sigh through her nose; ignored the way her cheeks prickled. “If you end the story with some bawdy joke—”

“I did nothing of the sort,” he insisted, scooting closer to her on the ledge. His body heat was radiant. “Merely connected Love and Truth in much the same vein as a bloodline.”

“Love and Truth,” she muttered, watching him from the side of her eye. “And ice and fire. If love is ice and truth is fire—”

He elbowed her in the ribs. “One could simply transpose them.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed again. “Turn love to truth?”

“Or vice versa.”

She dared another glance at him and found his eyes glittering, teal and scarlet, late daybreak, early twilight. Afraid of the way her heart stuttered to devour, she sighed. “Ridiculous.”

The corners of his lips twisted into a grin. “Or brilliant.”

She pouted. “Ridiculously brilliant,” she grumbled, completely in earnest.

A bright laugh bubbled from his throat and his tail thumped the ground. “Glad you trusted me?”

The bones of Midgardsormr rose from the Lake, a ghost of eras long departed.

“I’m always glad to trust you, Raha,” she said, ice and fire in her chest.

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

When the fire of midsummer faded, ice misting over the horizon, a single leaf turned a shade bright and brash as his hair. Perhaps they both knew it was ending. Something changed, much the same. In hindsight, far more than the season—the flourishing harvest before the decay.

Transposition.

Paths of life combine for brief seasons of change, some with the wicks to blend into twin flames. Still more remain sparks never coaxed to kindle ablaze. They were wrought of the same holy matter that summer—two soul-flecks of stardust chipped from primordial night. Drawn together for the matching shards and facets in their hearts—

Unfair, unfair, to be thrust apart—

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

His knuckles stroked her backbone.

She woke to the cool of her own naked skin; stiffened at the instinct to escape his scalding touch. She was an ember, and he, tempted into ignition; raw, dazzling impulse incarnate.

Was the truth—the love—not better left unsaid?

Dare she look beyond the hourglass that loomed above the bed?

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2020 #g'raha tia #g'raha/wol #wol/g'raha #my wol #samantha floravale #Crystal Tower #ffxiv #my writing #ffxiv fanfiction

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kbstories · 4 years

Text

Epistemic

ep·i·ste·mic (adj.) Related to knowledge; cognitive.

Killer struggles with SMILE and Heat tries their best.

(Or: An attempt to cope with hearing Killer’s laugh in the anime haha...ha...)

Tags: Nakamaship, Introspection, Hurt/Comfort, Body Dysmorphia, Heat Is MVP Actually

Set in Wano. Spoiler warning for Act Two of Wano. Content warning for Body Dysmorphia/BDD. This is a coda to Ontological, Chapter 2.

***

Killer is hiding.

Heat knows it. Kidd knows it, so does the crew, and it’s safe to say Killer knows that they know, too. From the moment he and Kidd came home – miraculously alive and whole, Kidd’s wrecked prosthetic aside – Killer disappeared into the captain’s cabin and has yet to show.

To the East the sun starts to rise, piercing through the wafts of mist gathering over the ocean. It’s been two days.

In a sense, it’s nothing new. Sort of hard to miss, actually, when their First Mate insists on wearing a helmet most hours of the day. Hard to imagine it ever being any other way, certainly. Killer’s face is a mystery every Kidd Pirate learns to live with, sooner or later.

All but Heat, of course. Not that any of them had planned on there ever being an exception to the rule. It just… happened.

Years ago, under a clear-blue sky, an all-out brawl with some Marines ended up dropping two unlikely allies into Heat’s life. Being around Kidd and Killer had been just as chaotic and bloody and fun then as it is now; the day Heat met the duo that would soon become their family is the same day the mask got knocked loose. Killer was a tall, lanky guy then, barely scratching twenty-one and already lethal with those scythes of his.

Heat hadn’t thought much of it, really: When all was said and done, knuckles bruised and scrapes tended to, Heat had picked the mask up and given it back with a soft-spoken, “This is yours, isn’t it?”

Looking straight into pale blue eyes over lilac-tinted lips, and they had but a second to take in the surprise blooming there before they’d gotten a furious Kidd to the throat for their trouble.

A fond memory, in hindsight. An important one, too, given it led Heat to the best decision they’ve ever made, and a journey that brought them all the way to Wano Country’s shores.

It had been after Wire joined the crew and Killer started wearing the mask around the clock that Heat had realized the significance it held. That Killer, for all his cunning in battle and easy-going nature anywhere else, is slow to trust, and rarely does so completely.

So far, that privilege belongs to Kidd and Kidd alone.

And it was fine, getting to know Killer through that barrier he refuses to put away. No one gets to pick the scars they carry, and if this is how Killer deals with his, who’s to tell him otherwise?

Well, it had been fine until Killer returned to them dressed like one of Wano’s own, a piece of fabric draped across his face and those same blue eyes glinting behind wild strands of hair, wide with fear.

There had been so much else worry about, at the time. With Kidd steadily recovering from a state little better than death-warmed-over and the Killer-shaped space in their midst remaining empty, Heat watches the days come and go and the crew grow anxious, and they worry.

What Heat would give, to return to the days a mindless little gesture had the power to change the course of history.

It’s too early for anyone but the skeleton crew of the nightshift to be awake. With Doc on lookout, the chances of fresh coffee are pretty high, and so Heat shuffles to the galley, one hand on the door and the other pressed against a wide yawn.

A yawn that freezes on their face, as does the rest of them. On his tippy toes, arm reaching for the straws kept safe on the topmost shelf, Killer freezes too.

They stare at each other. Or, Heat stares at Killer’s mask and can feel him staring back. Then Heat’s brain kicks back into gear and they manage a mumbled, “Coffee?”, to which Killer points behind himself and then pulls back to get it himself.

There’s a freshly-made smoothie on the counter and a plate of chopped apples Killer will try – and probably succeed – to bully Kidd into eating once he wakes. Which will not be for a few hours still, unless miracles truly do happen.

So Killer had hoped to sneak in and out while nobody was around, even if he had adjusted for someone to catch him out of his self-imposed exile nonetheless.

It stings but not much because it makes sense, too. Kidd had explained it to them all, that first day, after he’d emerged from their quarters and Killer didn’t. Give him time, he’d said, with that pinched sort of frown that’s gotten rarer the tougher Kidd’s skin grew, and:

It’s out of his control.

Which, when it comes to Killer, equals to saying he’s walking a hellscape he can’t wake up from.

Killer is utterly silent as he places Heat’s favorite mug close enough for them to grab comfortably. Almost eerie, how flat his breathing can go, and Heat wonders if words are another one of those dangerous things right now. If any of the measures Killer is taking are actually helping him, or just driving him further and further towards insanity.

(Kidd didn’t mention anything about a cure. Tough skin or no, some horrors only become real when given a voice, and none of them want to risk that fragile bit of hope they got left by asking.)

The coffee isn’t steaming anymore but it’s warm. Heat takes a sip. Tells him, “Thanks, Soldier”, careful to keep the nickname equal parts fond and teasing, same as always.

Killer doesn’t say anything; he hums, though, leaning back into his usual spot by the window. Sipping his smoothie while Heat dozes through the wait for the caffeine to hit, and somewhere in-between Killer pushes the bits of apple their way.

A concession, an apology, perhaps. Always so good at compromising, at making things work, and Heat wishes they could do more than stand by and watch him drown.

It turns out it is possible for Kidd to be conscious before noon.

“Heat, have ya seen–”

Clearly wearing whatever was easiest to stumble into and hair disheveled to an almost comical degree but awake. Any other time, Heat would’ve laughed.

“–ah.”

Not now, though, not with the worried edge to Kidd’s eyes that only settles when they land on Killer. Not with the subtle flick of that gaze across the room, where half the crew is chewing their way through a late breakfast with remarkable nonchalance.

“Anything you want, Captain?”

That’s Wire, voice dry with sarcasm, and Heat does laugh then. Kidd huffs at both of them to shut up, and Killer is already shifting to make room for him to slump against his shoulder.

Like this, it’s easy to pretend it’s just another morning.

#one piece #eustass kid #heat one piece #killer one piece #kidkiller #fanfiction #this fic is also on AO3!!#one piece fanfiction #my stuff #it's 2am and this has minimal editing i hope it still makes sense #forever emo about killer GOODNIGHT

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lymazhu · 4 years

Text

Unsteady Hands

Rating: PG ( mild description of canon injuries)

Pairing: Jon/Martin

Alludes to events through the end of Season Four

Written for #TMAHCweek Day 1, because the moment I saw the prompts I knew I had to do something with them. Jon’s tremor is based off my own experiences, because why not write what you know?

(edit: AO3 link https://archiveofourown.org/works/26096521 )

It wasn’t difficult to hide, most of the time. All he had to do was not push himself too hard physically, and, well...there was a reason he stuck to academia and desk work. If he got in before everyone else, he could be settled at his desk and busy with research or note-taking by the time the others filed in, and if he forgot to eat or only realized it was the end of the day when Tim tapped him on the shoulder to break him out of whatever he was caught up in, then didn’t that just make him look better? Harder working? And if sometimes his hands shook a little as he gathered his things, or he occasionally dropped something, it was just assumed to be a case of low blood sugar.

Things changed when Elias promoted him. It had been a relief at first to have an office all to himself, even as he was terrified of trying to live up to standards he didn’t so much as have a guide for. The tremor being more pronounced in general wasn’t a problem if nobody could simply glance over to see it, and Tim and Sasha were fine. They always had been. But he hadn’t agreed to someone else. Much less someone like Martin. Tim and Sasha knew how to do their jobs, and only came to him if they actually needed something. Martin Blackwood, on the other hand, didn’t seem to understand anything and was always making tea for everyone and dropping it off on his desk at all hours and Jon hated him for it. It had taken the man a week simply to learn to announce his presence before setting a mug of hot liquid onto his desk.

Even after that, Martin always hovered just a little too long after setting down his tea. Waiting to see him drink it, Jon assumed. His suspicion was confirmed when Martin finally broke the silence one morning to ask if he was doing something wrong, because “Tim said this was how you liked your tea, but if it’s not right I can fix it?” He’d assured Martin that it was fine, perhaps a little more curtly than he should have, and spent some time wondering how and when Tim had figured out how he liked his tea. Jon had always hated being watched when he ate or drank, even on days when his hands were steady, so when had he learned? Trying to puzzle that out set him behind schedule, and maybe it wasn’t entirely fair to blame Martin for that but if the man hadn’t been doing so much fussing all the time Jon wouldn’t have gotten sidetracked.

As far as Jon knew, the first time any of his assistants actually saw his hands shake was the day Martin came into his office after two weeks of ‘sick leave’ with the...the worms. That was fair, though; even if he disguised his horror at Martin’s statement as simple disgust he could hardly be blamed for being a little bit shaken. Offering Martin his- the room he sometimes used- had been out of his mouth before he could take it back, and the poor man was rattled enough himself that Jon doubted Martin would have even noticed the way his hand was trembling as he took notes.

It got bad after Prentiss attacked in earnest. He’d been useless at trying to get the worms out of his body, between dropping the corkscrew and shaking so badly that he stabbed himself in the wrong part of the arm when he finally steeled himself to try. God knows what he would have done if it weren’t for Tim and Martin, and later the ECDC. At least Sasha had been safe. After that, there’d at least been an excuse he could point to for his unsteady hands. Something that wasn’t just an inherent flaw. If Tim’s coordination wasn’t affected nearly as much as his was, well, nobody wants to talk about the worms and what damage they’d done under all those scars. Of course, it didn’t really matter when he couldn’t trust any of them. There wasn’t exactly time for idle chatter when he could never take one moment to let his guard down.

A lot didn’t matter anymore by the time he had no hopes of hiding it anymore. Even after his burn healed he didn’t have full function in that hand anymore. Anything that required precision was a lost cause. Georgie pretended she didn’t see it, just as Jon had asked her to back in uni. She was angry with him for a lot of things, and didn’t understand that he wasn’t just being stubborn when he told her he needed the statements, but she never commented when she saw him wiping down the counter after trying to drink something on a particularly bad day.

Every so often, when he was actually in his office, Martin would still bring him tea. Once he even cleared a space on his desk that would allow him to pick it up while the man was still in the room. It was painstakingly careful, the way he slid it over to the edge of his desk before he tried to pick it up. Knowing that if he’d tried to lift and keep it held up as he moved it towards himself over the desk he would have splattered tea on at least one statement. He still shook as he brought the tea to his lips, of course, but he managed to drink and meet Martin’s eyes, if only for a moment. He’d never been the best at smiling even before the worms had burrowed into his face, and it was all the more crooked now, but he tried as he thanked Martin. The look on the other man’s face hurt so much that he didn’t try again.

He dropped the tapes several times as he went through them, the tremor getting more pronounced as he listened to what he was pretty sure would be the last statements he’d ever hear. It would only be in hindsight, as the pain gripped him, that Jon would realize that the difficulty he had lighting Gerry’s page on fire wasn’t just an effect of unsteady hands.

It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that choosing to become something...else wouldn’t have fixed anything that came before. That even his good hand wouldn’t go back to normal, or at least back to what it had been before all of this started. Why, after all, would the Eye give up a chance to watch him suffer with the shame of being seen fumbling uselessly with delicate tasks? Why shouldn’t the Archivist provide it low-level feeding just by going about his daily life?

He never bothered to make himself tea after returning to the Archives. It just wasn’t a good idea anymore to fuss with the kettle, and even if he bothered it would just bring back waves of painful memories. Even seeing the breakroom would take the breath from his lungs some days, the ghosts of days gone by haunting his thoughts long after he’d closed himself back safely behind his office door. He’d wanted so badly for nobody to bother him and see the way he shook, and now that he had it he wanted anything else.

Thinking back on it, as he so often did on the trip to Scotland, Jon would remember that when Martin had finally taken his hand he’d felt the shaking stop, if only for a moment. They never spoke about so many things in that short reprieve. The first few days were spent constantly on edge. Struggling to learn how to sleep in the presence of another person, flinching at every sound, the crushing moment of fear when the mist slowly rolled in before they both remembered that when you aren’t surrounded by the Fears, fog was just something that happened sometimes...one night, though, as they both lay awake on pillows that never stopped smelling of dust, Jon had admitted to the man he loved that he’d always liked when Martin brought him tea, even in the early days. That it had been shame and fear of judgement that made him snippy, and that the shaky hands were never the fault of damage he’d suffered at something supernatural. Martin had looked at him so gently then, lifted Jon’s good hand to his lips before scolding him for ever thinking that something like that was something to be ashamed of. The way he leaned into Jon’s touch afterward, even though he knew perfectly well how unpleasant the feeling of his burnt palm was, was enough to actually make Jon believe him.

#TMAHCweek #tma #jon/martin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #the magnus archives

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keatsblue · 4 years

Text

Snippet from ch. 21 of Foresight is Better Than Hindsight, But Insight is Better Than Either One - my attempt at writing Dabihawks + ShigaNatsu. Shiggy’s POV predominantly, for this chap!

TW: Shiggy being intense, probably some dissociating, canon-typical violence

***

“Are you certain of this course of action, Shigaraki Tomura?” Kurogiri asked, and wasn’t that the million-dollar question.

His lips thinned, watching the strange mists that wreathed their way around his companion’s form as they ebbed and swirled. It was hypnotic, calming, in a way. “Already started, haven’t I? Plus, the chargrilled emo’s finally gone to sleep. We won’t get a better time.”

“I respectfully disagree,” came the soft reply, and once upon a time, he would have lashed out at such a response. He had been as a spoiled child, so convinced of what he deserved, of the birthright he’d been promised.

He sighed, but not out of frustration. Instead, it was a wistful, pained thing, even to his own ears. If he were able to accomplish any of what he planned to do tonight—hell, if he were merely caught in the attempt—he very much doubted he’d have any sort of birthright, anymore.

But he’d made up his mind. No sense in dwelling on it, when to do so wouldn’t change anything.

“You know how I feel, Kuro.”

“And I am with you.” There was no hesitation in the other villain’s voice. “However, do you not think it would be more prudent to await the arrival of some of the others? If not Dabi, then perhaps Ms. Himiko? Compress? I do not believe I need remind you of the doctor’s status as a dangerous individual.”

“There’s no time,” he ground out through clenched teeth, though privately he couldn’t help but acknowledge the truth behind Kurogiri’s words. It would be wiser to wait for back-up, but that didn’t change the fact that Hawks was still out there, in the clutches of those heroes.

He couldn’t afford to sit by and wait, not when he had no idea how much of a window they’d have to get the bird out safely. He had been listening, believe it or not, during that lawyer lady’s pretty little speech. Even if he’d had no clue what the fuck was happening at the time, he’d picked up on a few things—namely, the Commission’s itemized list of all the people who’d figured out the mystery behind Todoroki Touya.

The list of dead people.

Who knew what Hawks had given away, by this point. The bird was no idiot, and he was betting on that (to a degree) but he also understood just how hot the hero’s passions could run. It was part of the reason he was such a good match for Dabi, after all.

That wasn’t his entire reason for choosing to act so soon, though, and he’d be lying to himself if he said it was. His fists clenched almost of their own accord, and he could feel the decay as a visceral ache—itching, simmering just beneath his skin. Begging him to reach out and touch.

No one would be getting hurt on his account, not this time. Never again.

He refused to continue making the same mistakes.

“Open up the warp gate. I think it’s time I go in for a check-up.”