#puzzle elements. every time you get to a puzzle the game just halts to a complete stop. all the suspence they could have gotten just | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

outoftheframework · 3 years

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my proposal for tropes we as a fandom should adopt in all fanworks going forward: Duke Thomas edition

So every fandom has tropes and characterization quirks that have been generally accepted into fanon and, like, maybe? they were originally based on some obscure comic panel from the 80s or something but it doesn’t really matter because we’re all just,,, cool with it? Like for example- in the dc comics fandom, an art piece could show 3 of the bats that look virtually identical except one of them is holding a box of cereal so that one is obviously Dick Grayson. . . Y’know?

Anyway, these things usually come up naturally I guess but I’ve been here a while and it’s finally time to put my foot down. It’s high time for Duke Thomas to be more in fanon than “the sane one.” Because he might be the relatively new guy but he is certainly fears no gods or laws of the land just as much as the other bats, lemme tell ya.

TL;DR here are character quirks (”canon-based” or otherwise) that we should all really latch onto seriously I’m begging y’all to make at least one of these happen-

Duke “Habitually Jumping Out of Moving Vehicles” Thomas

This one’s actually based in canon y’all; Duke did indeed yeet himself out of the back of a cop car and off of a bridge (in We Are... Robin). Normalize Duke’s wearing knee and elbow pads as Signal because jumping out of a car turns out relatively fine once and then suddenly Batman’s rooftop disappearing act seems mellow compared to the amount of times Gordon has whipped his head around to see a now Signal-less backseat.

Like, he’s going 60 mph?? And he didn’t even hear the door open?? and tHE DOORS ARE STILL LOCKED??

Imagine this leaking into civilian life and Bruce waking up to a blurry photo of Duke mid-escape from a limousine on the front page of the Gotham Gazette.

(more under cut)

Duke “Puzzles are my Passion” Thomas

Duke is ~canonically~ very skilled at both solving and concocting riddles (as a child during that time where The Riddler just,,, controlled Gotham, he worked non-stop on riddles, trying to make the perfect one). Please y’all- let Duke solve puzzles. Have the other bats ask him for help after 36 hours straight of brooding over some brainteaser that Duke works out within the half-hour. He texts a picture of the solution scribbled out on loose leaf in the margins of his pre-calc homework because this boy shows his work.

My guy is a word-cross FIEND. A mind-sweeper speed-runner. That guy who mails into the Gazette to correct a solution in the “fun & games” section and also ps that photo is not of me I am simply a polite young man who is much too busy writing into the paper in the year 2021 to jump out of limos-

I also would love to see this integrated into the type of cases he investigates / runs into on his daytime patrol. Like, obviously the criminal activity is going to dramatically differ before and after sundown, but that doesn’t make Duke’s work any easier or less important. It’s a different skillset; he has to work differently. Instead of jumping into fights, halting mob meetings, saving civilians in dark allies, etc. Duke has to sort through all of the moving pieces before they all converge into something catastrophic.

It’s a known fact that criminal organizations in Gotham make and execute a lot of behind-the-scenes plans during the day specifically not to run into the bats. And Duke knows and monitors this shit all by himself; his work is crucial to logistics and information gathering for the bats as a whole. Now criminals have like, a 2 hour gap between bat-shifts to try and get stuff done. But Duke would 100% set traps on timers or lead them on this pre-set convoluted goose chase to distract them until the night bats come out and to let himself enjoy the whole thing playing out on the news while he finishes homework that’s due at midnight.

Duke “I Know a Guy” Thomas

So in going off of the basic concept for the “We Are. . . Robin” run in combination to his general likability, Duke has a lot of friends all around Gotham. Okay, sure, he doesn’t have a Super best friend or a Speedster on speed dial, but he does know this guy who details cars up on West 35th and will tell them all about the new mods on Black Mask’s transport vans if they come through the third floor window and bring takeout.

Bruce and Tim will be waiting for the facial recognition software to identify at least a partial match off of security cam footage when Duke pulls into the cave, takes one look at the screen, and says “Oh, that’s <insert name, address, abridged life story, and known associates here>.” This also brings in the opportunity for Duke to have some sort of perfect recall for faces, voices, names, etc. which I think could be a really cool element for his position as the batfamily member who has a lot more personal interaction with the people of Gotham.

I’m also into the idea of a lot of people knowing/telling stories about Duke. Not to reference the Chuck Norris meme but almost like the Chuck Norris meme lmao. Think about Jason mentioning his brother to someone and she replies, “Duke Thomas? Like that Duke Thomas? The one who swam across the harbor because he said it’d be faster than the subway and it actually was?” These stories have varying levels of truth to them but Duke will never confirm nor deny when he gets random calls from family members yelling “you dID WHAT”

So those are my top three, and the following is a little speed-round of headcanons :)

Duke has a super expressive face. Like when he’s relaxed around family, you can tell exactly what he’s thinking and how he’s feeling by his visual reactions to things

Duke rotates through picking up new and revisiting old hobbies at a pretty rapid pace. Some hobbies include: bullet journaling, origami, viola, cello, synth, conversational basics in multiple languages, up-cycling and embroidering clothes

Duke has a really fucking adorable smile. He can’t help it. He’ll try to grin sarcastically or smug to be annoying but his smile just cannot be anything other than endearing. He also has a very specific booming laugh that’s an absolute treasure to hear, because it’s the most genuinely happy thing ever.

Duke unironically enjoys Signal by Twice even though the first time he heard it was after Steph had set it as his morning alarm.

So.

Come and get your food, I guess.

Feel free to add on if you’d like! I’d love to see anything you guys write/draw/etc. based on anything from here if you feel compelled to do so!

Stay safe and be well :)

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commander-diomika · 3 years

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(Click to Read From the Beginning) Part 5 - Fandom: Rusty Quill Gaming Pairing: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde, literal background Barnes/Carter Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~2500 Additional Tags: Slow Burn, 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Opposites Attract, Masturbation, Accidental Voyeurism, Pining, oh there's yearning in this one lads,

Summary: With the quarantine cell still under construction, it's not quite as soundproof as it ought to be.

It was remarkably easy to keep busy in the business of saving the world. Wilde made it his mission to get to know every face in town, and in turn have them know him, and like him. He made friends easily, the locals charmed by this tall man with his fluent Japanese and endless supply of entertaining stories. For the sake of the job - not just his own lingering fear - he was meeting every person on the island and building a solid network of people who would let him know the moment a new face appeared. The wider his web, the less he found himself reaching for the scar on his face.

Zolf won people over not by charming them, but by helping them. The gruff dwarf at the inn became known as someone the locals could go to when someone fell and broke something, or to use magic to help Stone Shape the stumps of houses that were slipping into sodden earth.

He also worked on supply lines. Trade was still relatively lively, but he and Wilde were in the market for more esoteric items than bread and booze. They needed adamantine for the cell, they needed anti magic equipment, and it was certain Barnes and Carter were going to return having depleted the stock of healing potions they’d taken. Strangely enough there wasn't a steady supply of any of those items on the island.

As much as Zolf wouldn’t admit it, Wilde smoothed the way when it came to trading. He charmed the locals and when Zolf appeared with increasingly obscure demands, he was seen as a friend by association. Zolf knew he wouldn’t have achieved that so quickly.

They both oversaw changes to the inn. Many rooms were separated with nothing but thin paper walls on slides, making the whole space quite modular. Wilde sequestered one of the few solid, seemingly defensible rooms on the ground floor and turned it into an office-cum-sitting room. Before their gentle takeover it had probably been a private dining room for special, or at least rich, guests. Zolf took the time to install a proper bed frame in his room, since his legs made climbing down to the floor-level futon bedding difficult.

On another continent, sentient creatures went wrong, turned on their loved ones, fought, died. Cities were turned and abandoned, and storms ravaged places that had never seen more than a light drizzle. But even knowing that elsewhere things were coming apart at the seams, there was a touch of peace in their little corner of it. For a few weeks they slipped into a routine.

Zolf rose in the mornings before Wilde, wordlessly depositing a coffee in front of the bleary man when he appeared. In the evenings that Wilde wasn’t out liaising they took to Wilde’s sitting room and read, or drank, or talked. Frequently about the mission of course, but there was only so much hashing and rehashing they could do. When things got too heavy, or nothing had changed, topics wandered. Zolf’s stories from the navy. How Wilde became a journalist. Small things. Easy things when they both just needed to put it down for a while.

Wilde would never do something so gauche as ask for forgiveness, or understanding, but some days when he reported another success, it sounded like I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.

Some days when Zolf poured coffee into Wilde’s mug it looked like you don’t have to apologise.

And on the rare mornings when some watery sunshine peeked through the clouds, as Zolf practiced in the yard with his glaive, Wilde followed to idly spectate over the paper and his breakfast, and the action felt like I don’t know why but it’s easier to be around you than not.

Barnes and Carter returned in good enough spirits and got started on their isolation in the mostly-complete cell. As soon as they returned, Zolf felt himself get itchy for action and movement again. He couldn’t even scratch the itch by properly debriefing the returnees yet; the newest information from Curie posited a hive-mind connection between those infected by the blue veins. Still, this was just the way it had to be. Zolf tried to soothe his agitation. Things were just going to move slow for now. He only had to look at Wilde’s scar to help quiet any feelings of angst. A little bit of frustration was something he could cope with if it meant what befell Wilde never, ever happened again.

Four nights after Barnes and Carter returned, Zolf sat in front of the fire attempting to read the Dwarvish tome Wilde had picked up in Damascus. It wasn’t exactly riveting stuff, and his Dwarvish was rusty, but he promised he’d at least make a dent in it. Wilde came in fresh from the bath, his hair wet and wearing the yukata he’d been gifted by one of the locals. As he passed the back of Zolf’s chair, Wilde placed a hand on one of Zolf’s shoulders and leant over to inspect the page.

This close, Zolf could smell him. There was a soft, flowery note that Zolf couldn’t identify, probably whatever he washed his hair with. And then there was the warm, familiar smell of the man himself. Zolf kept his eyes on the page in front of him.

Pointing with his other hand, Wilde spoke. “This character here- the translation guide I was using didn’t even have it. Brought the whole lot to a screeching halt. How are you getting on with it?”

Zolf, nose full of Wilde’s scent and nearness, opened his mouth to reply. “I – er, it’s fine. It’s an older script but I can read it- don’ quite understand what they’re gettin’ at, but, er.” He looked over to Wilde’s face again, profile lined in firelight. His face was so close that Zolf could lean and place a kiss on the man’s unscarred cheek, if he chose.

Wilde glanced up from the book. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before Wilde straightened, letting go of Zolf’s shoulder with a small squeeze.

“Wonderful. Let me know if anything useful comes up, will you?”

Zolf simply grunted in reply, still feeling off-kilter. This wasn’t the first time Wilde had touched him like that. As Wilde started to settle into life at the inn, started to feel a little safer, some of that old comfort was returning. Zolf didn’t mind the touching. He got the feeling Wilde was lonely. He was probably used to a lot more physical contact than he was getting now. For all he had been ingratiating himself with the locals, it was clear as day Wilde couldn’t trust them. If Zolf was the only person Wilde could reach out to…

Zolf shook his head a little and tried to focus back on the text. Wilde collected his own evening reading material, some piece of Japanese fiction, and settled in the other chair. The silence, but for the ever-present sound of rain, was comfortable enough. Their new lot in life involved a lot of waiting, and they were both doing their best to try and make peace with that.

Time passed and Zolf, already struggling to focus on the dull history book, realised he’d read the same sentence three times over. Some essential part of his mind had shifted, noting a change in the soundscape. Previously, there had been nothing but the rain and slight crackle of fire, but now there was a new element in the mix.

Zolf stared blankly at the page, listening hard. It was… conversation? Perhaps, but the innkeeper and his wife had rooms all the way on the other side of the building, and Zolf couldn’t usually hear them. It was… the wind? No, for all it was raining, it was the usual dreary patter, no strong winds to explain the slow rhythm or hint of a moan in those sounds.

Zolf’s heart beat slowly. One, two, three… and suddenly he knew what he was hearing.

Zolf looked up from his book to see if Wilde had noticed. Obviously, whatever he was reading was much more riveting than Zolf’s dry historical facts, because he was still engrossed in his book. Despite his close attention to the pages, Wilde could sense Zolf’s regard. Without Zolf even clearing his throat, he looked up.

“What?” he asked mildly to Zolf’s raised eyebrows.

“You hear tha’?” Either it had gotten louder, or Zolf’s ears had adjusted to picking out rhythmic moans and whimpers.

Wilde slipped a finger in his book to mark his place, cocking his head. With his attention drawn, he contextualised the new sound quickly (much faster than Zolf) and his eyebrows started climbing. When the brows couldn’t get any higher, he straightened in his seat and placed a hand delicately on his chest in feigned shock. “Well, we didsay that Barnes would look out for him, but that’s not quite what I had in mind.”

Zolf tried not to roll his eyes.

“And we knew that Howard would struggle with the isolation period,” Wilde continued, voice artificially prim. “I’m glad they’ve found a way to pass the time.”

Zolf’s efforts to not roll his eyes failed, then he glanced around, puzzled. “How is the sound even…?”

Wilde’s eyes were bright; his expression screaming this was the most fun he’d had in weeks. “The trapdoor. The one in the Teal Sitting Room. It’s still under construction, so…”

“So, sound is travellin’ through it.” Zolf finished the thought, voice level despite the blush he could feel rising in his cheeks.

Barnes and Carter were slowly increasing in volume. Zolf could finally make out the timbre of Carter’s voice specifically, though he’d never heard him make those noises before.

“I didn’t know that Barnes had it in him,” Wilde murmured. “Or, had it in Carter, specifically.” With that puerile comment, Wilde moved. He folded the corner of a page to mark his place and stood, checking the ties on his yukata as he did.

“Where are you going?” Zolf hissed.

Wilde smiled wickedly. “Why, to the Teal Room, of course.”

“Wilde!” Zolf said, flushing angrily. He was trying to formulate a scolding regarding privacy and eavesdropping, but the scoundrel had already stridden off. Zolf’s thighs tensed and relaxed as he went to stand then aborted the movement, debating with himself. Carter voiced a particularly sharp cry and Zolf decided that anything was better than sitting here by himself.

I’m just gonna stop Wilde from doin’ anything inappropriate, he told himself as he stood and followed.

Inside the room, Wilde leant against the doorframe, body languid as if he attended a mere dinner party. There was a tarp covering a half-constructed hole in the centre of the room. When Zolf came to hover beside him in the doorway, any lingering mystery about what was happening downstairs was dispelled.

“Fuck, James, please,”Carter sounded utterly desperate. This close, Zolf could even hear the slow rasp of movement, skin-on-skin. Barnes’ voice was harder to make out, as he responded with something quiet and urgent. There was a breath, then the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Carter making a choked noise that pulsed straight from Zolf’s ear to his crotch.

Wilde was delighted. He looked sidelong at Zolf and mouthed the word “James?” wrapping his lips around it in impish joy, as though first names were the controversial thing about this situation.

There was a grunt from downstairs that was undoubtedly Barnes

Wilde spoke sotto voce, keeping his voice under the sound of the rain. “I knew he’d be the strong and silent type.”

Zolf didn’t reply. He didn’t know where to even start. He would hate to be overheard like this, but there was something thrilling about it. Fuck, Wilde’s a bad influence on me. He knew he should leave, just walk away, but…

The pace downstairs changed. What had previously sounded like a languorous tease picked up energy. Carter literally wailed as the thump of a cot knocking against a wall started up, one, twice, three times, continuing, not rushed but steady. Carter’s whine cut off in a muffled ermf and Zolf could see in his mind’s eye, agonisingly clear, the way that Barnes had just put his hand over Carter’s mouth.

Zolf’s eyes had been locked, unseeing, on the rough tarp, but at Carter’s stifled moan, he looked up at Wilde. He was gazing back, and Zolf was shocked to see something hungry in those eyes. Mere moments ago, the energy from Wilde had been lewd and juvenile. Something had shifted.

Wilde’s scent was still in Zolf’s nose and suddenly the image in his mind changed.

His hand, hooked behind one of Wilde’s knees, pushing it up toward his chest… fucking him open fluidly, pace keeping time with the rhythmic thudding from below. Wilde’s face flushed cheek to cheek, eyes half lidded, awash with the pleasure of it.

Zolf shut his eyes, hard, hot with shame. When he opened them, Wilde was still staring him down, a touch of that imagined flush now true in his cheeks. There was something knowing in his expression as well, as though he could see straight into Zolf’s mind and the images that lay within.

They had been so in tune with each other lately, after all.

Wilde’s mouth worked as if he was seeking words, but he was interrupted. “Heavens above, James, faster please, I’m going to-”

Wilde sucked his breath in hard as Carter came. The words died on his lips and he half-shoved past Zolf to leave the room, taking long strides and disappearing down the corridor.

Zolf stumbled. If the two men downstairs were in any state to be paying attention to their surroundings, they would have heard Zolf’s clumsy footsteps, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He went to follow, but by the time he’d caught up to Wilde, the bedroom door was shut.

There was no lock. It was only a barrier in that it was one that Wilde chose to put up. Zolf wasn’t about to go barging in where he wasn’t wanted. He lifted a hand to knock. Paused. What exactly was he here to say? To tell Wilde off? To apologise? To say, Look at me like that again, I’ll be ready this time? He lowered his hand.

Later that night in bed, for the first time in months, Zolf found himself firming a spit-slick hand around his cock, breath unsteady. He kept his mind cautiously blank. Every time he was tempted to dwell on the sound of Carter’s whimper, or Barnes’ low rasp, or that ravenouslook in Wilde’s eyes, he drew himself back to sensation alone, pleasure coiling in his gut. He certainly wasn’t thinking of Wilde’s hand on his shoulder, the relaxed set of his body as he listened to Barnes and Carter fuck downstairs, the salacious delight in his eyes.

Zolf pumped his fist faster, definitely not thinking of the thud of the cot against the cell wall downstairs as his hips rolled and breath hitched. Hanging on to awareness by a thread, he remembered the thin walls, and bit his lip to stifle his groan as he came.

His eyes closed, he listened to his hammering heart, breathing slowly. It had been a very strange night. From the buzzing post-orgasm haze, a thought emerged, unbidden.

Lavender. Lavender was what Wilde’s soap had smelled of.

#hank writes #rusty quill gaming #rqg #zoscar #zolfwilde #zolf smith #rqg oscar wilde #rqg fan fic #i don't even know if these are appearing in tags but old habits

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tragicallywicked · 3 years

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THE FIRST RAIN

[ CHAPTER EIGHT ]

Words: 29,726 Genre: Romance/Drama Rated: Mature Pairing: Alice + Jasper Summary: What happened to Alice and Jasper when their paths first crossed in that stormy night in Philadelphia? What were the trails they rode in two years before joining the Cullen clan? It all began on that first rainy day, she had been waiting for him long enough, and he was finding what he had been blindly searching for.

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The scent of moist grass bore the entire forest when the tempest inched down in the area their cabin was located; humming of birds an overpowering sound over the thin drops still falling from the trees. All was peaceful, so still and quiet after a storm. It was likewise the most vulnerable of times, for it was when predators struck.

Alice and Jasper, the deadliest two in those woods, sped through the trees side by side, tracking their prey. She located hers first, taking a turn Jasper wasn't anticipating. He understood she had to do her thing to quell the hunger hounding her ever since their conversation about the slip.

Jasper wasn't exactly hungry, but he followed Alice's advice and feeding anyway. Because he felt satiated—and on some level even stuffed with blood—he wasn't quartering all that effort. Jasper did snatch a bear that had been at clear range and fed from it until he couldn't anymore. Alice was a few meters from him, and he observed when she raced to another quarry, jumping a second creature.

He felt overwhelmed from the bear and sat to wait for his mate to finish up. While there, Jasper examined Alice in her element, ambushing the animal and snapping its head before she could feed from it. He considered how humane it was that she was killing it before feeding, so it wouldn't suffer. It made Jasper wonder if she had the same means when feeding from humans.

Alice would make an extraordinary hunter, in his opinion. For a vampire who had a forthcoming all on her own, misplaced in eternity, she grasped a lot. Had she been tutored, Alice would have made an impressive soldier as well—not that it was a fate Jasper coveted for her. Jasper desired to keep her away from any kind of confrontation.

Patrolling her so closely, that sweet angel she was, Jasper could understand all the appeal of spending immortality with that woman. Admittedly, he didn't quite see himself walking away from her—even in the brief time they had been together. But if there was something Jasper knew was that circumstances, and people, could change—particularly when one had eternity. He knew the emotions they shared were noble, serious, and real. Jasper had spent too long of a time in an uproar; he couldn't be positive of what that sublime sensation was. He'd been accustomed to different types of love; if this was it, there was still a lot to be determined about it. But then again, they had time—something humans lacked.

When Alice joined him, Jasper beamed, extending a hand for her to follow him at the top of the rock, overseeing the forest. She rested beside him silently.

"Only one bear?" Alice commented after a moment, noticing the animal not too far from them.

"I'm still feeling quite full," he explained with a faint smile.

"It's natural. When you begin feeling hungry again, we should positively hunt right away," Alice encouraged. The twist on Jasper's expression made her glare in more seriousness. "What is it?"

He shook his head, deciding to trail it off, but her eyes were resolute. "I'm still adjusting to the tang . It's nothing, honestly."

"It's different, I know." Alice pulled her legs up toward her chest, resting her chin on her knees as she contemplated the sky.

"Can I admit something?"

She deduced his eyes had been on her as she signed after shifting to find his gaze. Although Jasper assumed she knew, it came as a shock to Alice when he spoke. "I don't particularly enjoy the diet."

"Oh."

"I thought you would know." Jasper abruptly stared, baffled.

"Well, it's not so much of a decision but rather an inclination. I probably had no time to see if you only just decided to tell me," Alice explained, and he nodded, confirming her suspicion. "Why don't you like it?"

Jasper immediately sensed the sign of disappointment that Alice was striving to conceal from him. As they spent time together, she had been reading more and more into his gifts. Being an empath, Jasper had learned feelings weren't set in stone—like Alice's visions, they could change and be changed. The culmination between him and Maria had explicitly been how great she became on manipulating him. The contrast was his previous partner never sought to hide things to spare him, which he could tell was what Alice was doing now.

The idea of disappointing her troubled Jasper; he hesitated thinking about his response to that puzzle. "You have to admit it's distasteful, especially compared with what I've been used to."

Alice nods, to that much she could recognize. It wasn't as lascivious as drinking from humans, but she preferred it over the baggage that came with slaughter.

"And I did just feed from one or two," Jasper reminded.

"I guess you're not wrong."

"Yet, you're disappointed." Usually, he'd divert from the topic, but Jasper carried on. He cared about Alice; he desired things to strive between them. He had seen with eternity that it took effort for relationships to endure, not just physical attraction—to which they had in abundance.

"I'm not."

"Alice." He peered at her, brow raised and a delightful grin.

"I know, I know. You feel everything ." Her annoyed huffing told Jasper maybe Alice did want to escape the conversation, but he didn't cave. "I hoped this was more natural to you as it was for me. I'm not blaming you," she was quick to clarify, glancing up at him. "I don't relish on your suffering."

"I'm not."

Alice had difficulty hiding her shock.

"It does pain me when it's occurring, afterward not so much. It's our primary drive we're fighting against here, after all," he reminded her. Alice felt genuinely bothered this time, he missed the moment it had flipped, but he sure caught the emotion later.

Alice had to remind herself she was sentencing Jasper for a future him that she had seen, one that would not come to be if Alice kept ramming his boundaries. She knew the consequence of that; it wasn't a pleasant one. Her aid would be crucial to him and to them.

With that in mind and the wave of reassurance charging toward her, Alice gave Jasper a brief nod.

"I guess I pushed you too hard, too fast, I'm sorry," Alice said. He wasn't expecting an apology, so Jasper just signed. "Maybe we can come up with a different plan. If you still crave to feed from humans every other time, we could make the shift smoother."

"Looking the other way would upset you." Jasper didn't question; he somehow knew that to be inevitable. "That is the last thing I want to do."

"It wouldn't—Well, all right, maybe a little. But it would also help you, I can see it. And in the long run, that will be important," Alice explained as she sat up straight, hand stretching to hold his. "And that is all that I want, Jazz."

She had seen him through so much twinge, an avalanche of torturous agony, now Alice wished that he could have a more peaceful existence. Preferably by her side.

Back in the cabin, Alice busied with arranging the bedroom. She had seen the deliveries arrive in a few minutes, and having the area unblocked would have them out flying. It wasn't so much worry for Jasper being around them—as she planned to send him off when they arrived—Alice wanted to get this finished and fixed; their life ordered and following on track.

Jasper sat nearby, reading a book about the first war, when her eyes shot up and halted. He faded off her sight, and all too fast, Alice saw big and bloody eyes. She wasn't positive who they belonged to, but they were liquid fresh, glistering with death. It uttered her panic immediately, agonized over what Jasper was bound to do. Was she judging him, though? Alive thought to herself, h ow could she know it was him if all she'd seen were eyes, vivid and sharp red.

Squinting back to her senses, she focused on Jasper, now standing in front of her. A guarding arm around her and the other squeezing her hand. She vaguely caught his voice in the background, as if it calling her from a distance and not right next to her ear.

"What did you see?" he insisted. "Alice. What did you see?"

Alice understood his distress was over her alarm when he sent a surge of serenity toward her.

"It's nothing." Alice shook her head softly and fixed a smile over at Jasper, who frowned, unconvinced. "I'm not sure yet. It was a swift flash." That much was true. Alice had no notion what it implied or why it had shown up to her, but it did, and the concern was indisputable.

"Why did it disturb you so much?"

She lamented, inclining up to peck his lips. "Sometimes they simply do, don't agonize about it too much," Alice promises, and Jasper nods.

Resuming her clean up, Alice ventured to occupy Jasper's attention with small chatting. She had great ideas for their bedroom. The larger frame arriving would eat up some of the space, but Alice still wished to make it homey.

Jasper had joined in assisting her and proposed that they get rid of the nightstands—there wasn't really a point when they didn't truly sleep. He'd argued they could store the items there in the office next door, since he didn't actually have that many things to keep.

"We'll get you books and memorabilia and trinkets," Alice said sweetly, skipping to meet him on the other side of the room; her arms enveloped around his neck; nose nuzzling his cheek when he hoisted her off the floor.

"I don't need any of those." His tone was soft, planting a peck on her lips when he turned his face to her, praising the delicacy in her beauty. All he needed was there, his whole world.

"Well, there must be something we can get you, Major Whitlock." She grinned, smoothing her lips to his again.

"I did enjoy that game we played the other day."

"Chess?" Alice raised a brow, but she wasn't really surprised. She'd had many visions of Jasper and their future brother Emmett, both men sitting across from each other in a light and open living room, an elaborate game of chess in front of them.

"It's very strategic. I like the nature of it," Jasper explained and Alice nodded rapidly.

"We could get a nice set, something that—" Alice couldn't finish her words as another strong vision clouded her senses.

There were two bodies on the floor, looking lifeless, drained of all blood. The soft pink of the cheeks had disappeared to give place to a mauve, almost pale purple on their faces. The two men had their throats completely dilacerated, the only last specks that remained of blood smeared across their necks.

A sloppy affair, the way their flesh had been pierced. Positively done by someone with greed and lack of control—almost as a feral newborn damage in their naive frenzy. It was gruesome; the desperation petrified in their eyes said too much of the pain they had endured.

Alice felt hunger in her vision, of whoever had done it. The intensity of the emotion so palpable felt almost as if it was her own.

Her eyes shifted from the bodies to the shadow standing out the light, but before she could discern the face of the predator, she was back to her senses.

"Alice." Jasper was shaking her now—because he didn't think she could get more startled and pale, but it seemed the nightmare drained the rest of life off her. When he was so worried, it was arduous to stay focused and not wave all his concern, and she slumped in the feeling of his fear for a second, for she too was in thorough desperation.

"What's happening, Alice?" He yanked back the worry to expand tranquillity, and Alice was finally able to breathe, staring at him with a frown.

"I saw two men… Dead… Here." She was working to make up what had happened and how it occurred.

Jasper was about to protest and hold her back in the present, but her eyes drifted off again in search of answers.

"Tell me, what do you see?" He directed this time, an arm still clutching her steady, and his emotions still flooding sheer peace.

Alice focused.

The men were nothing but a pile of flesh now, on top of each other, tossed there already dead. A figure crawled in the corner, but it was too dark; she couldn't see their face. Instead, she searched the men, inspected their faces.

"They're older…" She whispered quietly, eyes still on the sight.

"Very well. Do we know them?"

"I can't tell—"

She couldn't see them too well, their frightened petrification and mutilation of the throats making them look disfigured, nearly unrecognizable. Alice inspected the wounds closely. They seemed different, like they had been done by various vampires—or at separate times.

"The bites are different. One is bigger, sloppier," she told him.

"What else is there?" Jasper continued to guide her through, his fingers smoothing down her spine as other relaxing strings caught her perfectly.

Alice could sense the headache building, having to seek for the minor details in a vision that felt so terrifying. She stared closer at the bodies, trying to get any evidence of who they could be. Then a voice, in the vision, hindered her investigation.

"We have to go, we must leave," a female voice called out.

"We'll deal with this," the male voice sounded firm. When Alice peered around for the source, she saw it coming from outside. Like a voyer of the conversation, Alice approached the front door with care—as if the people in the vision could see her.

There was a vase, one of her favorite, shattered near the door, and a pool of blood. She assumed the source of it all, working to resolve the puzzle.

"Last time, nothing happened," the man said.

"Not this time."

"What have you seen, Alice?"

She saw herself and Jasper outside, both with their backs to the door, where she watched the vision roll out.

"Please trust me, we can't stay, Jazz. At least not for long."

"We'll fix this. I'm sorry—"

"Don't. It's all right."

Alice allowed out a breath, looking at Jasper when the vision vanished, and she faded back.

"I think you killed them," she said with a lump on her throat.

Jasper drew back almost instantly, and she felt the pain dripping from him. Desperate to comfort him, Alice reached out for his hand, not allowing Jasper to get distant now. It hadn't happened, and she always believed things could be prevented—even when the vision looked so solid.

"Jazz."

"Perhaps I should go."

"No!" Alice pleaded, tugging him toward her. He reacted to her need for his presence, steadily sinking into her pull with a nod. He wouldn't go; he wanted to stay and not kill . "Maybe we can still change it."

Jasper agreed, waiting for her frown to relax. Alice searched the visions again, looking back into the images that had shown up, for details she could have missed; his hands were on her again, soothing and protecting.

"Tell me what you find," Jasper encouraged quietly into her ear.

Jasper pulled back from her and nodded, briefly leaning in to peck her forehead.

"I'll be out back," he proposed encouragingly. He would be far, but just enough so that he could calm her down still. Jasper was gone in seconds. Alice strolled to the door, opening to greet the two men with the brightest smile, feeling the waves Jasper was still conveying her way.

"Good afternoon, Miss," one of the men, the one that had aided her at the store, greeted. He bowed softly, still clearly mesmerized by her appearances, like all people were. The other one, a taller guy with not much of a patience, smiled briefly but also did give Alice a second look.

"Afternoon," Alice inclined her head briefly and made space for the frame.

"Where should we put it?"

The men eyed the narrow steps with painful gazes and Alice swung her head instantly. She wanted them out of there as fast as possible anyhow.

"You may leave it here. My husband can get it upstairs later. We're still fixing some things there," Alice explained casually.

They were quick to nod, and the taller one handed Alice a paper to sign. She scribbled far too quickly, not minding it too much. Alice turned around on her ankles after she was given a copy and the movement accidentally knocked down a vase. Typically she would have sped to save it, but in the humans' presence, she let the object drop to the floor and shred to pieces.

She came back too quickly with a gasp and looked up at Jasper.

"It's the delivery!"

On queue, the doorbell rang on their house, and Alice watched, helplessly, the entire vision unfold in her mind just a millisecond before it all occurred.

Everything happened extremely fast. The smaller guy reached for the vase pieces and so did Alice.

"Oh please, don't worry about that." Alice dismissed, attempting to collect the remains on her own, but the man was persistent.

"It's all right, Miss!"

In a very brief second, he captured a crack with too much enthusiasm, unbeknownst to him that his excitement to help would be his downfall. The cut was deep enough to quickly pool blood on his hand; for Alice's eyes to grow black just as fast. The animal in her awoke and all the delicacy and the self-restraint in her wouldn't be enough to hold it back—like that time she had murdered her work friend or the time before where a late night walker didn't stand a chance.

She wasn't Alice anymore. She was nothing but a vampire—eager for human blood—when she snapped the short man's neck, and her teeth carved his jugular. The warmth of the blood undertook her entire body, satisfying a thirst of far too long . When her eyes opened up again, they darted up to the taller man, abruptly terrified by the turn of events. He would scream, but Jasper emerged in front of him before Alice could reach her next pray.

The feral beast hissed at her mate.

"I'll take him, the other is still alive and he'll turn if you don't finish him," Jasper said coldly, strategic. Only then Alice grew aware of the grunts of agony.

She briefly saw Jasper snap the other man out before she returned to her victim.

When there was no more life to down, Alice stood up, mouth dripping with blood and her eyes two piercing rubies.

#jalice #alice cullen #jasper hale #twilight #twilight fanfiction #twilight renaissance #the twilight renaissance #mary alice brandon #jasper whitlock #mine #the first rain #fanfic

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henpendrips · 4 years

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Top Ten #3 - World of Final Fantasy (Vita)

"Why is this game here? How is it this high up the list? When did we get to this point? What the fuck is the deal?" I can hear myself and everyone else asking.

If there was ever any expectation of this list being at all objective in terms of game quality, then World of Final Fantasy completely shatters that notion, being at most a 7/10 game (leaning more 6 than 8). It's a Pokémon clone; a monster catcher RPG with a generic kiddy animu story, chalk-full of jokes and tropes that you must've seen a thousand times if you've ever glanced at a shonen anime. However, while at first it appears to be an uninspired cash-in, as Squeeenix attempts marketing to kids that might not've owned a Nintendo handheld in 2016, it achieved something else entirely: it made me happy.

It's RARE for a piece of media to have that impact on me; I might be entertained and have fun, fall in love with the story/characters/setting/artstyle; but to actually make me happy, that is a herculean feat. And it's no mystery why: I was a Final Fantasy fan for years, have now played all main series titles pre-XV (sans the MMOs and Lightning Returns); I adore turn-based RPGs, especially if they aren't a real-time hybrid or ATB-like; and since I have a collectonist playstyle, the inherent aspect of Pokémon games (gathering all the critters), reskinned with stylistic interpretations of several creatures in the FF franchise in the form of 'Mirages', immediately appeals to my sensibilities. Even as I replay it at time of writing, that love hasn't faded, and this is why, while a 7/10, WoFF is one of my personal 10/10 games.

But I think it's because of the simplistic story that this game shined so brightly. Lann and Reynn, the ginger twins that lead this adventure to catch 'em all, have the necessary elements than one should hope are present in these types of stories, and the rug isn't so much pulled from under your feet later on, but more that you're incentivized to push it aside and see what lies beneath. Sure, it relies on the recurring FF tropes of clueless protagonists and killing god-like entities, but it managed to take characters and elements from (almost) all of its previous games and present them in a new light. Awkward at best, but it's not shocking to see the new roles attributed to old characters, all in the shape of chibi vynil figurines called Lilikin. For fuck's sake, it has the only version of Claire 'Shaitning' Farron that I actually liked, as she manages to fucking emote and interact with others in an enjoyable fashion, rather than an automaton pretending to have human emotions.

That being said, WoFF is a perpetual give-and-take:

1) Until the post-game, Lann and Reynn are obligatory choices for your team, with the ability to change between Jiant (L size) and Lilikin (M size) forms. The stacking mechanic is a great way to justify using more than one Mirage in combat, and different Mirage stacks will give you access to different combos and abilities, therefore taking the limited action slots from Pokémon games and blending it together with the inherent growing list of skills from FF games. This means that you're less inclined to overutilize certain Mirages to deal with specific enemy teams and bosses (as it's how prepared you are beyond just your setup that will determine your success) and experiment; but the game's difficulty curve is all over the place (yet rarely a challenge), and you'll find yourself taking frequent pit-stops to the Prismarium, be it for imprisming Mirages, recharging your VERY limited AP, handling specific challenges, or just solving puzzles that require the use of HM-equivalent field abilities.

2) The chibified artstyle translates classic and more recent creatures in Final Fantasy to have a consistent look AND be desirable to collect (same couldn't be said of FFXIII-2); but there's several reskins for some Mirages which, while offering different abilities and attributes, still look the same. Kinda like shinies, but without the bragging rights. Since you can transfigure Mirages as long as you have met the necessary prerequisites, and without meta alterations in stats, collecting them will be far more expedient, yet you'll end up leveling a lot of creatures with far less personality than most Pokémon you catch, even if you don't have to worry about chasing the top percentage of Chocobos.

3) Pokémon has always been more oriented towards community/multiplayer gaming, but WoFF is unquestionably a single-player experience, with all Mirages available for you to get eventually, and the closest thing to 'Legendaries' being XL Mirages, which take the roll of Summon-equivalents for you to play as (rather than a single-skill mega ability); however, the action-activation to imprism (catch) can sometimes be completely asinine, if not incredibly vague, and the memento items necessary to transform certain Mirages can be attained only by the most awkward of means.

4) Even what at first might seem to be optional aspects of the game are utilized in the story and overall gameplay, and I appreciate that mechanics introduced have a reason for being there, for both story and play. What I don't appreciate is how the story grinds to a halt because you have to partake in ridiculous minigames to progress, or because the writers gave up on how to insert specific interventions within a cohesive narrative, and just said "Fuck it, do this as sidequests in the Tardis Tearoom. We couldn't be bothered to have you revisit every zone in a natural way".

I could go on how the game isn't as optimized as it should be, that mechanically it stumbles and lacks in quality-of-life improvements. And while you can get immersed, either the kiddy story or a lack of long-time investment in the FF franchise might prevent most from getting into WoFF as much as I did (and believe me, those things ARE there and they ARE a problem). But I'm not here to deny the faults, I'm here to explain why I like these games. It's cheezy, but I love this game, warts and all. It had no right to be as fulfilling as it was.

If you're a Poké-fan and want to give WoFF a chance, always remember to first consult with your local RPG aficionado, to make sure it's right for you.

#art #artists on tumblr #world of final fantasy #Final Fantasy #reynn #lann #tama #top ten #fanart #illustration #videogames #print

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sinner-as-saint · 5 years

Text

By Your Side.

Mob! Seb AU

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 MASTERLIST

Part 7.

Run-through: The mob boss had never thought that he’d be so broken one day. Without you, his world was falling apart. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Themes: ANGST, Gore elements, violence, death

A/N: I’m sorry babies, but there is no smut in this one… forgive me. I know this is getting long and tiring but I promise, this series will be finished soon! ILY!!

Also, all Tag Lists are still open.

When Sebastian’s tears finally ceased, Chris told his heartbroken friend what had happened to you.

All the poison and heavy medication had taken a toll on you. Your body couldn’t handle all the chemicals and toxins so you shut down.

The doctors had told Chris and Liana that you were in a comatose state, and that you were critical. Your heart was weak and Sebastian’s heart broke with each word Chris said.

He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of losing you. He simply couldn’t bear it.

Hours later, the doctors decided that it would be wise if they talked to Sebastian in person.

“She is in a very critical state, Mr. Stan. We’re doing our best to stabilize her, and when she does, there is a chance that she wakes up. If not, then she has four weeks until she moves in what we call the vegetative state,” one of them spoke.

Sebastian listened; his heart broke in the process. His eyes remained focused on the floor and on his shoes. He couldn’t face the doctors. He was scared that he might punch them for not being able to save you, even if he knew that they were doing their best.

He simply didn’t trust himself while you were in danger.

“The vegetative state can last for a long while, and it is torturous. It is painful, because the patient cannot move, however some of the senses are alert during that stage. Unfortunately, very few people make it back from there,” the other, faceless doctor spoke.

Sebastian kept listening, his back against the wall and hands in his pocket. He felt a fatigue taking over him. Or maybe it was just heartache.

“We’re trying everything we can, let’s pray she makes it through,”

Sebastian didn’t realize when the doctors had walked away or when he stepped outside, or Chris and Liana made their way to him. He was lost, his reality distorted.

The sky was getting darker now, his world was getting darker without you in it. He looked up and sighed.

“She couldn’t fight it, Sebastian. But she’s no one to give up, you know that. She’ll come back,” Liana spoke from behind him, placing her hand on his shoulder.

He was broken, she could tell.

He was almost never this quiet. He wasn’t angry either. Just, silently experiencing a nightmare.

Sebastian had absolutely no emotion on his face, nor in his eyes.

He was, blank.

He chuckled, out of nowhere. And Liana froze to the ground when he did so.

“Hey, it’s okay. She’s here, she just… needs to come back, okay? We’re here for you, it’s not-,”

Liana’s words came to a halt as Sebastian grabbed her harshly and pushed her against the brick wall, wrapping his hands around her throat and applying enough pressure to restrict her airflow. Her body made contact with a force which made her wince.

Yet, she was quiet. Shocked.

She stared in his blue eyes in shock, they were cruel and with absolutely no hint of showing any mercy.

She clawed at his hand around her throat, scratched his skin but he didn’t let her go. Chris tried to get him off her but he didn’t move a bit.

The more they tried to push him off, the more pressure he applied on his grip at her throat.

“Why did you betray me, you little bitch? I trusted you, Y/N trusted you, why did you do this?” as soon as he said those words, Chris’ grip on Sebastian loosened.

He was taken aback.

Chris was shocked at the sight in front of him, and at the words which just came out of Sebastian’s mouth.

“What?” Chris asked in confusion.

Sebastian chuckled again, darkly. Turns out, he wasn’t losing his mind, but he was piecing the puzzle together. And once he got a view of the bigger picture, he understood it all.

He had been betrayed, and your emotions had been toyed with again.

“That’s right, this bitch thought she was playing me. It took me some time, Liana, but I figured it out. I couldn’t say anything earlier because Y/N had blind faith in you. I did too for a while, but I see it now. I see the betrayal,” he finally released her just before she passes out.

Liana fell to the ground and coughed violently. Her face was red due to the lack of air and her neck hurt. She was scared. She, of all people, knew how brutal Sebastian could get. And she was now terrified, and regretted some of her actions. But she couldn’t let the fear show.

“What- can any of you tell me what’s happening?” Chris asked again as he couldn’t believe what just happened.

“Liana was working for Connor this whole time. She never interrogated Dylan, because my men were beating the shit of him already by the time she got here. I wanted to see how she’d react. Then I figured it out. She thought that Dylan told us the truth, but he didn’t,”

Sebastian spoke, as Liana gasped on the concrete ground.

Chris’ face frowned in confusion.

“I never wanted to get him to talk because I knew Liana was stupid enough to spill everything on her own, I just needed to get him in a state where he couldn’t speak. Liana walked upstairs and spilled the truth herself. She gave away the tactic Connor used to get to my girl. I still had my doubts, but then she cleared it up herself. She hesitated when I asked her to finish off Dylan. And that was it, that’s when I knew this bitch was scheming behind my back,”

“She didn’t even finish Dylan off, my men did it for her,”

“You never got to talk to Dylan, did you, Liana? No, because when you got to him, I made sure he was unconscious. You got scared, then you revealed everything. The day Connor’s men broke in to replace Y/N’s medicine, you knew. You knew everything. You called yourself her friend yet you silently watched her as she slowly… poisoned herself,”

Chris couldn’t believe the words which came out of his friend’s mouth.

“Why did you do it, Liana?” Sebastian asked, in a voice so calm that it scare the other two who were present there.

The pace at which his moods would switch was terrifying, even to Chris.

Liana knew she was in trouble, she was walking on thin ice this whole time. She knew he’d find out eventually. With you coming into his life, he did indeed slow down, but the mob boss wasn’t stupid.

She had nothing to say but the truth now.

“I got tired of seeing everybody worshiping at her altar. I mean, what is so special about her anyways? She’s dumb, can barely handle herself on her own, always needs to be saved, to be scooped up and protected like a helpless dog. I-,”

“Just answer the question, why the fuck did you do it? Spare us your sob story,” Chris’ patience was running low.

Sebastian was calm again, not mentally, but at least he wasn’t choking the life out of anyone. He just listened.

Liana took a deep breath to calm her racing heart.

“The same reason all you fuckers do what you do. Money,” she replied like it was the easiest question ever asked.

She, of course, wasn’t wrong. But given the situation, the mob boss’ blood boiled at the reply.

“Connor has been paying me twice as much as you do. It’s really not a tough choice Sebastian, money or that damsel who’s always in distress’ friendship, I believe you already know which one I chose,” Liana spoke nonchalantly. Her words were bold, yet Sebastian took note of the fear in her eyes.

This Liana was so much more different than the one who was just crying upstairs when she had heard the news of your critical condition.

Sebastian stared at her with nothing but disbelief and anger in his eyes. Chris subtly stood in between Sebastian and Liana, who was struggling to stand up. Chris was ready for any action. He knew what the mob boss was capable of when it came to you, and despite how much he wanted it, he simply couldn’t allow Sebastian to murder Liana right there on the hospital grounds.

They needed a plan first.

Sebastian was never one to feel hurt by betrayal, however, he was hurt this one time because he knew that eventually, he would have to break it to you that the one close friend you had, turned out to be no better than the rest of the heartless fucks in this world.

Even now, all he cared about was you.

“Get out of here, and run to him. Tell him he’s gonna pay for all that he did,” Chris spoke instead of Sebastian.

The latter was silent, scheming, and hurting. Sebastian knew all he had to do was go over to Connor’s, kill the bastard, and be over with it.

Yet, none of that would bring you back to him. What if he does all that and you never wake up?

What if you leave him?

He wouldn’t be able to live with the fact that the last memory he would have of you would be you looking up at him, with tears in your eyes as you struggled to breathe and held on to him, desperately not wanting to let go.

“Connor’s not scared to die, Sebastian. You had his son killed, you took away the one person he loved the most. And he did the same to you. Throw your hopes and your prayers away, Y/N is not going to survive this, and you know that. Both of you do. Even if you kill Connor with your bare hands, you’re still gonna be the one to lose this time,” Liana spoke, her voice shaky and her words pierced Sebastian’s chest like a hundred daggers at the same time.

Sebastian scoffed.

“I wish you would realize that this is so much more than just a game. This concerns the woman I love, I’m gonna give Connor a slow, painful death. I’m gonna make him crave for a quick death, and I’m gonna make sure you watch all of it, before I kill you too,”

Sebastian meant each and every word he said.

“Get the fuck of here, now,” Sebastian’s tone had a hint of defeat in it already, and Chris was concerned. He had never seen someone so broken, definitely not a man of Sebastian’s caliber.

Liana walked away as fast as she could. She had a smug look on her face as she walked away from the two, disturbed, men.

Chris was worried.

He approached his friend and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

“Hey man, we’re gonna figure this out, okay? You stay with Y/N, I’ll handle Connor and h-,”

“No. Y/N will be fine. I’m sure she’ll come back to me, soon. I need to deal with Connor first,” Sebastian spoke, and Chris nodded.

The two dealt with the hospital paper work, and Sebastian had his men over, in disguise; to keep an eye in case someone tried to harm you.

Two of his men were by your door while some more were in the parking lot; keeping an eye on every activity of the grounds.

Sebastian did question their loyalty for a moment, keeping in mind the stunt pulled by Liana. But Chris was quick to reassure him that there was nothing to worry about.

Chris had his people hack into the security cameras of the hospital, just so he and Sebastian could keep an eye on the situation while they took Connor out.

Sebastian wanted to see you one last time before going after Connor, but the thought of seeing you connected with wires and tubes and machines was scarier to him than anything.

So he watched you from outside, through the glass, and whispered a quiet prayer as he eyes filled with tears with the brief sight of you in pain, and as broken as he was.

---

The ride to Connor’s house was a blur to him. He was so focused on you that Chris had to nudge him in the arm to get his attention.

Sebastian sighed, and once again told Chris that this wasn’t his fight and that he should just drive home. But Chris refused to let his friend deal with this all alone.

In the dark of the night, Sebastian found himself at Connor’s doorstep. His men broke the door down and Sebastian was filled with rage and pain as he stepped inside.

His gun in his hand, another spare on the inside pocket of his suit. Chris beside him, his gun loaded as well.

His loyal men were scattered around him.

Connor’s men were nowhere to be seen, so he was definitely outnumbered. Even if he wasn’t, the mob boss had made up his mind. He had a plan, and all of his timing was perfect.

Connor’s house was pitch black, not even one single light was on. He was there though, Chris had his people track him down earlier, and they were dead sure that he was at his place.

Liana must be here too. Sebastian though. And just as he did, he heard footsteps approaching.

The room illuminated right as the sound of a switch being flicked was heard.

The light allowed him to see the two other people who had joined them.

Connor and Liana. Each with guns pointed at Sebastian.

Sebastian smirked, as several guns belonging to his guys cocked at the sight of these two pathetic people.

Connor looked horrible. He looked like a true mess, but despite it all, he had this irritating, taunting look on his face.

“God, I have been waiting for this moment for a while now. Sebastian, cheer up son, why do you look so sad? Oh right, my niece is on the verge of losing her life and let me guess, you cannot deal with the fact that you weren’t able to protect her, isn’t it?”

Connor smirked, knowing perfectly well how to get under Sebastian’s skin.

The latter just stared at him with no expression on his face.

“Sucks, doesn’t it? All the promises you must’ve made to her, talked about keeping her safe and I know for a fact, being the fool she is, that she must’ve have trusted you. But you failed her Sebastian, look at her now, fighting for her life despite all your promises,”

Connor continued despite having more than ten guns pointed at him. Sebastian just stared at him. He tried fighting it, but he couldn’t help the subtle guilt which washed over him.

“Go ahead Sebastian, kill me. All I ever wanted was to see her suffer, and you, just like both your pathetic fathers made me. I desperately wanted to see defeat on your face, and I’ve seen it.”

Connor finally stopped talking and smirked.

Sebastian chuckled, taking a few steps forward. Not towards Connor or Liana, but towards the spacious couch in the room.

He sat down and placed his gun next to him on the black, leather surface.

Connor’s confusion could clearly be seen. Liana, however, was scared. Though double-faced, she had spent quite some time with Sebastian. And she knew that Sebastian was always this calm and comfortable only in two instances.

The first, when everything goes as planned and he is truly content – which wasn’t the case here, obviously.

The second, when he was a few steps ahead of the one facing him – definitely the case here.

Liana’s breathing quickened as Sebastian smirked, looking at the two beings he loathed the most in the world.

“Oh I will kill you all right, and just so you know, right about now,” Sebastian checked his very expensive, gold plated watch on his wrist and continued, “One of my men just slit your wife’s throat. You thought it was safe for her to be at your club, blending with the crowd, but really, she’s just bleeding to death on the floor at this very moment,”

Sebastian’s words erased the smirk off Connor’s face. Liana’s doubt cleared. She was now certain that Sebastian was a lot more steps ahead of them.

“Oh and your other son, you know the one you kept so hidden and so safe from all the dangers of this life, yeah, something tells me you’ll never see him again as well. Sucks, doesn’t it? Promising someone that you’ll keep them safe, and having someone drop in and hurt them so mercilessly. I’m sure you did your best to protect them, Connor,”

Sebastian’s words caused Connor’s blood to run cold.

“Your son did nothing, Connor, he can still have a chance at life. For that, I’m gonna need you to ask your men to come out of wherever they are, because this little hide and seek game is over,”

As soon as Sebastian finished talking, a number of footsteps could be heard. There weren’t many of them, and since the rest of the house was dark, he couldn’t really see their sorry faces as they walked out of the house like the obedient pets they were.

“Now, let’s talk about killing you,” Sebastian smirked again when he saw the look of pure terror in Connor’s eyes.

---

Dragging Connor and Liana into the black van wasn’t hard to do. Sebastian’s men tied them up and threw them in the back of the van.

They were to be taken to the dungeon where all his dirty work was usually carried out. Instead of beating them to death, Sebastian had ordered for his men to break their limbs and then he called David and asked him to inject them with the same poison that Connor used to poison you.

Chris had seen brutality in his life, yet none quite like this. Sebastian always gave people he didn’t like quick deaths, but this time was different– he wanted to take his time and make a scene out of this.

Sebastian’s men and David obeyed without questioning his authority. Bones were broken, and poison was injected.

Both traitors were being killed slowly, painfully. And just like Sebastian had said, they craved death with each passing moment as they were left unattended in their agony.

Sebastian went to see them after some days. They were both bleeding, like you were. And they apologized relentlessly; begging for a swift end to their miserable lives.

Sebastian just smirked and left, not granting them the satisfaction.

With your life in question, the mob boss was even more heartless than ever.

---

Days passed by painfully.

Sebastian visited you every day, and spent hours by your side. To be honest, he only ever left to attend extremely important business related meetings. He only ever went home to shower, or eat once or twice daily.

Without you, his house didn’t feel like home anymore. And he was craving to hear your laughter echo in his house again, but all you gave him was silence.

Chris could tell that his friend was slowly becoming more and more low-spirited with each day he spent without you.

Sebastian’s days consisted of sitting by your bed and talking to you for hours. He’d tell you about his day, or what the doctors said about your health and sometimes, he even cried.

He would often fall asleep on the couch, not far away from your bed. The beeps from the heart beat monitor attached to you acted like his lullaby and his nightmares consisted of the monitor flat lining.

His under eyes were darker now, and his beard and hair had gotten longer – unmaintained. He barely took care of his own health and if it wasn’t for Chris, he would go by missing countless meals.

---

By the second week, Sebastian was a true mess. He was counting days as you neared the 4th week the doctors had told him about.

Day 13. And you still hadn’t woken up.

They were keeping you alive through more chemicals, medicines and other liquids. They injected you with something or other each day – tearing through your skin while you silently bore the pain.

Day 13. Sebastian had spent all morning with you that day. By your side, as usual.

“Hey baby,” he sniffled, as he held your cold hand in his large, warm one. His thumb caressed your dry skin and he brought your knuckles to his lips and placed a soft kiss on them.

He sniffled again.

His lips lingered on your skin and he admitted that he missed your usual sweet, floral perfume which reminded him of what roaming through a rose garden on a sunny day would feel like.

“I asked the nurse to put your hair in a braid today, I know how much you like it like that. It looks pretty, you look beautiful, as always,”

His eyes flicked to the heart monitor and he saw the steady, bumpy line which brought him solace in a weird way. It was almost comforting to see your heart’s electrical activity; it reminded him that even in the silence, you were still here with him.

“Chris was here earlier, I’m sure you heard him, he brought news. Connor and Liana are… gone,”

Sebastian spared you the gruesome details of how he asked his people to drop their bleeding, dead bodies at the bottom of separate lakes in remote areas.

He had told you all about Liana and her betrayal a week ago. He could tell you were hurt because even though you couldn’t properly react, a single tear fell out of your closed lid when he told you what she had done.

Ever since then, Sebastian was certain that you could hear him all right, and he spent even more time talking to you and filling you in.

Sebastian discretely wiped a tear which was rolling down his cheek. He sniffled again.

He tightened his grip around your hand and inched closer to you, extending his arm to touch your face. His knuckles hovered over your cheek and he sniffled again.

“They’re gone baby, they won’t hurt you anymore. I know I failed you so many times before, but I’m gonna promise you again that I will not let anyone hurt you from now on. I just need you to get better, okay? I need you to wake up,”

He was crying, silently.

This was a daily occurrence. Him, holding your hand and crying; hoping you would wake up and wipe his tears and tell him that everything will be fine.

But you never did.

You didn’t wake up.

---

Day 15.

Sebastian hadn’t been beside you all morning because he had something to deal with which needed immediate attention.

Even during the meeting, he couldn’t focus like he normally would. He was having a rough day.

Then again, every day was a rough day when you weren’t there with him.

Sebastian didn’t remember what it was like before you came in his life. And it hurt him more than anything that you weren’t with him now.

Chris noticed his friend’s unsteady state of mind and asked him to go back to you, and that he would handle it from here.

Sebastian didn’t protest even once. Having not seen you all morning, he was unstable.

At 2 in the afternoon, Sebastian walked into your room; apologizing as soon as he stepped in. He sat at the end of your bed and filled you in on his morning.

He replaced the flowers found in the vase by the window of your room. He brought you flowers often. The woman at the flower shop once told him, given that he had become a frequent client, that his partner is really lucky. Sebastian smiled, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her that he wasn’t fortunate enough to even get a smile out of you.

“You know, I never realized how boring my job is, you know. All I do is sit through meetings, sign papers, yell at people through the phone,”

He chuckled, and looked at your sleeping frame. It hurt, seeing you so inanimate.

“The best part of my day used to be coming home to you, and complain about my day while you listened and laughed, and told me that I was too grumpy,”

His eyes lowered to his hands in his lap as he reminisced the times when he’d come home to you.

The tears formed in his eyes again.

“I miss you, babe. Just, please come back. I know you hear me, I just need you to find your way back to me, okay?”

And as usual, he got no reply back.

All he heard back was your steady breathing, and the beeps from the monitor attached to you.

His tears fell silently that night as well while he sat on the couch which was just a few feet away from your bed.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, all he knew was that the last thing he heard was the steady beeping from the heart monitor.

---

Day 18.

The third week came by, and Sebastian still hadn’t lost hope. He kept firmly believing that you would wake up soon.

He was by your side again, looking at you with tired eyes, and holding your cold hand in his warm one. Today was no different than the rest.

He had spent the last hour telling you about how Chris was literally the only one he could trust now, and how much he was helping him around with his work, business and everything.

He whispered that he missed you for probably the millionth time this week.

“You know, I heard the doctors talking earlier. They were saying that you weren’t strong enough, and that you were getting weaker. They’re saying that you can’t fight for long. But I refuse to believe that you’re gonna give up on me. Not now, not when you know that you’re my everything,”

Sebastian spoke from beside you, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. Your face was slightly thinner, and you looked weak.

His fingers lingered on your cheek, and he sighed.

“I’m gonna be really angry if you give up on me. I’m sorry I failed you, baby. I should’ve been more careful. I’m sorry,”

His bottom lip trembled. He refused to cry. He wasn’t giving up on his hopes yet.

Sebastian bent down and placed a soft kiss on the side of your mouth. Normally, you used to blush whenever he kissed you, but today, he got no reaction out of you. And it hurt, a lot.

---

Day 22.

Sebastian was miserable. The doctors had given up, because you were no longer as responsive as you used to be.

Everyone around him, except for Chris, told him that there was no use of holding on to hope anymore. Cases like these usually resulted in, well, the patient leaving for good.

The mob boss was losing his sanity at the bare thought of you dying. He couldn’t bear it.

He cried, as the heartache got more and more intolerable.

The sound of him sniffling constantly could be heard as he sat by your bed, late at night, holding your hand and talking to you; begging you not to leave him here alone.

“Everyone says you’re not gonna make it,”

He sniffled again, pressing his finger to his tear duct and wiping away the tear which formed before it fell.

He couldn’t even imagine a world with you gone.

The thought of it felt like a nightmare being replayed on a loop.

“But I know you’re not gone. I can hear you breathing, babe. I see your heart beating. You’re still here, just come back to me. Please, come back to me, I can’t- I can’t do this without you,”

He caressed your face and held back a sob.

He was broken. For so long he had been cold as a stone, he never showed much emotion before he met you. You were the warmth, the light; the missing piece he needed.

With you, he felt like he was more than just a criminal. He felt, normal.

Yet, even after giving him everything, here you were – on the verge of drifting away from him.

For the first time in many days, he couldn’t stay with you that night. Something came up, and he, reluctantly, had to leave. Chris was out of town for a day or two, and they was no one else he could trust to handle his business.

So, even though it hurt, he left and promised to be back early the next morning.

What he didn’t see though, was that as soon as he turned his back on you and walked away; a silent tear escaped your closed eye lid.

---

The next day, Sebastian walked down the hospital hallway and made his way to your room like he normally would, except this time, he heard several muffled voices as he approached your door.

Familiar emotions washed over him as he sped up towards the spotless, white door of your room; confusion, anger, irritation and sadness altogether.

He pushed the door opened and came face to face with a sight which flooded his heart with melancholy, fear and regret.

He regretted that he left you all alone last night; unattended…

Life had, yet again, played a cruel joke on him.

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theonceoverthinker · 4 years

Text

A Good Night’s Sleeping Snag (Fair Game Week Day 2)

Summary: Clover and Qrow are sent off on a mission that pits them against both ferocious Grimm and the very worst of the elements that Atlas has to offer. When the latter of Qrow’s battles is compromised, he and Clover decide to work together to stay safe through some rather...intimate means.

AO3

A/N: So, apparently this is happening now. I’m making fics out of some of my favorite HC’s, and this was my first pick! I’ll admit that it doesn’t connect to today’s theme that tightly, but I’d argue that as Huntsmen, a mission like this can be kind of normal, and thus does hold some inherent domesticity, so there you go! (...I also realized I had to justify that more to myself than anyone because I am pedantic with no one more than myself! XD ) Also, tagging @fair-game-week !

Before we begin, I want to give a big ole’ thanks to my beta @whipped4qrow. Toko, I’ve been fortunate to have some great betas in the past, and enjoy the pun, but TOKO-ing out all of our thoughts on this fic has provided me with some of my favorite times working with one ever. Your advice and pickups were too helpful for words, and I can’t thank you enough!

-------

Grimm are the easiest part of Qrow’s incredibly complicated life and at the same time, the most annoying pests this side of Remnant.

The trouble is, despite his and his fellow Huntsmen’s best efforts, they’re always around.

Of all the things to stick around across humanity’s two lifespans...why did it have to be them?

Well, at least their existence means a living for him.

Less than an hour after Qrow’s first cup of coffee, a report comes in. There’s a small pack of Grimm making their way towards the communication’s tower. They’re as ferocious as Grimm tend to come, but it’s apparently not a job that will require more than two skilled Huntsmen to get it done.

That’s where he and Clover come in, according to Ironwood’s soldiers.

This mission has probably the most pre-departure preparation he’s ever received before a Grimm fight. He’s even given a large backpack of camping essentials to work with. Clover tells him the reason for that. Apparently, the part of the tundra these Grimm are making their way through is prone to strong wind storms and blizzards alike. These conditions are said to be too severe for a transport to get all the way through, and despite the dangers posed by letting even trained Huntsmen whether them, it’s still better to take the Grimm out now than to wait for them to get any closer to the tower -- something about the tower’s wiring.

Clover says that their mission is expected to run into the next day, and Qrow’s uncertain how he feels about that.

Qrow’s done overnight missions before, tons of them.

But he’s never done one with Clover before.

Sleep is...it’s personal in a way most things aren’t. He can control how he acts when he’s awake and what he divulges to the world. When he sleeps, who knows what can be told about him? Even to have someone sort of near him while he’s sleeping makes Qrow feel far too vulnerable for comfort.

And now, he and Clover are going to be sleeping in the same vicinity.

It bothers Qrow, both because of that sense of vulnerability, but also because even that threat of subconscious vulnerability doesn’t scare him where Clover is concerned.

Clover’s odd, but he’s someone Qrow likes having around. He makes missions interesting, if nothing else, and he even finds himself opening up to Clover every now and then, too.

Qrow guesses that just makes them both oddballs. Go figure.

But being oddballs along with someone else has proven to not always be a bad thing.

So really, who knows what this mission will bring?

They depart early the next day. Qrow’s decked out in a long thick-ish, black winter coat, and he can barely believe his eyes when he sees Clover enter the transport wearing the exact same thing.

Who knew Clover Ebi would ever be caught dead wearing something with actual sleeves?

Clover’s clearly aware of how much the change of clothes sticks out, shooting Qrow a not-too-serious, yet all the same present warning look while entering the transport, as if daring him to laugh.

Qrow laughs.

He laughs a lot.

He’s in stitches, though he’s certain the look Clover’s giving him is more to blame for that than anything.

It’s not that Clover looks bad in it -- quite the opposite, really. The coat fits him well, and while Qrow likes it about as much as he likes Clover in his standard uniform -- if not, a little less -- the different clothes are a nice change of pace all the same.

And Qrow -- never a monster -- doesn’t rag on him too much for it, even going so far as to compliment it after he’s gotten a good couple of quips in. Clover’s frown dissolves into a grateful smirk, and their usual banter proceeds as it always has as the transport takes off.

Still, gratefulness for the compliment aside, it’s apparently not enough to stop Clover from hastily removing the coat as soon as the automated transport gets far enough away from their other coworkers at the base to do so without scolding, prompting even more laughter from Qrow.

The trip between the base and the dropoff point is three hours. Clover tells Qrow they should sleep before they begin their trek, and Qrow honestly tries to, but he finds that he just can’t.

So Clover stays up with him. Qrow tells him he doesn’t have to, but he quickly learns that Clover Ebi may as well have his picture glued next to the dictionary’s definition of ‘persistence.’

If it wasn’t one of the kindest things done for him in recent memory, if not, ever, Qrow might be tempted to gag from the corniness of it all.

They fill the time with cards, exchanging interests and stories, and rifling through their camping bags. The Atlas military clearly likes to be prepared. They each have a few rations of disgusting-looking food, a steel canteen, an emergency flare, a flashlight, matches, some kindling for a small fire, and a sleeping bag, all adorned with the symbol of Atlas. Qrow teases Clover about it, but with a smirk, he just attributes the abundance of symbols to pride in their country.

Loud clunks grow in frequency and volume, signaling that they’re closing in on their location. Their transport isn’t equipped with a window, so all the two of them have to go off of to get any idea of what’s outside of it are Clover’s past experiences of the relentless frigid air and snow.

Those experiences turn out to be rather accurate. A harsh gust of wind that nearly blows an unprepared Qrow to the back of the transport greets the two of them once the doors separating them between themselves and the tundra open.

Qrow revises his stance and footing as to best handle the new expectations of his body. He puts more of his weight onto his feet, stepping harshly. Clover does the same, and within five minutes, they’re well off on their journey into the tundra.

()()()()()()()()()

Hours pass, but unlike previously, they’re impossible to fill with each other’s company. It’s all Qrow’s efforts to safely move step-by-step, and he knows while Clover would never admit it -- and to be fair, he wouldn’t either -- it’s the case for him too. It would be too much to focus on talking while keeping the snow out of their mouths as well, so silence rules them.

Even still though, there’s something at least a bit reassuring that Clover’s there, even if only his physical presence serves as an indicator of it. Maybe Clover feels the same way about him. He wouldn’t be surprised.

In fact, scratch that -- he wouldn’t even doubt it for a second.

The sky grows dark as they come upon a small cave that forms a half dome over the tiny piece of the landscape that it covers. They approach, but just as they near the entrance, Qrow feels the ground shake. Then, as if only to stop the question of whether or not that movement was just in Qrow’s head before it is even asked, howl after howl pierces through the winds.

Looks like they’ve finally found those Grimm.

Qrow grabs Harbinger, and he hears Kingfisher’s string whip as Clover pulls it out.

They take two slow steps towards the Grimm.

The Grimm take three quick steps towards them.

And then the battle begins.

Clover attaches Kingfisher to the top of the cave, swinging into one of the Grimm with a powerful kick. Just like that, it goes down.

Wasn’t this supposed to be hard?

But before Qrow can celebrate Clover’s victory, he’s forced to deal with a battle of his own.

Harbinger becomes a scythe and slashes two Grimm’s faces with the first swing alone. The second one does both of them in with a transparent slice.

It’s only as they disappear into nothingness that Qrow realizes that there’s one more left.

He turns and halts his scythe’s momentum mid-swing, but while he does get the Grimm, the Grimm gets its revenge just before it leaves the mortal coil.

Instantly, Qrow feels himself dropping weight by the pounds.

The only thing is though that he’s not injured.

With his free hand, Qrow feels for his backpack, only to find torn fabric and air instead. He turns in the opposite direction just in time to see the contents of his backpack flow in the tundra just before disappearing from sight.

Qrow looks behind him, and upon seeing no more Grimm, immediately takes off his backpack, which is now about as light as air.

Almost everything is gone. His canteen and a single ration remain, only bound to the pieces of fabric on his backpack still left intact by pure chance.

But everything else?

The flare, his matches, his flashlight...his sleeping bag?

They’re not just gone -- they may as well not even exist now for all the chance Qrow has of getting them back.

Just his luck.

And speaking of…

Clover approaches, telling him that the Grimm are gone. He gives Qrow a puzzling look upon seeing him standing so forlornly, but it only seems to take a moment for him to connect the dots. His mouth forms an ‘o’ shape, but he doesn’t say anything, simply signaling that they should enter the cave. Despite his frustration, Qrow appreciates it. What honestly could he say? Clover’s the problem solving type, but some problems don’t have solutions.

Most of his bag is gone now, and unless there’s a crazy twist of fate that not even Clover’s luck could manage, none of it is coming back. There really isn’t much to say there, much less solve.

So they go inside the cave, just as the darkness of the cloud-filled night grows deeper.

Clover uses the matches and kindling in his own bag to light a fire, and he and Qrow sit across from each other.

Qrow wraps his arms around himself, feeling tatters in his jacket and feathers flying off into the tundra, just as most of his supplies did.

Grimm really are the worst pests this hellhole they call Remnant have to offer.

Crap. He’s freezing, and the night’s only getting darker and colder.

Though Qrow takes pride in his strength and endurance, a night in freezing temperatures like this would give anyone a case of frostbite they’d never forget.

For God’s sake! Even Clover’s unashamedly clinging to his own jacket!

If that isn’t telling of the direness of their situation, nothing is.

Qrow knows Clover’s going to offer him his sleeping bag, but he’s not comfortable at all with taking it. It likely wouldn’t even keep him warm enough, and there’d be no point in both of them freezing to death out here.

Speaking of, his sleeping blanket is the next thing Clover pulls out of his bag. It’s large and when it’s removed from his bag, it deflates like a balloon.

Clover begins to unravel the sleeping bag from its bindings, and Qrow can tell he’s just about to offer it to him, but as he unravels it, it begins to show that it’s far larger than expected. Surprised, Qrow and Clover look at it in disbelief, then at each other, and then back to the sleeping bag.

Now, out of room to safely spread it out, Clover drags the sleeping bag further from the fire and continues opening it. When it’s finally fully unraveled, they see that it is indeed rather large.

In fact, it might even be large enough to fit two people in it.

They’re both housing the same thought, and Qrow silently nods at the proposal Clover gives him with only his eyes.

There’s no room for debate – the cave provides shelter, but it’s minimal. If Qrow isn’t given more protection against the winds, who knows what will happen to him?

Qrow’s got too much to live for to refuse whatever will keep him alive.

Maybe one of those things is the very man he’ll be sharing a sleeping bag with tonight.

It doesn’t make the idea of sharing one feel any less awkward than it is.

But neither speak of that very awkwardness that this arrangement brings, least of all Clover. He’s as casual about it as he ever is about anything. Qrow’s sure Clover knows by now how much of a comfort that is for him. He can’t state enough how much he appreciates Clover for not making a big deal out of it.

There’s not much of a preamble before it’s time to get in the sleeping bag. They share a quick meal, consisting of one of the rations they have each and a few swigs of the water in their canteens. The entire time, Qrow feels his head practically buzzing, but pushes back against the sensation -- just enough to keep it at bay, at least.

When it’s finally time to get into the bag, with a wave of his hand, Clover offers Qrow the chance to enter first and get settled in. Qrow nods and crawls inside. Instantly, two feelings hit him: warmth and disappointment in the lack of warmth relative to his expectations. It’s fine, but he imagined the sleeping bag would make him feel just a bit toastier.

Of course, there’s no doubt they’ll both survive the night in its confines, but he has to wonder just how much of the chill will make its way through the flimsier-than-he-hoped bag.

But any further questions Qrow has about their resistance to the elements dies in his throat as Clover makes his way into the sleeping bag beside him.

Fuck, he’s warm.

He’s so, so warm.

It’s literally the difference between night and day, as if Clover’s sheer presence teleports them from the frigid hellhole that is Atlas to the sweltering heat of Vacuo.

And now, rather than worrying about freezing solid, Qrow’s more worried about melting into the ground, because if Clover Ebi provides him with so much as another degree of heat, he gives himself about a 50% chance of turning into magma.

Because of the strength of the winds and still-piling snow, the weather all but dictates for them to face each other as they sleep. Though there’s some space between their bodies, Clover’s arms can’t help but make casual contact with his own as they settle into their position. Clover tries to apologize for this, but Qrow casually dismisses the concerns.

How Qrow manages to do that would impress no one who has ever known him more than it does himself.

The distance between them, or rather, lack thereof, deprives Qrow of breath for a good ten seconds.

Physically speaking, they’re closer than they’ve ever been before. If they were to both push back as far as they could, they would probably have nearly a foot between them.

But neither of them do this, so they’re at most six inches away from each other.

There’s no hyperbole in saying that it takes each and every survival instinct Qrow has to will his blush away and resume normal breathing.

Qrow thanks Clover for sharing the sleeping bag, space for him or not. To this, Clover grins and drops a charming line like he always does, a line that prompts Qrow to give one of his own. For the next few minutes, they repeat the process, banter flowing between them like it has dozens of times by now.

It’s nice.

Eventually, their quips relax and they wish each other a ‘good night.’ Not long after that, Clover falls asleep.

Qrow’s anxious. He’s almost too anxious for words.

He supposes that’s a good thing, since he can’t say any of them with Clover so close to him.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Qrow was just barely getting used to the idea of sleeping in the same close vicinity as Clover.

And now they’re sharing a sleeping bag.

How does someone who barely feels like he can sleep in the same room as another person now do so while sharing a sleeping bag with one?

For God’s sake, Qrow can feel Clover’s hot breath on his even hotter face.

Everything feels intense. It’s like everything he imagined he was going to feel has been accentuated, but new emotions are now added to the pile. It’s not just worrying over what vulnerabilities he can unintentionally reveal to Clover in his sleep, it’s a more profound fear over how Clover will receive those vulnerabilities now that they’ll be literally shoved in his face, and how their relationship will change as a result of that, for worse...or possibly for better...

That fear releases an acknowledgement of blossoming feelings of every kind that Qrow’s not sure he’s ready to confront, not just yet.

But it doesn’t change the fact that they’re there nonetheless.

Why can’t this just go slow?

And why does part of him not want it to?

Damnit, he’s overthinking things, clearly an effect of his exhaustion.

Qrow forces himself to calm down. He hasn’t slept since before they departed, and he needs to start now. Otherwise, their return to the transport tomorrow will be impossible, no matter what he does in his sleep.

Slow, deep breaths paint Qrow’s nose with Clover’s scent -- strong, hot, largely composed of sweat but still uniquely Clover-smelling, and omnipresent due to their circumstances.

All the same, it’s good.

It shouldn’t be good.

It utterly bewilders Qrow that it’s good.

But it is, in fact, good, good enough that it helps Qrow settle down so that he can at last start to welcome sleep to his tired, tired eyes.

And what little Clover’s scent can’t accomplish in sending him off to sleep, Clover’s body heat wraps up with a neat little bow. Laying beside Clover, even in the tundra, is like laying beside a fireplace. If not for the now scarcely present view of the snow he still has, Qrow could imagine that they were anywhere while in this sleeping bag together.

So, lulled by the symphonic mixture of the harsh, abrasive winds and Clover’s loud, yet gentle snores, Qrow at last falls asleep.

()()()()()()()()

While quite a few sounds sing Qrow to sleep, neither are present as his crimson eyes make contact with daybreak.

Qrow doesn’t know how long he slept for when he wakes up, but it was clearly quite a long amount of time. A bright yellow hue from the sun sparkles against the snowy walls of the cave and any smoke from last night’s fire is long gone.

Clover’s awake. Without even turning to look at his sleepmate, Qrow knows this to be true. There’s a tension Qrow feels in Clover’s back that’s indicative of his regular posture.

He’s about to tilt his head and talk to Clover, but is stopped in his tracks.

How is he able to feel muscles in Clover’s back?

A stark realization hits Qrow. He hasn’t paid mind to his hands nor arms yet since waking up, but he has a worryingly strong suspicion as to where they are.

With all the lightness of a feather as to not clue Clover into what he’s doing, Qrow softly wiggles a finger on his left hand and a finger on his right.

Both touch a very familiar piece of fabric, one Qrow knows he’s also currently wearing on his person.

But unlike his coat, the coat his fingers feel is in an untarnished state, still just that little bit poofy.

He can feel his elbows and palms form gentle curves around places that make a lot of sense to form curves around.

His arms are folded atop Clover’s backside and his hands are perched upon the upper edges of his torso.

And now that Qrow notices this, he also notices that Clover’s belly and his own are ever-so-gently pressed together.

Oh Gods...

He’s holding Clover.

Screw holding Clover -- he’s full-on cuddling Clover.

Even from within the shock of sharing a sleeping bag with Clover, Qrow developed some semblance of expectations last night. Vulnerabilities and bad habits are hard to mask when one can’t control their actions. Qrow was mentally preparing for that. Maybe he’d accidentally whack Clover in the event of the nightmares he more often than not had. Maybe he’d toss and turn a lot in his sleep. Hell, he’s been told by his nieces and former teammates that he has a tendency to drool from time to time, so that wasn’t entirely off the table.

But of all the things he was willing to anticipate he’d do, at the very bottom of that list of expectations was to cuddle up to Clover.

That doesn’t change the truth though -- he did cuddle him all the same, and he still is.

Neither he nor Clover have consciously engaged with each other yet. Qrow begins to calculate how he can use that to his advantage.

With a fake yawn and a “reflexive” stretch, he could free Clover from his grasp without inviting any further awkwardness.

That’s what Qrow hopes, in any event, and it makes enough sense to be worth a try.

Qrow begins to shift a little in preparation of his plan, but is stopped in his tracks by something pressed up against his back -- two very muscular, and very familiar arms.

It only takes him half a beat to realize they and the hands attached to them are holding Qrow the same way Qrow is presently holding him.

Clover’s cuddling him too.

That realization is at once both a relief and a terror.

The discomfort he sought to escape with his plan is now simultaneously warded off and stronger than ever as his plan lies in ruins, and feelings he elected to ignore last night are just a little bit more insistent in their presence now.

Qrow quickly decides he’s only one man, and thus can only directly take on one of these Remnant-shattering revelations at a time.

As the fact remains that he and Clover are awake, and neither have addressed the other about this yet, he elects to at last do so.

Whether it’s the right choice or not, especially when he and Clover have each other to themselves in such a way, is a topic to be handled another day.

But all the same, Qrow swallows his shocked features and turns to face Clover directly, finally crossing the threshold of avoidance between them.

Clover looks shocked to see him make the first move, but upon studying Qrow’s relaxed expression for a moment, however artificial it is, relaxes himself as well.

There’s a certain sense of breathlessness between them in the seconds that follow, as if they’d both just climbed a mountain and not just woken up from an, all things considered, decent sleep. It all feels contradictory -- exhausting, and yet exuberant, calming, and yet vigilant. Mostly though, it all feels a bit awkward, and yet a bit comfortable too because they both feel that same awkwardness.

And within those contradictions, there’s something nice, something Qrow can’t explain. Maybe, like those feelings that now massage his brain, he doesn’t want to explain it -- not today, anyways -- but he’s content enough just living and relaxing in whatever it is that he and Clover are sharing.

After all, his worst case scenario just played out, and nothing bad happened between them.

It could be nice just to kick back and enjoy things for the little time they have right now.

A long moment passes before their wordless exchange is finally given voice, but it does happen. They do have a tundra to traverse today, after all, and they’ll get no closer to the transport home just lazing around.

Qrow would be lying if he said that he found prospect to be one all that awful.

But all the same, they greet each other for the new day, and he can tell that there’s just a twinge of reluctance in each of their eyes as they leave the sleeping bag. The chill from last night returns in the absence of Clover’s body heat, albeit less harshly now that the previous night’s storm has dispersed.

Looking ahead at today’s challenge, Qrow sees that the outskirts of the cave are bright with a blanket of shimmering snow that stretches as far as the eye can see. It’s beautiful, though the songs the winds sing expose the dangers hidden within that beauty.

It’s going to be a long day.

Still, he’s not alone with Clover by his side, and somehow, that fact makes all the difference.

After years of never even considering such a sentiment, it now permeates Qrow’s every step as he and Clover walk through the snow.

He could get used to a partnership like this.

#fair game #fairgameweek2020 #qrow branwen #clover ebi #rwby

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bat-besties · 4 years

Text

Rain towards morning

AO3

Chapter One

Platonic Roman and Virgil

A friendship grows between Roman, a lonely farmer, and a mysterious stranger. But when Virgil's past catches up with both of them, Roman digs himself in farther than he imagined as his heroism is cruelly tested.

Edited by the lovely @mariniacipher!

5.5k

Roman met Virgil in the gentle mist of morning, dew bejewelling every blade of grass and drooping flower in the meadow sloping down from his farm. He occasionally found people sleeping under the hedgerows, most of them travelling for work, but usually they made an effort to shelter themselves from the elements.

This man lay in the middle of the field, droplets of dew clinging to his eyelashes and fingers dug into the earth at his sides. He was pale as the fog over the hills in the distance, and his thin white shirt fluttered in the breeze. Deep eyebags shadowed his eyes.

"Hello!" Roman called over to him, hurrying down the slope to get to him.

The man startled awake and scrambled back.

"And what the fuck do you want?" he snapped, wide eyes darting back and forth between the gate and Roman.

Roman halted. "Nothing! Nothing!" He laughed, trying to diffuse the tension. "You looked like a corpse."

"Thanks."

"No, like..." Roman cut himself off with a shake of his head. "I was concerned! You're not dressed for the weather."

The man ducked his head as he snickered, damp hair hanging into his face.

Roman was thoroughly confused but, well, there was no use getting hung up on that. "Do you want breakfast?"

"What?"

"Breakfast!" Roman said brightly. "My farm is just up on the ridge. Come and have breakfast with me."

"For...what?"

"Free?" Roman tried.

The man unfolded, rising onto his feet with an airy grace. He was taller than Roman, but looked thin enough to be blown away with a strong breeze. "Free," he repeated warily. "Just as a gift?"

"I promise," Roman said, raising up his right hand. "On my honour!"

"I'll settle on wagering your farm instead."

Roman wasn't entirely sure whether that was a joke but, well, he wasn't planning to play any mind games over eggs. "On my farm, you'll owe me nothing."

"Okay," the stranger said. He wrapped an arm over his chest. "Thank you."

"No problem," Roman said, setting back home. "Where did you come from?"

"The, uh, road. Just trying to make the next town." Roman glanced at the man's hands, delicate and pale as though he'd never done a day's work in his life.

"Which town?"

"Do you usually ask so many questions?" The stranger complained, though he didn't sound too annoyed.

"Just making conversation," Roman said lightly.

"Huh. Alright."

He led him back up the hill, to his home. Roman's house was comfortable and cosy, a haven of well-fitted logs and patterned curtains, and had smoke drifting from the chimney. With a flourish, he opened the door. "Come on in and dry off."

At that, the stranger flinched back. "Oh, I- I don't really- wouldn't that be- I don't want to impose."

"Sir, I think you need to calm down just slightly," Roman said. "It's alright!"

The stranger bristled like a cat, drawing his shoulders up to his ears. "Maybe I should go."

"I’m confused," Roman admitted.

"I'll go," the stranger repeated more firmly. He turned away from Roman, looking at the misty mountains in the distance. "Sorry."

"Can you...tell me what’s wrong?"

"I won't sit down and join you for a meal."

"At least get dry?" Roman offered. "You're soaking wet."

The man rubbed the back of his neck with an earth-stained hand. "I'm fine out here."

Roman closed his eyes for a moment and prayed for the strength to not insult the man, even though he badly wanted to. But, he did not have that luck. "I came to give you breakfast, not play cryptic-crossword puzzles with someone as pale as the paper they’re printed on."

The stranger let out a huff of laughter. "Fine. Whatever. It's the house. I don't want to be in it."

"What's wrong with my house?" Roman asked indignantly.

"Nothing!" the stranger assured him. "Nothing. I just...prefer not to have a roof over my head; dumb, I know."

"A little," Roman admitted, "but nothing I can't work with. Is that why you were...sleeping under the stars?"

The stranger made a sound of assent.

Roman shrugged. "You could’ve just said so. Sit! Sit down on the doorstep and I'll get you something!"

The stranger folded down to sit cross-legged a few steps away from the doorway. "Thank you. I do appreciate it."

"Chivalry is my middle name! Well, it's really Patton, after my dad, but we don't need to quibble about particulars."

That made the stranger laugh again, and Roman felt a rush of excitement at the sound. Maybe knighthood was out of bounds, but he liked to romanticise his father's hospitality. Now that he was an adult he was finally free to help others in the most dramatic way he could.

Roman crouched to stoke the fire, keeping the door open to talk to the stranger. "So, where are you hailing from?"

"Here and there."

"How about your family?"

"All over. Yours?"

"A few valleys over, actually," Roman said, cracking an egg into a pan with a pleasant sizzle. "We came over to stake this land for me when I was twenty."

"Anyone else here?"

"No, no-" Roman carefully put in a second egg. "I would have liked to live out here with friends, but everyone else had their own plans: marriage, town jobs, helping their families."

The stranger shrugged. "Eh, friends are overrated anyhow.”

“What’s better? Romance?” Roman scoffed.

“Spirits, no.” The stranger pulled a face. “Not my thing either. Friends are nice; being alone is nicer.”

“How stoic and standoffish off you.”

The stranger laughed. “I’ll be your friend here, then, for a little while.”

“That might be nice,” Roman said softly.

A playful breeze blew through the grass. He sneezed as it tumbled inside and tickled his face. He reached for a plate and piled it with the eggs, some bread, and cheese.

"Do you have a name?" the stranger asked him.

"Roman- unless I misremember."

"I'll remember."

"That's a little ominous," Roman said with a laugh.

"No, it's not," the stranger said simply. "Hospitality is not a bad thing to be remembered for." He stood up to take his plate from Roman, then settled back across from him.

"How about your name?" Roman asked.

"What begins with the end and ends with the beginning?" the stranger said.

"What?" Roman said slowly. "I don't know."

"Figure it out," the stranger said with a smirk, tearing off a hunk of his bread and popping it in his mouth. "Fuck," he breathed out, face suddenly losing about ten layers of cryptic protection and instead devoting itself to staring lovingly at the bread.

The shift in behaviour startled a laugh out of Roman. "It's still warm from baking."

"It's not bad," the stranger said, tearing off another piece and dipping it into the yolk of his egg with one hand while feeding himself some cheese with the other.

Roman decided to leave him free to eat, puzzling over what in the world began with the end and ended with the beginning. An ouroboros?

By the time the stranger had wolfed down the whole plate -which admittedly didn’t take very long - and regained a bit of colour in his face, Roman was as stumped as he had been in the beginning.

"So? What is your name? A...full stop, maybe?"

"Fucked if I know," the stranger said cheerfully. "I just didn't want you to bother me while I was eating. You can call me Virgil."

"You could have just asked me not to talk to you! You said you would be a friend!"

The stranger shrugged, almost embarrassed. "Thought you liked the cryptic thing." He answered after a beat too long.

"You could be more polite since I home-cooked that meal for you," Roman said indignantly.

"I don't owe you anything for the meal," Virgil said coolly. "That includes manners."

Roman rolled his eyes. "My deepest apologies."

"Don't need 'em." Virgil got to his feet and handed Roman his plate back. "Thank you very much for the meal. Genuinely."

"Well, keep the windows open for luck to blow in," Roman said. "Or the, uh, metaphorical windows anyhow."

"And open to let it take its leave again," Virgil finished the traditional farewell. "Literal windows for you."

"Do you want anything for the road?" Roman asked. "I could pack something?"

"Nah, I'll be fine," Virgil replied. He tugged the edges of his shirt over his wrists and slouched before he gave Roman a parting salute. "Bye, Roman."

Roman watched Virgil's back disappear down the road as he washed up, then threw open his windows to air his home as he began his day in earnest.

Roman did not expect to see Virgil again, as was the way of these things.

But a month or so later, as he dragged his chair outside to watch the sunset, a figure in white made its way up to his farm from the road. The evening was still and heavy, no clouds in the sky to block the oppressive heat.

The figure stopped just in front of him. "Hey Roman," he said, cupping the back of his neck. "I'm Virgil. Again."

"I remember you," Roman said, surprised. "No rooves, no manners, no cloak- if I'm not wrong?"

Virgil laughed through his nose. "And I still haven’t got any of those."

"What brings you here?"

"You do, I guess-" Virgil was still just wearing his white shirt, but he lifted it up to reveal a hidden leather pouch he'd tied around his middle. He opened it up and pulled out a handful of shining silver, which he tipped into Roman's palms. "A gift."

"Shrieking spirits, that's a lot!" Roman said. "I can't take that just for breakfast!"

"It's not a payment." Virgil folded his arms in offence. "I just said it's a gift."

Roman frowned. "But why?"

"Good things should come to good people," he said simply.

"Don't you want to keep that?" Roman's brow furrowed. "At least buy a cloak, dude, it won't be summer forever. You could even buy land-"

"I don't want land, or a cloak." Virgil put a clammy hand over Roman's and closed the farmer's fingers over the silver. "Good things for good people, that's the only aim."

"...you're a good people."

It wasn't clear if Virgil was shaking his head to dispel his laughter or because he disagreed."Just take it. Okay?"

Roman did. "How did you come by it?"

"It’s a gift.” Virgil looked at Roman as though that settled the matter completely.

How would a vagabond know someone giving gifts like that? “From whom?” “A friend.”

"Is it stolen?" Roman said nervously. "I don't want to get in trouble with the law. That would not be a good thing."

"Promise you won't," Virgil said breezily.

"Okay," Roman said. "Okay." He turned over the smooth pieces of silver in his hand. "Luck blew in, I suppose..."

"It blew in for you, because I let it go out," Virgil said, as easily as he finished the farewell before. "That's the way to go."Overhead, there was a slight movement in the sky; an unreliable promise of rain and reprieve from the heat. "How's your farm?" Virgil asked.

"Alright," Roman said. "The soil is a little dry for the time of year, but I'll manage if it's back to normal soon. Hoping they bring me rain."

"It's all we can do," Virgil said with a nod. "Well, use the silver for whatever."

"Stay a little while?" Roman asked him. "Come on! We should celebrate! I have food leftover from dinner- I should thank you!"

Virgil wavered, then moved to tiptoe to reach the windows near Roman’s head. Time and food, presumably, had flushed his skin the same pink of the distant sunset against his white shirt- bang.

He jumped as Virgil opened his shutters.

Without a word, he then set out to the other side of Roman's house, and there was a corresponding bang as he opened the shutters on that side too.

Virgil made a full circuit to where Roman was sitting in thorough confusion. "For the spirits," he said simply. "You need rain, don't you? Silver won't buy you that."

"I must admit, Virgil," Roman said. "that you are beginning to worry me somewhat. Luck is a superstition. I do love a good story, but that doesn’t mean you have to go around just giving people things."

"Why not?" Virgil shrugged. "I could eat, if there’s food going. And your meadow is nice."

"I can keep the doors open," Roman offered. "And just drag my mattress to the doorway for you to have a decent rest, at least."

"No rooves," Virgil said.

"...can I at least ask why that is? Or how long you've done that?"

"No and no," Virgil said, crossing wrapping his arms over his chest.

"Maybe it's an avoidance thing," Roman posited. "If you tried a little bit of a roof-"

"No rooves," Virgil repeated firmly. "No rooves, no walls."

Roman got up from his chair and went into his kitchen for food. "No manners," he added, in a teasing tone. "And no cloak. Got it, got it-"

"Took you long enough." But Virgil was mollified.

By the time Roman came out, Virgil was sitting on the chair watching the sunset, the light of it reflecting against his skin.

"Seat-hog," Roman said, handing him the plate.

Virgil sat cross-legged and rested the plate in the middle of his legs. There was some spicy sausage, leftover cold potatoes, and a pile of preserved fruit with a little wall of bread crust around it so he could save it for dessert.

Virgil happily dipped a potato in the fruit, eliciting a pained noise from Roman.

"Why would you mix those?" he cried.

"Why not?"

"But why?"

"Why not?" Virgil repeated, carefully sandwiching some fruit between a piece of sausage and potato.

"But you're- it's all wrong-"

"Don't knock it till you try it."

"But I made a little battlement to keep the fruit separate-"

"I just gave you silver, don't tell me what to do."

"I tried so hard to make it nice-" Roman said with a melodramatic sigh.

"But I don’t care," Virgil said with a mischievous grin. "Fuck you." He popped his stack of food in his mouth, seeming to relish the clashing flavours and teasing Roman in equal measure.

Roman threw his hand to his chest with a dramatic noise of offence.

Virgil laughed, leaving off the fruit and tucking in properly. He had the same single-minded focus on this meal as he had the last one, an unabashed joy in it which, like anything else about him, was just to the left of normal.

"Have you been having enough to eat?" Roman couldn't help but ask.

"Me? Oh, sure," Virgil said. "I've been travelling here and there; don't worry about me."

"Any plans?" Roman asked, settling on the doorstep since it seemed Virgil wouldn't move from his chair. "Future dreams? For me- I want to set up an orchard! And long term...I don't know, I want to do something big and grand and heroic. It varies on the day, really."

There was quiet for a moment as Virgil finished his mouthful, then he stretched his arms upwards and held it for a moment, content. "I might head up the mountains, tomorrow. See what's there."

"Nothing else? Really?"

A breeze brushed against Roman's ankles, although the rest of the night was still, and it wound upwards to ruffle Virgil's hair before it disappeared again. "Maybe I'll find more good things for good people. Can't promise anything, though."

"How old are you, even?"

"Why's it matter?"

"Well, you won't be young forever," Roman pointed out. "I'm all for great and noble journeys! But- I see people in old age sleeping outside like you with no money, no savings, nowhere to go-"

"Great," Virgil interrupted him. "Maybe I'll meet some more of them and find some silver for them."

"Not my point." Roman was uncharacteristically serious.

Virgil ignored him and returned his focus to the food.

Roman was beginning to feel distinctly guilty for the silver in his pockets. "Even if you don't want to get tied down, at least get… get a horse, or something-"

"I'm happy," Virgil said firmly. "Okay?"

"On your own head be it," Roman grumbled.

"Which it is."

"You're insufferable," Roman said lightly.

"I know."

Roman waited until Virgil had finished up before he broached conversation again. "How far away have you gone? I've not been beyond these few valleys, I was hoping to travel more, but," He shrugged. "the farm needs me."

It was the right question. Virgil tilted his head and considered it. "I've been to the sea on both sides. Up to the mountains in the West. Didn't like the desert. Don't do cities anymore, but I went to as many as I could before now."

"The capital?"

"Yup."

"You have to tell me about it!" Roman said, excited. "The theatres and museums and...all of it."

Virgil rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, I'm- what do you want to know? I can't tell you anything a book wouldn't. Less, probably."

"What's your opinion?"

"I, uh- I liked the marketplaces. The people and the colours, and the more exotic goods...the theatre was alright too. I like tragedies, war stories, that kind of thing."

"Have a favourite?"

"...I dunno."

"What do you like about them?"

"Sad and scary stuff can be interesting, cathartic, you know- I think that you can do more with them, I guess."

"I can see that!" Roman said. "I like a happy ending though."

"I think they're overrated."

"Do you have a favourite sad ending?"

Virgil began to talk more about a famous love tragedy and its subversions of genre, and Roman, genuinely interested, drew him out on the subject until it was exhausted. Just as it seemed they were done, Virgil ventured a story about an incident on the Northern Road of his own accord, and the flow of the conversation continued.

Once the sun had well and truly fallen down from the sky, Roman began to yawn. "I might have to turn in; there's work tomorrow. Sleep over, let's have breakfast together tomorrow."

"Sure," the vagrant said, pushing himself to his feet with a fluid movement. "I'll see you then."

Roman resisted the urge to offer a blanket, and waved Virgil goodnight. He closed his door but not his shutters, figuring he might as well invite in the spirits of luck and rain. When he was younger he’d wanted to believe in them, leaving the shutters open and sometimes waking up with his dad’s homemade candy under the pillow. But now he knew that if they weren’t kids’ fairy stories they were at most metaphors about opportunity and the vagaries of fortune.

Roman woke up to gentle pattering on his roof and the wind spitting raindrops onto his face through the windows. He stumbled up to bang the windows shut before tucking himself back in.

He felt like he was forgetting something. Had he fed the chickens...

Virgil! Oh, that was it. He tugged his bedclothes into a cloak as he opened up the door and peeked out at his fields.

There was still a pale figure lying in the middle of the meadow.

"Fool," Roman said, between fond and exasperated, and checked the sky for what the pattern of rain would be that day. Not long; it seemed. The clouds were already mostly centred above the farm; the distant sky was blue and clear.

He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Virgil!" he yelled over the pattering rain. "Oh, Virgil!"

The figure startled up, throwing his hands over his head as if the rain would beat him.

"Virgil!" Roman yelled again. "At least find a tree?"

After a moment, Virgil uncurled and looked over to where Roman was.

"What?" he snapped.

"It's raining!" Roman called, a little redundantly. "Find a tree!"

"Find your own bloody tree!" Virgil threw himself back onto the ground, pointedly turning away from Roman.

"I am going to murder him," Roman muttered to himself. "The art of chivalry! The gratitude of a guest! Oh, but these things are so passé..."

He closed the door and started getting ready for the day. Pulling on his cloak, Roman headed out to feed his chickens. He went through his morning chores, trying to focus on the smell of petrichor and damp earth as well as the hiss of rain in the way his father had taught him. Simply paying attention to his senses helped him to dispel anger or anxiety.

He had just scattered the feed when- "Rabid roosters!" Roman screamed as Virgil appeared at his elbow.

"I've not got time for breakfast," Virgil said. He looked like the victim of a poorly-executed drowning. "I'm leaving."

"All because I woke you up?" Roman asked, pressing a hand over his racing heart. "No need to try and shock me!"

"Didn't try, I succeeded," Virgil said with a small smile. "And no, I do actually have to leave."

"For what?"

"For nothing; I'll go for free," Virgil quipped. He turned and walked away. No wonder he had surprised Roman; he made barely any noise as he walked.

"I think you quite like being dramatic," Roman said. "And I think that you could do quite well in one of your tragedies, you have a talent for theatrics."

"Oh really?"

"I'm sorry I woke you up- I just didn't want you to be soaked through. Is that so evil?"

Virgil spread his arms. "Because I wasn't soaked through before."

"Just stay for breakfast," Roman asked. "Why are you making such a big deal of it?"

Virgil's eyes narrowed. "I'm not; you are."

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the meadow," Roman said, sotto voce.

Virgil mimicked his tone, widening his eyes for emphasis. "Someone woke up being yelled at."

"Fine!" Roman said. "Keep the windows open for luck to blow in."

Virgil folded his arms. "And open to let it leave again."

So Virgil left in anger, and Roman was left to mull over it as he startled the chickens with a handful of violently thrown feed.

The third time Virgil came was only three weeks later.

It was a day where the sky seemed higher than usual, wide and blowsy with scudding clouds in patchwork colours. Wind rippled an ocean of grass into rolling waves.

Roman was pacing the perimeter of his property, checking the fences for damage, when a distinctive white-shirted figure came into view on the road from the mountains.

"Hey." Virgil saluted Roman with two fingers as he reached him, leaning over his fence. "Are we good now?"

Roman blew out a breath with a laugh, waving a hand. "That was ages ago, ages and ages and ages."

Virgil raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound that good."

"I admit, I was somewhat...perturbed."

"Sorry.” Roman figured that was as much of an apology as he’d get, but at least it sounded sincere. “I was passing this way and I figured...might as well say hi."

Well, it wasn't like Roman got a lot of visitors. "Hi," he said, "I'm a little busy for now, but you can come around with me."

Virgil hopped over the fence with ease. "Okay."

Roman carried on his stroll. "So- did you see those mountains?"

"I did," Virgil said, "The sunrise was pretty from up there, but I don't know if all the climbing was worth it."

"I guess you have to do the climbing to know."

Virgil looked at Roman properly. "Smart."

"Oh. Thank you." Roman grinned. "And I used your silver to plant my orchard. I'm starting with apples."

"Nice."

That time, Roman didn't so much as offer for Virgil to come inside, and he let Virgil sleep in as long as he liked out in the meadow.

It rained after Virgil left, and Roman began to wonder.

A few months later, Virgil came back. He gave Roman sticks of cinnamon from distant markets for his apples, and wouldn't take a blanket for the night although his skin was freezing to the touch.

Maybe if they had to spend more time together then Virgil's contrary ways and Roman's short fuse would spark fights of more consequence. As it was, if Virgil left after a fight then both were over it by the time he returned for a plate of food and some conversation. They both liked theatre, they could bicker like anything, and friendship grew easily between them.

It was an autumn day, and Roman was picking apples when he heard the lightest of footsteps behind him.

"They look good."

Roman turned with a grin and tossed an apple down to Virgil. "All thanks to you. How are you?"

"Alright." Virgil bit into the apple and gave Roman a thumbs up. "Not bad."

"Not bad? Rubies are not redder! The grass is not more green! Honey not swee-" The ladder wobbled as Roman threw his hand out, and Virgil rushed forward to grab the base. Roman teetered in the air for a moment, until he grabbed onto a branch.

"Idiot," Virgil snapped, though Roman could hear the worry in his voice.

"Honey," Roman repeated breathlessly, "is not more sweet."

"Idiot." Virgil picked his apple off the ground and brushed the dirt off on his shirt.

"Let me guess," Roman said, climbing down the ladder, "you've already hit no manners."

"I never left no manners," Virgil said through a mouth full of apple.

"Charming."

Virgil grinned at him. "You know it."

Up close, Virgil looked exhausted. His permanent eye bags were dark as rain clouds, and he seemed to have lost the colour in his face that summer had given him. But there was nothing Roman's stranger hated more than a direct line of questioning. "What have you been up to?"

"This and that," Virgil said. "Trying...new things."

"What kind of new things?"

Virgil shrugged. "Helping more people in a bigger way."

"But I'm your favourite person you help?" Roman teased with a grin.

"Shut up," Virgil said, ducking under his overgrown fringe, and that was more of a confirmation than a yes would have been.

Roman laughed triumphantly. "Ah! You do love me!"

Virgil scowled. "You just have food."

"That's what they say about stray cats, but I chose to believe I can speak in feline whispers."

Virgil laughed through his nose. "So you can cat-whisper me?"

"When you hiss it means 'fuck off'," Roman said solemnly.

Virgil laughed again. "That it does."

"Who are the other people that are feeding you throughout the land?" Roman asked.

"There's an innkeeper in the West," Virgil said. "She always says I'm too skinny, and she collects little figurines so I bring them to her from all over. And, uh, if I need to buy things there's a pie shop I like who'll take shiny rocks for their kid. And anyone who lets their trees grow over into the road is kind of giving the fruit. Sometimes I offer to help out people and they offer food."

"But spirits forbid they pay you with it."

Virgil shrugged. "I don't mind jobs. I just prefer not to get stuck places."

"See? Cat."

"Maybe so." Virgil tugged another apple off Roman's tree without asking, then tossed it into the basket. "Can I stay tonight?"

"Of course."

Virgil smiled at Roman, eyes scrunching up.

Roman gave him a slow blink back in cat-smile, before breaking off with a laugh. "You know, you can help me out here or keep on talking from where you are, I don't mind."

"I'll help, as long as I get to go up the ladder."

"Sure."

Virgil scaled the ladder easily, and the leaves murmured contentedly among themselves as he began to stretch for the fruit Roman had missed. They worked together through the golden afternoon, chatting easily and piling the basket with apples.

As they reached the final tree, Roman moved around to the back of it, showing Virgil where a crack in the bark had begun to let in rot. "I tried everything," Roman said. "I think it might just become a glorious martyr for the others, so the rot doesn't spread."

Virgil tilted his head as he looked at the tree. "It's still mostly good...maybe it will go away by itself."

"You really think so?"

"I mean, I'm not sure, but maybe." Virgil nodded his head in consideration before turning back to Roman. "If that's us done, let's get dinner."

"Let's make Roman make you dinner, you mean," Roman teased.

"Or that," Virgil said. "I have, uh-" He opened up his hidden pouch and pulled out some twists of paper. "More spices for you. Also-" He pulled out a little sparkly rock. "Cool rock!"

"Thank you! It is cool!" Roman said, accepting the gifts. "Come on, you can sit outside and peel potatoes with me. Earn your keep."

"I don't have a keep to earn," Virgil said sharply. A shadow fell over his face. "Not even as a joke."

"Fine, fine." Roman rolled his eyes at Virgil’s touchiness. "I'll do all of the potatoes, again-"

"I didn't say I wouldn't help you, just- forget it." Virgil set the apple-basket on his hip and started back to the house ahead of Roman. "How's your dad doing these days?"

"He's well." Roman chose to take the obvious diversion. "The family dog had puppies, so he's delighted at that."

Roman brought out a low stool for Virgil and they worked through the pile of potatoes together.

Roman liked to be neat, but Virgil was almost obsessive, carefully scraping off the thinnest layer of skin he could and digging out eyes with the very tip of his knife.

"You have done three in the time it took me to finish my pile."

Virgil looked up, as if surprised Roman was still there. "I'm just doing it right!"

"I thought you were hungry."

"I can do them quicker if you like, jeez." Virgil took off a more reasonable strip of skin. "Look, you lose half the potato."

"Must you argue about everything?"

The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirked up. "It takes two to argue, Roman."

"You argue enough for two people," Roman teased back, standing up and going over to the fire. "I'm going to start or the sun will start setting by dinner-time."

"Alright, alright!" Virgil said."I'm speeding up."

The afternoon began to slip away into a cool evening as they settled down to eat. Roman sat near the fire, leaving Virgil to balance his plate on the doorstep.

"Where are the spices from?"

"One from a peddler, one from a shop, one...I think was a gift?"

"You'd better not be poisoning me," Roman said, giving Virgil a mock-stern look.

Virgil laughed. "I make no promises."

The fire snapped and danced with the wind. Roman shifted closer to the fire and started on his potatoes. "So- where next?"

"I don't know," Virgil said. "Maybe the coast again, before winter sets in."

Roman met Virgil’s eyes, voice softening with his concern so as not to spook his stranger. "Do you have somewhere to stay when it snows?"

Virgil shrugged. "No, but I'll figure things out."

"You could stay here," Roman offered. "Not for long, just so that I know you're not freezing somewhere."

"I'll be fine, Roman," Virgil said, meeting his eyes. "I appreciate it, I really do, but I'll be fine."

Roman had a few snarky responses to that lined up, but he didn’t want the conversation to be carried away into bickering. He needed Virgil to know he was serious. "I worry about you."

"I worry about myself; I don't need you to. I always come back here in one piece, don't I?"

"I suppose so." Roman took Virgil's empty plate in for washing. "Still, you also come back hungry and cold, so forgive me for not being entirely convinced."

Virgil shrugged. "Not that hungry and not that cold. I'm going to go and sleep for now, if that's okay?"

Roman sighed. "Sure, but we'll finish talking in the morning."

Virgil rolled his eyes.

"All I offer is to help you!" Roman protested.

"And I appreciate it," Virgil replied earnestly before he got up. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight.”

Roman woke up to the sound of rain and banging on his door.

He stumbled out of bed, tugging open the door to see Virgil, silhouetted by the darkness. "Roman! Roman- something's happening-" Virgil broke off as if the air had been pulled from his lungs and he reached out a hand to grab Roman's as he fought for breath. "I- you need to get me out of here, you need to try and move me and I can't- no time to explain just-"

The instant Roman stepped forward to take Virgil's hands his vision flashed white.

#ts fic #virgil sanders #roman sanders #platonic prinxiety #sanders sides #hurt/comfort

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juleswolverton-hyde · 5 years

Text

Confessions of a Coffee-Eater | 01

Genre: Smut, College/University AU

Pairing: Student!/Poet!Namjoon xStudent!/Poet!

Warnings: Public male masturbation, sub!Namjoon, allusion to smoking and poverty, swearing/cussing

Summary: It is in hard times beautiful things can occur and the addiction of primal instincts be suppressed in their proximity. However, when two souls from different social worlds meet in a poetry class, any former urges gain a new direction.

Some of which are sensual in emotion.

And may not be reciprocated.

Masterlist

Next part

Not everything starts off smoothly, time occupying more of the mind than the designated task or destination. Students tend to deal with this occurrence more often than it would like to be admitted, especially on the first day of the new academic year when everyone has the silent resolution to begin with a clean slate. Withal, there remain some who, nevertheless, manage to sneak into the classroom as the introductions have almost come to an end and thus go from being an absent first to a present last.

Hence is why regardless of the few remaining students introducing themselves all eyes in the vast yet bare space shift to the tall man entering the room in a wake of smoke and cologne. It is not unlikely to think they are as intimidated by the painted canvas on well-defined arms as the girl sitting right next to them after furiously wishing to be left alone, the desire denied as it is the sole empty chair left.

Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact.

Nevertheless, the thought does not mean a glance at the artwork covering alluring honey-toned skin cannot be stolen. And the gained treasure is the sight of an intricate tribal design flowing over from bright turquoise into sleek black on the left arm and a Victorian clockwork overlapping with a nautical map and a compass, the former element stopping at the wrist after peeking out underneath a feather. That is all that can be picked up on from the side.

But almond eyes immediately sneakily take revenge by also looking at a source of interest for it is the natural thing for an individual to estimate the nearest person when being in an alien environment without a point of support consisting of friends. Unfortunately, each of them from private personal circles has chosen a different direction within the study, none of them daring to take on or simply interested in poetry.

‘And who might you be?’ The round of rapid-fire introductions ends at the newcomer, who flinches as if waking up from a dream with the heavily blushing cheeks of a crumpled composure.

Which are mirrored in the flustered expression of an embarrassed heart futilely trying to cover up the chest area more by means of pulling up the slightly see-through white loose top thinly striped with lines of black. Regardless of the attempt, the pastel pink push-up bra decorated with a beautiful flower pattern in onyx remains visible very much so from above and a tad less from the front. Thus, when realizing the uselessness of the endeavour, the worry of coming across as an indecent person increases as now not only the professor is taken into account but the still nameless newcomer as well.

‘Oh, ehm, I’m- I’m Namjoon, an exchange student from Dongguk University.’ Eyebrows rise at the baritone voice trying to speak in a composed manner, miraculously managing to do so to a fair degree though fiddling fingers give away the surprise of suddenly being called to attention. Oddly, a thought pops up which almost encourages hands into action to calm tanned nervous ones but just in time can they be lowered into the lap while watching the speaker politely. ‘As for poetry, I believe it’s an expression of a person’s mind. However, this also means they are puzzles to be solved because a thought is chaotic and can have a double meaning.’

‘Very well. It’s funny you should mention poems being like puzzles. My son is currently in high school, also studying poetry and he and I had a conversation about it recently. He could not for the life of him figure out what any poem meant and was astounded I do this for a living. But, as any fifteen-years-old with a literature professor for a father, he wants to become a game designer.’ Chuckling arises in the classroom at the enthusiastically told analogy and all tenseness disappears thanks to the dry humour of the resident Manchester man. At the same time, eyes which swiftly avoided each other find one another again only to repeat the rapid break of contact, those of the too-exposed girl wavering instantly after strangely wanting to make sure Namjoon is more at ease like the others. Why the deep-voiced man looks back with the intention - if there is any intention at all - to lock gazes instead of, fortunately, accidentally letting focus wander lower to bared skin, shall remain a mystery.

For blushing cheeks to never unravel.

Get yourself together, Y/N. I don’t know him and he’s clearly more interested in my chest than myself. Although... just now he looked at me. And he’s kinda adorable. And handsome. No, no, no! Jesus, what am I thinking?

Professor Brown happily continues, pacing the room. ‘But if we think about encoding and poetry, they are similar on the grounds they are both, indeed, essentially the same in the manner they are carefully composed in order to work.’ Steps halt in the middle of the space, academic sight switching from one face to the next as hands fold behind the back clad in a neat black jacket. ‘There is something I would like to ask you. Does any of you write poetry?’

The majority of the students' palms rise in response, including one of which the arm is decorated as if by a traveller of old and one which finds purpose after being mentally prevented from ridiculously serving as a means of soothing. This risen pair does not go unnoticed by the minds which control them, the air in the narrow space between bodies filled with silent curiosity pertaining to the written work. The possible style, the possible words, the possible message.

The possibility to hear it being spoken.

The possibility to connect.

But neither says anything, focusing intently on the empty pages of the notebooks lying on the elongated table and clumsily fiddling with pens between fingers. Notwithstanding, every move is carefully composed to not make a wrong impression, both parties trying to prove a point which is supposed to be interpreted without any double meanings. Certainly so when rejoining each other’s company at the end of a swift ten-minute-break to allow room for breathing something else other than poetry in four hours dedicated to it.

Nevertheless, it cannot be helped but let shoulders relax when smelling nicotine mixed with sharp cologne and sensing two intricate paintings in contrasting styles settle on the empty chair again. It can even be admitted the presence is liked, certainly when from peripheral vision perceived americano irises follow the movements of the pen noting down a random lyrical thought.

And thighs have to clench together in slight awkwardness when unconsciously sensing them looking away swiftly after likely having been distracted anew by the revelation of the shirt that does not want to stay in place. However, the emotion changes when remarking upon an almost anticipating shiver disturbing the fairly intimidating man’s aura as knees accidentally touch.

Panic.

But something undefinable and incomprehensible forms its undertone.

‘I’m sorry.’ Clenching the jaw, the contact is immediately made undone by crossing legs and focusing on the penning down each poem, any poem that comes to mind.

But nothing appears at hearing the shy stumbling over words, picturing all too well how Namjoon’s face is adorably flushed with timidity. ‘Ah, i- it’s- doesn’t matter.’

Which only worsens the uncomfortableness of a consciousness slowly turning corrupted as the long hours of the seminar pass, wondering what lies at the heart of the cause to behave so jittery and rush out of the door to smoke. Wondering is the wrong choice of words for it are more sensual ungrounded fantasies which rise one by one while listening to the flustered ocean deep voice answering a question here and there.

Fancying how it would sound when being completely controlled by the girl keeping up an innocent façade.

Me.

God-fucking-dammit, focus on class and not your own perverted imaginations. You’re here to learn, not to lose control like this.

This warning spins around a chaotic mind at least every quarter of an hour, swirling among the perversion and bringing common sense back for perhaps a good ten minutes before either Namjoon’s voice is heard or a glance is thrown in the man’s direction. Then the whole circus starts anew without hope of redemption.

Henceforth, it comes as a relief when the class is over at last and everyone packs their things to rush to the nearest bus station to make it home.

The first to disappear are arms made of ink and smoke.

Restraint is one of humankind’s most difficult issues to face on a daily basis, seeking refuge in what brings tranquility to a tempted consciousness. Withal, the nicotine purchased with the little money put aside from working the night shift at a nearby gas station did not help erase the vivid memory of pastel pink embroidered by lace as black as night. If anything, it was all in vain as the confrontation with it happened as soon as walking back into the room to which all of us are confined for four hours once a week.

Igniting a type of hunger which has not been felt towards any other girl in Korea, too busy working the same job as now to help make ends meet and send the little brother with big aspirations to high school because the sibling deserves a proper educational basis as well. Hence is why there was no room for letting attention stray towards anything but the means necessary to help pay for the rent.

Three people could barely manage to bring it up each month. But out here on foreign soil and alone, being kicked out of the rented place nearby the university is not so much a surprise. Fortunately, the boss does not come in until seven in the morning which allows for two hours of sleep before packing up the makeshift bed consisting of a jacket for a mattress and rucksack for a pillow. It is difficult, but hardship is inevitable for those who are seen as pariahs, the people who do not fit the norm in one way or another.

Yet, strangely, Y/N - the name glanced from the improvised name tags the professor asked to be made to make it easier for everyone - was not as tense as the rest of the students. In fact, intrigued is perhaps the best description to give the overall attitude of the girl caught occasionally glancing sideways.

I did fuck up great time, though. Why did I stare at her boobs?

The painful twitch below that had to be awkwardly shielded against all the eyes of the room, certainly the pair of newly met ones on the adjacent chair for they are the cause, makes the memory of flesh resurface as a rapid turn is made towards the abandoned unisex restroom. Swiftly, the lock to the tiny space is turned.

Alone.

God, I really blew my chances with her. I should apologize.

The phantom of touching knees makes lashes flutter shut and teeth bite down on the bottom lip as a hand brushes over tight grey denim.

Obsidian with a pearl undertone.

A cute black bow from which a small diamond dangles between breasts.

‘She’s so pretty.’ A squeeze sends the mind reeling further away from sanity, recalling the warm scent reminiscent of the autumn which hangs in the air. Wild berries, dark plum and bergamot.

Her.

‘I could be so good to you. For you.’ Tanned fingers barely possessing a sliver of logic undo the zipper concealing heated hurt, firmly enveloping the source for distraction when slipping past the rim of plain grey boxers. To suppress any sound, their counterparts fold over the mouth on the brink of falling into whimpering submission, trembling like during the seminar in the sudden craving to be touched.

By Y/N.

If only I’d push my thigh a bit more to the side, she’d have caught on. What am I thinking? You’d never do that.

After all, what does have a poor man from Ilsan to offer to a foreign woman who is better off without an outcast glued to her? Moreover, there are financial priorities that have to be taken care of and it is highly improbable there is a willingness to help a wretched soul out of the gutter with money.

She does not know me.

I do not know her.

We are strangers.

But lovers in this fantasized instance, having pretty small hands replace clumsy desperate ones as ears naturally attune to the echo of what little has been heard from a charming voice. Howbeit, it is speaking in a sweetened tone furiously wished to ever be heard truly in private. ‘Namjoonie, why didn’t you tell me you were so needy?’

‘I- I didn’t want t- to- we’ve just met and- and- fuck~’ The curse comes out on a breathless whimper as the chin is flicked up to gain access to the neck, glossy lips kissing the warm skin at random as the thumb circles the heavily leaking part of corrupted fancy.

‘If I’d known you’d be submissive like this, I’d done this to you sooner. You wanted to grab my hand earlier, didn’t you? Place it in your lap to rut against during the rest of the seminar?’ A cheeky grin chisels itself onto the coy mistress’s delighted expression at the unashamed nodding confirming the intention dismissed in the last second after the second smoking break. ‘Make sure I know what I do to you? Who would have thought that such a big buff tattooed boy,’ a whine falls into an appreciative growl when the stimulating palm tightens its hold significantly, the reaction eliciting a chastising click of the tongue, ‘would be such a mess. So cute, all submissive.’

‘O- only for you.’ Hips snap in time with the movements below, aching for release from the building tightening in the lower stomach. Breath comes at a greater difficulty as speech becomes harder to manage as well, feeling too heated to think properly and dwindling further and further into the urge to please the one who ignites a sense of safety. ‘Wan- Wanna be goo- ngh, ah, ehm, b- be good for you.’

‘As you should be as my baby boy.’ Y/N stands on the tippy toes of obsidian and alabaster Puma sneakers, arms suggestively snaking around the back of the neck and nails digging wonderfully into skin when whispering. ‘If you actually do grab my hand next time in class to rut against, I’ll jerk you off under the table but make you cry in overstimulation for being impatient. Am I understood?’

‘Y- Yes, M- Miss.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’

‘C- Can I- Need to- shit!’ All attention of action shifts wholly to the most sensitive part, erasing every last sliver of sense while barely refraining from coming undone without permission. ‘Plea- Please, ah, ah, Miss, m- may I!’

However, the request remains unfinished as the stimulation becomes too much to handle and the world is sucked away into pleasant nothingness, taking fantasy along and leaving a poor man from Ilsan alone in perverted satisfied warmth.

Together in an imaginary self-made world.

Alone in a bathroom in reality.

Stained in more ways than with solely thick ivory.

Yet having to say sorry.

#hyunglinenetwork #thekimlinenet #ksmutclub #BTS #BTS smut #BTS x Reader #Namjoon #RM #Kim Namjoon #Joon #Confessions of a Coffee-Eater

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dmsden · 5 years

Text

DMing 101 – How does being a GM work?

Hullo, Gentle Readers. This week’s Question from a Denizen is just about as basic as it gets, but it’s always good to return to the fundamentals from time to time. Cacophonicmelody asks, “Any general advice for a first time GM who has been trying for weeks to get a handle on how GMing works?”

Trust me, cacophonicmelody, I have been where you are. When I got my first set of D&D, no one I knew played it, so I had no one to show me the way. I had to puzzle it out, slowly, and then teach all of my friends. I made plenty of mistakes along the way, but we all had fun, so it was all good. As time went on, I understood better, and I met other DMs, all of whom I learned from. Admittedly, from some of them I learned what NOT to do, but it was still a valuable lesson. I’ll try to impart the basics, as I understand them, then give you a bit of my advice. I’ll likely talk in D&D terms, but this advice can really benefit the GM of any Tabletop RPG.

At its core, being the DM (or GM if you prefer) is about being a combination storyteller, referee, and acting as a cast of thousands. All of these tasks are very important, and I’ll break them down a bit.

It’s the DM’s job to offer story elements to the players, even if the “Story” is just about exploring an old dungeon. You have to act as the senses of the player characters within the realm of the game, describing what they see, hear, smell, taste, and feel (at least in the tactile sense – more on that later). You don’t need to tell them everything if you don’t think they can perceive everything right off the bat. Let the players tell you what they’re doing to uncover details and give them information accordingly. After all, if you describe a throne to the players over the course of describing a room, and there’s a lever hidden in the arm of the throne, there’s no need to mention this until they specifically examine the throne itself, or even take time to make an Investigation check.

It’s important to note that you shouldn’t tell the PCs how their characters are feeling. You can describe things to some degree in terms of emotional impact, but I would tend to keep to the classic five senses. After all, the PCs aren’t your characters, and you shouldn’t assume how they feel about things. For example, unless a PC is frightened by some effect in the game, you shouldn’t tell a player, “Your character is afraid.” You can, however, say, “This place feels wrong, in the very pit of your stomach. The smell reminds you of a slaughterhouse, and your stomach rises slightly, even as a prickle slides up and down your spine.” The player might say, “This place is terrifying!” but they might also say, “Despite the awfulness of the scene, Sir Renaiuld puts his hand on his holy symbol, and he is not afraid, for he knows St. Cuthbert is with him.” This is perfectly valid roleplay, and you shouldn’t override it. Present the information to the players, and let them express how they feel, emotionally.

As you present information to the players, they will tell you what their characters want to do. Try to spread your attention amongst everyone at the table, letting each person have a turn and not letting any one player dominate all the action. You’ll have to determine whether what a player wants to do succeeds automatically or requires some kind of check in order to succeed, as well as how difficult it is for them to succeed. Based on the target you set for success at anything from jumping over a pit to striking a monster, they’ll roll and tell you what number they rolled. Once you’ve determined if they succeeded or not, you should describe what happens, or allow your player to describe it, or a combination of both. You may have heard the phrase, “How do you want to do this?” This comes from Critical Role’s DM Matt Mercer and his habit of letting his players help describe the lethal blows they inflict on key monsters.

Sometimes, a player may disagree with one of your interpretations of a rule, or two players may not agree with each other’s interpretations. In this case, as DM, you need to act as an impartial arbiter of the rules. If a player’s disagreement isn’t terribly important to the scene, I’ll usually make a pat ruling and tell the player or players we can discuss it after the game if need be. I don’t want the game to bog down, but I also don’t want it to become un-fun for one of my players, so I play those kinds of rulings by ear.

You also have to play pretty much everyone in the world who isn’t the player characters. This can be animals, townsfolk, monsters, nobles, pirates, mysterious strangers, pets, and every other conceivable anything. How much RP you’re going to have to do really depends on the preferences of you and your players. Some players want to develop a relationship with every merchant in town, while some will let you handwave shopping trips, because they want to “get to the good stuff”. Learn what your players like, and roleplay accordingly.

If you have the time, watch or listen to a “live play” podcast or videocast. There are tons of them out there, like Critical Role, Venture Maidens, Nerd Poker, Dungeons & Drunks, and many, many more. This is the best way to see what a DM does, short of dropping into a local game.

Bear in mind that, if you’re new, no one expects you to be a Jeremy Crawford, a Matt Mercer, or a Chris Perkins. A lot of folks out there have been DMing for years, and they have lots of experience under their belt. Learn from them, but don’t get discouraged if you don’t think you’re going to be as good as they are. Odds are that you won’t…at first! But you’ll get better.

My general advice for DMs is usually the same.

1. Don’t overprepare. Players are notorious for going in directions you don’t expect, and these can lead to some of the most fun games, so be ready to do at least a little improvisation.

2. Take notes as you play. If you have to come up with a name on the fly for that tavern-keeper, make sure you note it down so that you can refer back to it later. Nothing grinds things to a halt more than your game world being inconsistent.

3. Listen to (and watch) your players. Not only listen to what they’re having their characters do, but get a sense for what they’re enjoying, or what bores them. The more you do things they love, the more they’re going to remember your game.

4. Have fun! Yes, DMing is a lot of work, but you’re a player, too, and you should be having fun along with everyone else.

I hope all this helps, CM the DM. Get out there, and make some great stories!

#d&d #D&D #d&d 5e #d&d 5th edition #DM advice #GM Advice #dnd #DnD stuff #dnd5 #DnD 5e #dnd 5th edition #dungeons & dragons #Dungeons and Dragons #dungeon master #dungeonmaster

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jahaanofmenaphos · 4 years

Photo

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

FANFICTION.NET

TUMBLR CHAPTER INDEX

QUEST 11: SLISKE’S ENDGAME

QUEST SUMMARY:

The eclipse is nigh. The end of Sliske’s games draws near. All the gods gather for one final race for the Stone, taking them through a shadowy labyrinth of the devious Mahjarrat’s design. Not only does Jahaan have to survive the trials Sliske sets out for them, but he has to compete against every major deity in Gielinor. Then, and only then, will he have a shot at ending Sliske’s madness once and for all…

CHAPTER 2 - LABYRINTH

Jahaan’s strategy of blindly sprinting around the maze as fast as he could didn’t seem to be working so well so far. He’d encountered a couple of puzzle doors that made his head spin, so abandoned them in hopes of something simpler later on. Unfortunately, simpler didn’t come, so he settled into trying to work out the answer to this riddle door he had come across.

Four small masks were connected to the door, each with a different emotion carved into it - happy, neutral, sad and… broken, for lack of a better term. The mask was smashed in places, an emotion indiscernible. Above them read the line, ‘I am not a morning person. Nor am I a mourning person’.

Aside from that, nothing. No hints, no instructions. Jahaan didn’t know if he had to press just one mask or multiple, or what the consequences for a wrong guess would be. No doubt they wouldn’t be pleasant.

Running his fingertips over the masks, Jahaan tried to think as rationally as possible. Not that Sliske was a rational opponent. But no matter how hard he tried, the mental block refused to lift; Jahaan had never been good at puzzles, and the time constraints around the whole labyrinth concept were stressing him out. He had to move faster if he had any chance of retrieving the Stone.

Hitting the door in frustration, Jahaan groaned, “Fuck it!” and pressed the broken mask.

Instantly, he was shot back across the corridor until he slammed into the wall behind him, twitching from the effects of the static shock.

And to make things worse, Sliske’s laugh swarmed the air around him. “Ouch! That had to hurt! Are you okay there Janny? Do you need a time out?”

Colours danced in Jahaan’s vision as he picked himself up off the ground. He refused to reply to Sliske’s taunts.

“How’s the ribs doing?” Sliske asked, pretending to be nonchalant. “Glad to see you walking without a cane now.”

Jahaan continued to ignore him, breathing heavily to try and drown Sliske out. It had limited success.

But Sliske’s next taunt really tested Jahaan’s resolve. “You know, Ozan’s made himself rather at home in the Barrows…”

Jahaan twitched, and this time it wasn’t an after effect of the static shock. Back at the door now, Jahaan repeated the riddle over and over again in his head, allowing no other thoughts to enter his mind except for that one line: ‘I am not a morning person. Nor am I a mourning person’.

Oh, he wanted to bark back at the smug Mahjarrat. He wanted to shout and curse every obscenity in every language he knew. He wanted to threaten him, to tell him in detail every little wound he was going to inflict upon him… but knew that was exactly what Sliske wanted him to do. So, he refused to give Sliske the satisfaction of a response.

Until he claimed the Stone, at least. Then all bets were off.

After Jahaan reaffirmed that to himself, a calm contentment washed over him, and he was able to look at the riddle with fresh eyes.

Once he did that, the solution became obvious.

He pressed the neutral mask and the door clinked open.

Satisfied and with renewed vigor, Jahaan continued on through the maze. Sliske appeared to have grown weary of trying to talk to him, for now at least, which was a huge relief.

When Jahaan rounded the corner, he saw a somewhat giddy Armadyl at the other end of the corridor, avianse in tow. If Jahaan had managed to catch up to him so easily, either the head start Sliske promised was a lie, or Armadyl had severely failed to capitalise on the advantage. But from the look on the deity’s face, he didn’t seem to mind.

Kree'arra was a proud and majestic avianse with gorgeous wings of gold. Jahaan recognised him from way back in Guthix’s cavern; a being like that is hard to forget. Fortunately he didn’t have to fight him then, and hoped he never had to. Those talons were sharp, and the bolts of the crossbow he wielded were even sharper.

Taka’ara was a broader-shouldered and shorter avianse that Jahaan didn’t recognise. Little did he know, Taka’ara was the strategist who helped secure victory over Bandos.

When Jahaan was spotted by the winged deity, he was summoned over with excitement. “Jahaan! Come, come. Talk to me. Did you know that I haven't moulted in millennia? Not a tail feather has fallen from me since I became a god. But this brief interruption of my godhood… it has got me moulting again. The feathers are falling away from my body. I can feel the flesh underneath! At first, not moulting made me feel unbeatable. If time and the elements couldn't ruffle me, then what could? But then I felt like an imposter among my people. I wanted to be with them, but how could I? Their feathers fell with age. I outlived countless generations. Now, I am sharing the company of the aviansie as an equal! Forgive me, it's exhilarating to lose one's power.”

Jahaan smiled, warmly. He’d never seen such pure, innocent joy on another man’s - or bird’s - face. It’d been a long time, too long, since he’d encountered such happiness. The avianse surrounding him seemed warmed by the deity’s glee. “Always seeing the silver lining, Armadyl. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“Oh, I am. It may seem like such a little thing, but it has helped subside the misery of Sliske’s little game.”

Picking off one of his feathers, he handed it to Jahaan. “Take this. If I get back to my people, it will be something of a collector's item, and if I don't get back to my people, well, it will be even more desirable.”

“Thanks, Armadyl,” Jahaan took the feather and placed it carefully in his backpack.

Motioning for his followers to continue on, Armadyl turned to leave. “Let's see if I lose every feather in this place. That would make for an unusual return to my people - a bald eagle.”

Zamorak, on the other hand, was a lot less jubilant as he traversed the maze. Being stripped of his divinity didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would, but the tedium of the maze and these ridiculous puzzles Sliske had set out grated on him. No-one had any idea that Sliske had planned out an absurdly large labyrinth for the gods to explore; Zamorak was hoping for something a little more combat-oriented.

As backup, Zamorak brought with him a handful of his most trusted allies and advisors. Moia, Lucien’s half-human, half-Mahjarrat daughter who led Zamorak’s army during the Battle of Lumbridge; Hazeel, one of Zamorak’s oldest and closest Mahjarrat friends; and Lord Daquarius, the well-armoured Lord of the Kinshra.

“Your power’s diminished too, Hazeel?” he checked as he brushed a calloused hand against the wall’s surface, sensing the magic within.

“Yes, Zamorak,” Hazeel gravely confirmed. “Sliske has somehow managed to hone in on the slight divinity of the Mahjarrat in order to quell our power.”

Grumbling a Freneskaen obscenity, Zamorak huffed before continuing, “The only thing that gives me comfort in this shitshow is knowing that all the other gods are in the same boat I am. If one of them wants to start a fight, well,” he cracked his knuckles. “It’ll be one less enemy for us to deal with after we claim the Stone.”

“My lord,” Moia called out softly. “What of Vinculum Juris? If Zaros calls upon his favour, you will be compelled to give him the Stone.”

“True, that’s how the contract goes,” Zamorak accepted, but a cunning smile tugged at his lips. “But if I take the Stone and escape Sliske’s games before Zaros’ has a chance to call upon this favour of his, we’re home free. The contract only gives that manipulative motherfucker a small window to ask his favour - the duration of Sliske’s game - leaving us with a massive loophole to exploit.”

Zamorak and company particularly hated the rune combination lock doors; anything that required patience wasn’t exactly Zamorak’s forte, so he allowed Hazeel and Moia to work on it, lest he resort to ripping the door open with his bare hands. Of course, upon encountering the door, that was the initial strategy - break through.

This was much easier said than done, however, and such attempts left Lord Daquarius with a nasty bruise on his shoulder after he valiantly threw himself into the door, ricocheting off the thing and tumbling to the ground.

Eventually, they got the door open the conventional way. Soon after, they ran into Armadyl’s faction.

When Armadyl spotted company at the end of the long corridor he brought his avianse entourage to a halt. “Well, if it isn’t the murderer.”

Zamorak choked out a cruel laugh. “That’s rich coming from you, godslayer. How does killing Bandos fit into your ‘peace, love and justice’ bullshit dogma?”

“That was different,” Armadyl maintained, chin held aloft and shoulders broad. “You murdered almost my entire species. Your attack on Forinthry tore Gielinor apart.”

“Like I had a choice. You and Saradomin stood side by side ready to pronounce my death sentence. What would you have me do? Keel over without a fight?”

“We could have been reasoned with,” Armadyl insisted through gritted teeth. “We would have listened. We would have accepted a graceful surrender.”

Zamorak wagged a clawed finger at Armadyl. “You… perhaps. You still cling to the morality of mortals, perhaps trying to convince yourself you still are one. But not him. Not that fucker. He’s wanted me dead from the moment our war began. He can’t stand the fact that my message is as powerful as his.”

“That does not excuse what you did,” Armadyl growled, a violent, squawking sound that caused the avianse to tense up, ready to fight as soon as their god commanded it. “To save your life, you took thousands of others. Genocide, Zamorak! You nearly destroyed the avianse in your war!”

“Your war,” Zamorak retorted with a growl of his own. “I wasn’t the only one throwing fists in the God Wars. You brought so many of your people to Gielinor - warriors, to fight. It was war, and in war, people die. What did you expect? To roll over my forces without a single casualty?”

“No of course not. I-”

“Then you were prepared,” Zamorak cut in. “You were prepared to sacrifice every aviansie you brought to Gielinor. And hey, you won the war. But you paid the price for that victory. Only you can decide whether it was worth it.”

“That does not excuse what you did,” Armadyl maintained, coldly.

“No, and I’d never pretend it did,” Zamorak replied, “We all have scars to bare. I’ve done things that would make you lose sleep at night, but I’ve done them for the greater good. I... have made mistakes. I’ve seen those that I care about die… but I have owned those mistakes. It’s time you did too. So save your anger for who it’s really meant for.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

Zamorak laughed mirthlessly. “Isn’t it obvious? YOU brought your people to this world. YOU armed them with swords and spears and sent them out to face my forces. You asked each and every one of them to die - to die FOR YOU. You're angry because they did. Because in your fucking arrogance you thought that you were untouchable and your people invulnerable. Pride can be a terribly powerful weapon, but the blade always points inwards.”

Shifting his stance, Zamorak continued, “So, we can settle this right now and you can risk losing a couple more of your precious avianse… or we can go our separate ways and hash this out after the Stone is claimed. What’ll it be?”

Glancing back at his avianse entourage, Armadyl tried to gauge their reactions for an insight of how they wanted to proceed. Even though they were outnumbered, Kree'arra and Taka'ara were both in favour of the fighting option, hands clutched tight around their weapon and steely eyes piercing holes through Zamorak. Armadyl had always preached peace, but understood why his soldiers were so thirsty for the blood of the man that nearly wiped out their race.

Despite this, Armadyl was less inclined to resort to violence. Not while the Stone was still on the line. And as much as he hated to admit it, Zamorak had a valid point. Armadyl was angry at himself - intensely so… it was just so much easier to direct that anger outwards rather than inwards.

Sighing, Armadyl eventually said, “I do blame myself and rightly so. But I am never going to forgive you Zamorak. I won't strike you down today, but I will not mourn if another does it for me.

Zamorak grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

All things considered, the maze was going well for Jahaan so far. He’d passed another riddle door, conquering another line of Sliske’s terrible poetry, and came across one of these rune combination lock gizmos that took far less mental effort than he assumed it would.

Foolishly, Jahaan allowed himself to be confident.

Speeding around the next corner, Jahaan almost tripped over, skidding to a halt so abruptly as he came face to face with Icthlarin. Relief overwhelming his features, he beamed, “Icthlarin… nice to see a friendly face again.”

Icthlarin tried to smile too, but there was something a little bit off about him. “Jahaan... it is good to see you. I am glad... that we could find each other so quickly.”

Noting the odd twitching movements and uncertainty in his usually resolved tone, Jahaan queried, “Icthlarin? You seem… different. Are you okay?”

The demigod shook his head, a frown dominating his expression. “No… I cannot explain it, but no. I feel… I feel as if I am slipping away… my mind is becoming foggy… muddled… I…”

Icthlarin proceeded to sniff the air in front of him. “You… you smell of Friend…”

Jahaan’s eyebrows crinkled. “What?”

Slapping himself on the side of his head, Icthlarin creased his eyes tightly shut, trying so hard to remain focused. “I... I am sorry, that... I just... what's happening to me?”

Suddenly, the maniacal, twisted laughter of Sliske filled the air. “Oh this is wonderful! I was curious as to what you would be like with your divinity curbed, but this is glorious! Far better than I could have ever hoped.”

While Icthlarin growled, Jahaan shouted, “What have you done to him, Sliske?!”

With a sigh, Sliske replied, “It’s as if no-one listens to me… honestly… I explained this earlier. I’ve removed a lot of the divinity from every contestant, including little Iccy here. Now I get to watch as they try and grapple with who, or what, they were before they ascended to godhood. This is Icthlarin's little struggle.”

Icthlarin’s eyes were burning red. “Put… put me back…”

“And save you from this delightful torment? Why in all creation would I do such a thing? This is delightful! Mighty Icthlarin, noble guardian of the Underworld, wasn't always an erudite scholar. Though he might have been the pet of one. He was just a regular mutt. Weren't you, Iccy?”

Icthlarin just about managed to catch himself before he began barking, but his teeth were bared and sharp, desperate for Sliske’s blood.

“Stop this Sliske!” Jahaan ordered, the lump in his throat growing unbearable as he watched his friend grapple with his fading humanity.

In response, Sliske let out a short, sharp laugh. “Stop this? Why would I do that? To help him? To ease his suffering? You've met me, right? I think we've long since established that's not the way I work. No, it's going to be so much fun watching you drift more and more away, Icthlarin. To see you so humbled, so easily. Truly my finest work.”

“SLISKE! END THIS!” Icthlarin roared into the air, but this time, he garnered no reply.

“I don't think he's listening any more,” Jahaan regarded his friend with heavy eyes.

Icthlarin whimpered, “Jahaan, don't… don't leave me here alone. May I come with you? I need someone... to remember who I am… I’m… I’m scared, friend. So scared. My sentience… I feel it slipping away...”

Jahaan tried to force a smile that didn’t reek of pity, knowing how much his friend would hate that. With as much confidence as he could muster, Jahaan rested a gentle hand on Icthlarin’s shoulder and assured, “You’re going to be alright.”

Icthlarin wagged his tail, but upon realising what he was doing, he cleared his throat. “Err, let’s just get through this as fast as… um… fast.”

“Will you stop smashing stuff, Strisath! It's making a terrible mess and you're really far behind!”

Sliske’s announcement echoed through the labyrinth, bouncing off the walls before fading away into the white noise surrounding them. For Seren, that was the steady rhythm of the elves’ heartbeats alongside her own; it was soothing, a comforting blanket of noise to weave her thoughts between.

As they traversed the labyrinth, Seren and her elves had been floating ideas as to the origins of their predicament. Namely, the sudden mortality of the gods.

Seren pondered aloud, “Do you think it is some sort of mechanism?”

Lady Trahaearn, the eldest of Seren’s entourage, shook her head. “It can't be, m'lady. There ain't a nick nack in the world that could strip a god of its power. Plus it ain't scientific. An effect like this would have to be transmitted as light or sound, and there's more walls in this place than Morvran's holiday dungeons. Yep, this'll be your good ol’-fashioned magic.”

Lord Arianwyn added, “If it’s magic, it’s nothing like any I’ve encountered. It doesn’t even share characteristics. See, spells borrow power from one another. That’s the way of magic. Bones to Peaches shares something with Hi-Alchemy. Crystallise borrows from the Lunar Magicks. This feels utterly new, disconnected. It's like a new branch of magic. Which is exciting of course!”

“Exciting, but not exactly helping us determine its origin,” Lady Trahaearn continued with a frown. “Unless... unless we're overthinking this. Step back, think about what has happened recently.”

“Ha! I see where you're going with this!” Seren exclaimed, wagging her finger excitedly as they skipped around another corner. “Yes, yes, there have been a couple of instances. The World Guardian, for instance. The World Guardian can nullify god magic. I believe Guthix manipulated the anima in some way to achieve this.”

Lord Arianwyn added, “And there’s the edicts themselves. But no one knows if that was Guthix himself casting out the gods, or if it was the anima, the Sword of Edicts, the Stone of Jas…”

“The Stone of Jas is where my coins are on,” Lady Trahaearn stated, trying to examine the walls for any clues as to which direction they needed to go in, using her well-tuned ears to listen out for the faint hum of magic.

Seren responded, “I agree with you, but there are complications. The Stone of Jas does not simply have a switch that turns off god magic. Only a seasoned user would know how to generate that power from the Stone. Either Sliske has become extremely proficient, or someone else is aiding him. Someone extremely powerful.”

Lord Arianwyn insinuated, “Very few beings would have such knowledge of the Stone of Jas…”

Seren’s concern deepened. “I fear I know where you're going with this, Lord Arianwyn. I pray you're wrong, for the sake of this world.”

Lady Trahaearn gulped. “A worrying thought indeed, M’Lady.”

“It is. That’s why we need to make sure that we win the Stone, and that it can be kept in safe hands. Away from Sliske. Away from my brother. Away from everyone…”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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#runescape #sliske's endgame

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weeping-petals · 4 years

Text

Players of the Game

A New Game - Part 3

Word Count - 4,382

After a long night of searching, the Crystal Gems finally locate Steven. Alarmed by the child’s state, Garnet rushed in to apprehend Spinel. At long last, the game will end.

The temple of Chalcedony Forest, beneath a moon splashed night. The trees underwent the process of petrification to create the towering castle-like structure, now stood frozen; purpose unfulfilled, and robbed of the timbers natural state. Somewhere during the war, construction was abandoned; despite this, the forest continued its methodical work of bending and stretching to fashion the edifice. Though it did not know what it was to become, and in that peril of existence only budded a structure devoid of cohesion.

The Crystal Gems emerged from a portion of the thicket which was predominantly calcified trees. Towards the tower, the malformed timber formed miles of layered and splint slates, encircled like a winding maze. It was easy enough to navigate, and offered cover for their approach. They scouted the perimeter, but could not identify movement of indication of where Spinel had gotten to. If she was even here.

“Do you see anything?” Pearl directed to Garnet. Aside from the half moon hovering in the sky, it was dark. They didn’t need their gems to define surroundings, and much of the glossy material abundant refracted illumination. They navigated the broken passages, creeping among and beneath breaches in walls and debris.

Garnet, as she had been since they started, was silent. Something hot and irritated was brewing, an unspoken argument and plotting. She looked at Pearl briefly, before turning to resume the lead. Pearl and Amethyst exchanged a look.

“Stay close,” Garnet reminded. “Spinel will likely already be here, which gives her the element of surprise. We’ll approach with the utmost caution.” She held out her hand before Amethyst could scamper away. “There’s no telling what she might do with Steven.”

Pearl shivered. She took the liberty to draw one spear form her gem, and sided in close with Amethyst.

“This place is ginormous,” Amethyst grumbled. She climbed atop a cracked wall and gave their surroundings a sharp examination. “We’re never gonna find’em unless we splint.”

“No,” Pearl hissed. “One of us can barely handle Spinel. If we stand a chance, it will be a taunt collaboration leaving her no opportunity to recover.” Amethyst opened her mouth to retort, but Pearl anticipated her next argument. “For Steven’s sake. We can manage this.”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this again,” Amethyst huffed. “Why couldn’t she have stayed gone?”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Pearl murmured. “She should’ve—” As Amethyst said, Spinel should have been gone. At least, after all these years it was what they presumed. They felt safe in the complacency. How wrong they were. How it haunted them now.

For several excruciating hours, they explored the exterior province of the pillar. Numerous entrances presented themselves dotting the base and low level of the tower, some fitted with incomplete ramps or disintegrating staircases. Many sustained extensive damage and folded inward, misshapen entirely. Several entries held gem sensitive lamps, which activated upon their fleeting exploration. This indicated to Pearl that nothing had passed within for a while. Likewise, all inhabitants present would be alerted to intrusion.

Through the brief scouting, Amethyst ooed and awed at the interior architect polished by time. “Steven’s gonna love this place. Y’think?”

Garnet didn’t reply, but continued. Amethyst and Pearl followed, forgoing commentary. At one point, Garnet thought it wise to hand the cheeseburger backpack to Pearl, for safe storage. The items inside would be useful to Steven, once they liberated him from Spinel. There was no telling what would happen, but they knew for certain an altercation with Spinel would be unavoidable. But they would take him back, it was only a matter of locating him.

A dipping pathway wound its way into a low space beneath the pillar, among splint petri-wood. When they breached the yawning entrance – many times their size – Garnet put her arms out.

Throughout the wall and ceiling, roots knotted and twisted. The illuminars was active within the chamber, glittering across the mineral laced plant life. Aside from the lamps, it was not immediately apparent if something still lurked within. The chamber was expansive, walls and ceiling eroded.

Pearl gripped the spear sloped beside her leg. “This must be where she came through. Amethyst,” she grated, struggling to keep her voice low. “Stay down.”

Amethyst bounced between crumbling wall intermixed with the reformed tree. “We want her to show herself, don’t we—”

Garnet lashed out her arm and snared Amethyst, she hoisted the small gem backwards. “No. We need to find Steven first. I see a passage, over there.” She indicated, and began on that direction.

The opening lay behind a massive, and shattered crystal. Each scaled the obstacle laying directly on the slope, which would bring them to the suspended level. Lamps didn’t activate in the corridor, a benefit for them. Extending from the minor strip, they exited into another open expanse which resembled a stoney courtyard. Vague structures erupted from the floor and ceiling, calcified vine-knots hovered beneath the ceiling. Trees bent or stood choppy and gnarled, formed partially into structures like pillars or statues.

Stealthy and silent, the trio wove through the ruble. They picked their way down a series of steps, but jarred to a halt when Garnet went tense. Pearl spied immediately what gripped her attention, and she brought a hand to her face.

The movement was foremost noteworthy, dipping behind crushed chalcedony. Those pigtails were incriminating, and belonged to no other.

Garnet launched from beside the others and landed heavily atop a collapsed twine of roots. It was worse than she suspected, and every fiber of her existence sparked. “Steven!”

“Oh-ho, look who’s here.” Spinel sneered. In the gloom, her eyes and grin glittered in traditional cutouts. Sinister and spiteful. “You’ve gotten better at hide-and-seek. Too easy for you, I see.”

Beneath her on the ground, lay Steven. He was curled up in a tight ball and trembling.

For the first time in hours, Garnet radiated with unrefined emotion. Her fists clenched and her shoulders quivered. “I won’t let you get away with this.” She threw herself at Spinel, arms outstretched and gauntlets formed. In response, Spinel retreated within tight backward flips, entire body a slinky which slipped through narrow crevices. Garnet pursued, crushing rock and tossing obstacles. Up until a last clump of crystal revealed the illusive gem, but Spinel was coiled and waiting; she swung her body around and bowled Garnet down with an oversized fist.

Garnet hit the floor and tumbled. She came to a halt and momentarily, checked that Steven was still moving and reassure that Spinel hadn’t followed with a counter. It took a brief glance, then she rebounded, gauntlets connecting with a slate Spinel ducked behind. Chalcedony burst into fragments and powder, but there was no sign of the lanky nuisance.

A barrage of cackles lashed downward, while Spinel came sloping hard on her extended arms. Outstretched legs collided with Garnet, and sent her flying.

“Pearl! Check Steven!” Garnet slammed into the underside of a suspended platform.

Pearl didn’t need a second prompt. She was already crouched beside the boy, Amethyst on the other side. “Oh my stars! Steven!” She dismissed her spear and collected the small child in her arms, holding him close.

“Is he all right?” Amethyst choked. Her gem alit, to give them a better view. And for comfort. “Is he… breathing?” They winced. Pearl clutched Steven tighter.

Garnet burst from the rock, and managed to collide with Spinel. The two clashed hand-to-hand, or hand and coil; Spinel pinned one of Garnet’s arms in a tight bind, while her other hand grappled with the wrist of the taller gem. Both crashed, forming a thick plum of dust and sparkles.

“Ugh! She needs help,” Amethyst barked. But Steven…. “Is he okay? What happened to him?”

“I don’t know! He’s unconscious! He—” Pearl squeaked. she pressed her head to Steven chest. “H-he’s…. Y-yes. He’s doing that thing. The breathing!” She could almost poof, most of Steven was intact. “His heart is beating, but it’s so slow! If she’s done anything—” Another collision, she shrank over Steven. Garnet hurtled through a clump of stoney roots. “Don’t just sit there! Go help!”

“Why should I?” Amethyst countered, more puzzled than annoyed. “Someone has to stay by Stevey!” She didn’t want to admit why Pearl should go.

Reluctantly, Pearl gave Steven a hug. “Please be okay.” She set the child on Amethyst knees and stood, summoning duel spears.

In this time, Spinel was swinging up and through the suspended chunks of rock, using the near and long range to its fullest. It had been so-so long since she was allowed to move. She was competent in repelling a rock thrown her way, or sling a chunk of chalcedony back at Garnet – whom leapt after, using the obstacles to keep sharp on Spinel’s movements. The other was fueled by rage and, and something more personal.

But under no circumstance could she allow Garnet to get a good solid grip of her body.

It did happen that Garnet snagged a firm hold of one leg and attempted to heave Spinel through the air, like a lasso. Spinel’s reaction to getting swept aside, was coil her remaining leg and both arms against her side before impacting a wall; cushioning her form. She hooked Garnet with the ensnared boot and recalled the leg, hauling the tall gem at herself with devastating speed. With one arm still coiled, Spinel’s fist inflated, and she reared back for a punch to shame all punches.

If not for Pearl skipping across hovering platforms, both spears aimed. Spinel caught view of the pearl gem glinting and rebounded, before the bolts could land a hit. This meant she had to release Garnet and regroup her limbs. She hoisted into a clump of roots, tangled in the ceiling.

“Boo-hoo!” she hailed down. “Feared the worst, didja? Felicitations! You saved your precious lil grub! You’re the heroes of today! HAH! Beating the ever-gleaming silt out of me won’t make any a one of you a better protector!” She grinned ear-to-ear (so to speak).

Garnet recovered midfall. She landed on a detached mass of crystal, an estimated meter from Pearl racing across the structure. “Up you go.” She extended her arms, allowing the feathery Pearl to leap onto her wrist and race across her shoulders. Garnet swung back and launched Pearl with force.

“I’m always game for a good trouncing.” Spinel harked. She twisted her body against the natty teethers and sprung, whirling like a top. She aimed directly for Pearl, and if she could blast through to smite Garnet, plus two—

Out of nowhere, a rock smashed into the side of Spinel’s unprotected head and she plunged. Pearl was so taken she nearly missed her opening. The spear thrusted and connected, but barely.

“WHOOOO!” Amethyst shot her arms high. “How does that taste, getting socked for a change? Chalk one up for the Army-thest! I still owe you!” She shut up when Steven groaned. “Shoot, sorry.”

“Am’thest….”

“Can you hear me? Don’t move,” she whispered, leaning closer. “You’re safe. I got you.”

“Wha…?”

How many years since she fell? A decade. A thousand. What was one thousand? She could wait an eternity, and then some. It felt like an eternity, being lost and forgotten. Discarded. Just like when she was left in the garden. The years departed, stars faded, and the world continued moving onward without her.

Spinel fell void of control and orientation. Pearl had gotten very close. VERY-VERY CLOSE. All and undone, body a tangled mess, she couldn’t summon back her limbs, and felt disconnected from them. This left no brace for the fall, and no recollection of where solid surface would begin. She did the next best thing, looped arms and knees in bundles over her chest. If anything, she must protect her gemstone. She saw what happened to—

It worked mostly. Spinel barely secured her torso, before she crashed into a slope and skidded. Luckily, her unrestrained spin-cycle eased out fast. No damage, she didn’t think, aside from her physical form getting shaken and her body still a knotted mess. She managed to flip herself over, and over again; she wouldn’t be surprised if she was inside out.

A primal battle cry tore through the chamber, announcing – drat! – Garnet descending, gauntlets clasped tight into a gigantic club.

Drat-drat-DOUBLE DRAT!

Garnet missed by a breath, when Spinel flopped over. The Spinel was a withering mass, twisting and slithering over and around. This was it. This was the prime opportunity they had been seeking, when Spinel would be at her weakest.

“I’ll hold her!” Pearl dashed forward, racing in from the side to recover the scant opportune moment.

It was apparent Spinel realized what was happening, given how fast the gem scuttled behind a chunk of crystal embedded in chalcedony. Pearl landed adjacent and rushed in, a spear primed. The crystal barrier erupted, chalcedony chunks disintegrated under Garnet’s reckless pursuit. On the fringe, Pearl kept in check scouting for the bright colors of the wily gem. There came more natural barricades of stone and more chalcedony, a boot scuttling on the cusp of their peripheral. At long last, Spinel was revealed, still unraveled. Garnet chucked a sizable piece of crystal, but Spinel blocked it with one of her own – the two pieces collided midair and burst.

From the dust hurtled Spinel, and she locked arms with Garnet, despite her limbs being a jangly mess. Something in Spinel’s expression nearly made Garnet stutter. Almost.

“Always need to get the last word in. Doutcha?” Spinel accused.

An opening laid out and backside exposed fully, Pearl shot in swinging one spear for the anticipated proximity of Spinel’s chest. Spinel narrowly evaded, whipped around and smashed Garnet into Pearl. The force sent Pearl pinwheeling, more unfortunately, Spinel was unable to loosen her hold off Garnet.

“Couldn’t leave me alone!” Spinel spat. “No loose ends! No unfinished business!” She got her legs mostly recalled, and bucked Garnet in the chest. “No untidy, unorganized packages!”

“You know perfectly well why we couldn’t let you off on your own!” Garnet thundered back. Spinel untangled her arms and abruptly kicked Garnet away. But the taller, and stronger gem, recovered instantly and barreled forward. She snared Spinel around the torso and tugged her close. “Not one of us wanted to do you this way. You deserved BETTER! But you left no alternatives!”

“Could’ve… fooled me.” Garnet squeezed, and Spinel’s physical form shimmed under the strain. In a panic, Spinel’s limbs bent and arched in exaggerated patterns. Until at last, Spinel looped one arm around her waist, over and over.

At first Garnet thought nothing of it, and only expected Spinel to protect her gem out of instinct. Yet, the coil tightened, and Spinel’s other arm found a solid hold, elsewhere. Pearl called a warning, but Garnet dismissed it, as Spinel’s projected light form glittered. Any moment.

A wide grin met her, and then she knew something had gone wrong.

Spinel wrenched free, a zipping tornado. Flung aside, Garnet careened across the wreckage strewn across the courtyard.

During this, Pearl moved in deftly. She leapt high and fired a bolt from her spear, aiming for the unguarded top of Spinel’s head. This time, when the distinguishing bark of the bolt went off, Spinel wretched aside.

Pearl alit on a high platform a distance above Spinel and observed, calculating the next move. Spinel was looking exhausted and perplexed by now. She no longer held homefield advantage, and the Crystal Gems would not relent until they dealt with her properly. There would be—

“Guys! Stop!” Steven ducked and wove around the ruble rooted to the floor, and waved his arms. Amethyst was close on his heels, eyes massive and laced with panic. “Stop fighting! Wait!”

Spinel went loose bodily, arms flopping to the ground as she threw back her head. She began laughing.

“Steven! Find cover!” Garnet barked. She reacted and moved, rather define the most beneficial scenario. Steven was their priority, his safety above all could not be jeopardized. She sprang to him, but was immediately barred by Spinel’s stretched arms, extended like duel clothesline.

“Don’t! Steven! You’re gonna get in their way!” Amethyst caught him in her arms and tried to haul him back. However, Steven was putting up a massive fight for his stature.

“Spinel! Please! Stop! You promised!”

Spinel dove off her perch, catching Pearl within midleap. She caught the staff, and heaved Pearl against her extending legs. “Nothing mentioned about not defending MYSELF!” Pearl lost her grip on the weapon, and the two dropped; Pearl stunned by the blow, while Spinel did a skillful twirl with the staff, winding up with the stolen weapon. Spinel concluded by whirling the spear toward Amethyst. And Steven.

The barbed lashes of a whip snagged on the staff, halting its intent.

At the last moment, Garnet skid out and caught Pearl before she hit the ground. Beside her, Spinel got her arms nestled below herself quick enough to cushion the impact; her legs swung up, spinning, and knocked Garnet aside.

Spinel sprang out of the maneuver, somersaulting her retreat by several paces. She came to set herself upon a splint pillar, arms jagged at her sides. No opening left for an attack. She took survey of the Crystal Gems – Amethyst poised on top of Steven, holding him down with a foot, with duel whips at hand – Pearl was recovered, barely – and Garnet—

“Give it up! We don’t want to fight you!” She was closing in, gauntlets at the ready. The gem stalked steady and rigid, up the incline primed to conclude this conflict.

“You think you have the right, to lock me away!” Spinel screeched. “Like I’m some sort of… of… MONSTER!” She cackled. “That’s what you think of me! All along! No one ever said it, but ya’ll thought it. Didn’t you?” More laughter ensued, hard and grating. “Hilarious. I always thought you were different! I actually thought YOU saw me different. It really puts things into perspective, doughn’t?”

“GAR-NIT!” Steven was trying to crawl out from under Amethyst’s foot. The lilac gem gave up, and had to restrain Steven with her arms and brute force. “Don’t hurt her!”

“Are you kidding me?” Amethyst hissed. “You’re worried about that hostile hula-hoop!”

“But she’s not a monster,” Steven whined, trying to shove Amethyst off. “You guys are just mean!” This caused Amethyst to gasp.

“You brought this on yourself!” Garnet proclaimed, before sprinting through the last meter. She drew back a fist and took the swing. Unexpectedly, Spinel didn’t budge. Garnet hit with full force, plowing them off the pillar and through a slate of grafting tree roots with crystal brackets. The unstoppable drive met and unmovable force, and somewhere in the wreckage the dust cleared out.

Spinel only survived her form poofing, by using her knees as a brace and coiling her arms over Garnet’s shoulders and wrists, robbing the battle laced gem of intensity. Garnet could not move.

“I am so tired of hearing you say THAT!” Spinel snarled, baring her teeth. “Everyone can make mistakes, anyone can change. BUT NOT ME! Never! I’m not—” Her tirade cut off. And Garnet had an idea why.

Pearl swooped in, directly above the alcove formed in the assault. Spinel looked directly into Garnet’s shades, and the reaction was instantaneous. The coils unraveled from Garnet, allowing Spinel freedom to whip around and snag Pearl by her waist. This time Pearl shot the bolt, dismissing the fact that Garnet was too close. Spinel coiled her limbs up and made to leap, but withdrew attention from Garnet for five milli-seconds too long.

Garnet hauled Spinel back down, and the lithe gem took the bolt right in the shoulder. Still, the recoil knocked the gem from Garnet’s grip, and the unraveled gem skidded across the floor.

A few feet from Garnet’s poise, Pearl landed and regrouped. “That wasn’t enough?” she posed, summoning a replacement staff.

“A direct hit would be effective,” Garnet proclaimed. “This time, we won’t relent.”

Spinel got to her feet and shook the glitter from her body. A chunk was missing from her angular shoulder. She looked from Garnet, to Pearl, and scowled. The region of the courtyard was all but flattened, utterly ruined. They wouldn’t leave. She shouldn’t be surprised. She slammed her fists against the ground:

“I don’t want to play anymore.”

While Garnet and Pearl rallied up for the oncoming assault, Spinel pivoted and sprang away. She was thrown near enough a back passage, which led deeper into the temple structure. They could search for her, play hide-and-seek all they liked, but she already knew the pathway out. She cast a look back over her shoulder, before straightening her shape and zipping out of view.

“After her!” Garnet bellowed. She was about to initiate the chase, but a light grip trounced the thought. She turned to Pearl, but couldn’t meet the gems eyes.

“I think… we’ve done enough.” Pearl’s spears were already dismissed, and after some surface examination Garnet could grasp why. Pearl was ragged, her superficial style in tatters. It wasn’t overlooked that Pearl had pushed herself to limits, and would continue to expend herself. If it meant protecting Steven. Speaking of which….

Steven scurried to them, climbing over the demolished shards of chalcedony and stone. “Why did you hurt her? Why were you fighting!” He demanded. Promptly slipping and falling face flat before he crested the steep incline.

“Oh cheeze whiz, be careful,” Amethyst huffed. She didn’t appear overtly concerned, and only nudged Steven with her foot while he tried to get up.

“Why?” Pearl squawked. “WHY? Because she hurt you. Oh no!” She sprang to Steven and crouched down. “Are you all right? Any breaks? Do you have a fever? A scraped knee?”

“No-no-no— Stop!” Steven pushed Pearl away. She relented the probing, but held his shoulders. “Nothing happened!”

“You were dead,” Amethyst rebuked. She raised her arms and crinkled her fingers. “And she was hovering over you, like a vulture. It was seriously creepy.”

“I wasn’t dead!” Steven insisted, stamping his foot. He looked to Garnet, silent and observing. Or eternally screaming. “I just… uh. I guess I fell asleep.” He rubbed his eye with a fist and yawned. The whole ordeal and then walking took its toll. Then, there was getting awoke suddenly in the midst of a brawl, with his favorite people fighting what he considered to be a new friend.

“Asleep?” Pearl yelped. “How is it possible that you fell asleep. No-no, Steven. You must be mistaken, she must’ve—”

“I fell asleep,” again he stated, but with force. “She told me to be quiet, but I was telling her about Tapioca Ninjas, then it got a lil fuzzy. Does she have a power that puts people to sleep? Or gems?”

“Naw, that woul’da had made her real useful if she did,” Amethyst grumbled. “You might be right, though. All this walking, getting kidnapped, mugged. You had a full day on the clock. Ready for another?”

“Uhh….” For the first time, Steven cast his eyes around, taking in the far spaced segments left intact, despite the rumble. Much of the walls and apparent sculpted fortifications crumbled, dried plants vaporized, and ash dusted the floor. “What is this place?”

Pearl shook a bit from her accusatory stance, and alit her gem so that Steven could have a better view of the area. “The Chalcedony Temple, sculpted by the forest, with the forest.”

“Ooh,” Steven ooed. “Yeah! We reached the temple, I remember! But she was super skittish about getting too close.” He wandered away from the others, onto more stable ground – Pearl kept close, just in case. He wasn’t really watching where he was going. “She was gonna leave me, but—” He cut off, and looked to the group.

At last, Garnet became animate. “It’s time we return to the Crystal Temple. You’ve had an exciting day, and we don’t want to wait around for Spinel to recover. Now we know what damaged the warp pad, and what caused this temple to become active. Spinel is a problem we must work toward fixing.” She looked to Pearl, who could’ve been intermixed by disappointment and relief. “But at a later time.”

“After all that?” Amethyst griped. “We’re gonna leave? We can’t just not fix this, and let her do whatever! This isn’t a good idea.”

“This will have to wait,” Garnet admitted. “That’s all for now, we can discuss this later once we’re safe, and Steven is secure. We have a long walk back to the functioning warp pad.”

Amethyst audibly groaned and departed the group. “That was the nearest wardpad. This will take forever, and it’s her fault!”

“Wait! Amethyst! Stay with the group.” Pearl hurried after her, and immediately the two began a bicker.

When they were out of range, Garnet spoke up. “Steven. Are you really okay?” He looked up at Garnet.

“Um. Yes?”

“Don’t lie. If you need anything, Pearl has your back… pack. Don’t hesitate. We’ll always be there for you.”

“I know,” Steven uttered. “I’m telling the truth, she didn’t hurt me or anything.”

“I do not disbelieve you. C’mon.” Garnet shook off the gauntlets and plucked up Steven. While springing down the incline and ruble, she mentioned, “We’re glad you’re okay. And, I’m sorry we were so careless.”

“Hmm? I don’t think you were careless.” And with vigor, “You weren’t. I mean, she didn’t go easy on you.” He was quiet, until Garnet set him down. For a moment they stood, Garnet waiting on him to say something and Steven uncertain if he could ask. He looked back the way they came, and the gaping passage from the chamber. He had so many questions.

“Will you tell me about her?”

At first, Garnet was silent. She glanced back the way Steven did. “Let’s get out of this forest first. I think… she is done, for the time, but I don’t want to take the chances.”

Steven nodded, mildly serious. But he would not let this go. Likewise, he had a feeling Garnet wouldn’t leave him in the dark, regarding the strange gem. This wasn’t something that could be ignored or left alone.

#steven universe #spinel #spinel fanfic #steven fanfic #suf #steven universe the movie #spinel fanfiction #steven fanfiction #crystal gem #spinel crystal gem au #fallen au #garnet fanfic #amethyst fanfic #pearl fanfic #steven universe fanfiction #su fanfic #steven universe fanfic

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jakelionstumblr · 5 years

Text

Thoughts about Luigi’s Mansion, 3, and why it lacks the magic 1 had.

below the cut, may be some spoilers but I’m only at floor 9

As I’ve been playing through Luigi’s Mansion 3 in the way I play games with collectibles (at least these days,) trying to marathon rooms, looking for every type of secret or collectible in one run, I find myself getting bored, only putting in an hour to two at a time, before needing to get a bit of space. I may have had similar breaks on my first playthrough of the first game in the series, though it’s been too long to really remember. But what I’m focusing on here is what I’m coming away from the play experience with, what I’m thinking about between sessions, as well as what makes me want to take a break.

In the long distant memories of those first experiences on the gamecube, I recall spending so much time thinking about individual rooms in the house. What do I need to do in the exercise room? How do I light up the fortune teller’s room? What will get me to the next floor?

These sorts of thoughts, memories highlights a key difference between games 1 and 3. Luigi’s Mansion 1 was about the house, the whole house, and nothing but the house.

When thinking about the first Luigi’s Mansion, I think back to some of the early 3d platformers and their allure, which I find has been lost on a lot of modern attempts. Especially in Mario 64 and Banjo Kazooie, I feel developers had mastered what I called the Vignette worlds. or maybe Playgrounds. These were levels that were very finite, really quite small if seen from a distance, but had so much to do in them.

This may have been due to limitations of the hardware that forced this type of world and gameplay, but I feel it had a huge impact on the way players would relate to a world. Because you spend so much time in so small a place, you start to become incredibly familiar with all the features of the world. You know by heart where the ramps are, you recognize the tower in the distance. These worlds all became like homes in a sense, and a game featuring 15 or more of these “worlds” felt huge, because of the amount of time you spent in each helped to make the move between different ones feel like a powerful move, like the feeling of leaving home for college, or taking a month long vacation.

When we saw these developers try to move to larger worlds, like Banjo Tooie or Super Mario Sunshine, that feeling of home was lost. We zip past details, we’re on a long trek to somewhere with nothing in between. Take a look at how far apart things are in Super Mario Odyssey, and how little the space in between means.

Coming back to Luigi’s Mansion, one might infer that a similar forced hand was occurring, albeit at a next gen level. They were trying to showcase the step up in graphics, which Nintendo was never a huge player in. Their solution, was something incredibly beautiful to look at, and yet incredibly small. There weren’t even 15 separate worlds, maybe... 30 rooms in a house?

So what made this a playable game? How many times can you do the ghost mechanic before it feels like you’re just bumping into the same 4 walls?

It was the mystery, the uncovering of all these many mysteries, in such a small space. Within this house were so many unique ghosts, and each one had some sort of trigger to allow you to actually catch them. You had to watch, observe, try to figure out. You would read the whole room, where any object could be important.

You might fail, you might not figure it out, and start running about the house, thinking or looking for clues or inspiration. The game played to this. Rooms you had ‘cleared’ of ghosts remained safe places, where you could think, look for money. Maybe read a book off a bookshelf. Dark rooms might always spawn ghosts, they were always a source of danger, and were never lit until cleared - you wanted to see how lovely these rooms could be. You wanted them to be safe. It was a HUGE motivator.

There were the elements of fire, ice and water. Objects in the room could relate to that, and be part of the problem solving. But you might not notice these things in a room until much later, when you got the power to do something with them. This instilled the idea that every room was important - everything in the room is important - and learning each room was as valuable a play experience as learning every world in a platformer might be.

What a huge idea! Showing us how magical rooms in a house and things in a house could be. Secret passageways, basements, attics. A candle might be magical if only you had the fire to light it.

Another important thing was feeling alone. You might get a bit of advice from E. Gadd, and you would come across Toads, but they never went with you. You could visit them, but the mystery and adventure was yours alone to unravel and discover, call out as you might for your brother. You were also never trapped in the mansion, but bound by a sense of duty.

----

When you get into Luigi’s Mansion 3, you might not notice a few things right off the bat, but maybe feel something is different. The battle mechanics feel... a bit more like a beat-em-up? The introduction of the slam mechanic makes dealing with ghosts a lot quicker. Which is a good thing... right?

Not really. Ghosts aren’t a threat to fear and a motivator to “clear a room.” There’s no way to actually clear a room of ghosts - sometimes they’re in there, sometimes they’re not, but - either way, you just slam them and move on. A nuisance at best. In the first game, you could flee from a fight by entering another room - you could double back quickly, and it still might be going on. In this game, if you’re not locked to a zone for a meaningless fight, there’s no feeling of fear like you’re running away - you’re just moving past them.

The slam mechanic, though, as well as the plunger move, highlights what I feel is the most - literally- destructive move the series has made - you can destroy everything in a room. It’s fun a hell and looks cool as hell, but what does it imply?

Rooms don’t matter. The things in rooms don’t matter.

Really, if you can’t break something in a room, then it’s obviously used as a puzzle mechanic. But in this game, if it’s not a grate that gooigi can walk through, or a tube gooigi can go through, or a big thing you can stick a plunger to and yank away, it doesn’t mean shit.

There’s no bookshelves on a book you can read, no candles that might light up with fire. There are ‘things’ yes, like a fan you can blow, but they stick out like a sore thumb. A few clever things, like seeing two cymbals and being rewarded for crashing them together, hearkens to the sort of smarts this game could have more of. But you’re not in a house where every room is special, you’re not exploring what the parts of a house are and what they do.

I’d actually say that the first 5 floors of this game, -almost- do that. Because, in the first 5 floors, you are exploring a traditional hotel. Bathrooms, dining halls, some actual hotel rooms. That has the magic that the home-snooping 1st game had. You get to see the first rooms you were in change drastically. You get elevator buttons in a random order, sending you to 3, then 5, then finally 4.

Floor 6 is where the game pretty much tells you “nah, this isn’t it.” It’s a thematic castle floor. All the rooms are linear, castle themed puzzles. Besides looking pretty, there’s no reason you would want to come back to them. You’ll need to, if they didn’t obviously place all the thematic gems, but you won’t feel rewarded for “reading the room.” You’ll feel rewarded for noticing the puzzle, framed by a boring ass room.

Then, you start getting elevator buttons linearly. 6, then 7, then 8, then 9. Each floor is themed, but even worse then having a linear arrangement of rooms, some floors are only 4-5 rooms, with hardly any amount of play value in them. The “museum of history” which would be RIFE with nooks and crannies, moving through displays, ending up in the gift shop - is one big, boring, lifeless room.

It brings some nice things from the 2nd game - the light to reveal invisible objects, though - you just end up passing through a room twice, once with the vacuum, the other time with that light. Not as rewarding as, say, having to learn that an object in the room is obscuring something. But the way spiders move and react, the way some small animated interactions happen, give little bits of life.

Every ghost encounter, though - of which there’s like 15, talking main ghosts - is pretty much dictated to you, through a series of cinematics if not just a boss fight delivered on a silver platter _at least up to floor 9). There’s no time spent uncovering a solution, giving these bosses character and meaning - it’s just something you’re progressing to on a linear basis. Even the cat segment was boring, as it didn’t take long for you to reach the end of that arc.

Even as point a-to-b as the game is, you never feel alone, and that’s a huge detriment to the motivation the first game gave you. You don’t feel like Luigi, the under appreciated brother using his wits to figure out a situation. You feel like Luigi, the pawn that does what he’s told. E.gadd isn’t just checking in with you at the end of each floor, or maybe after a big event with a few tips. Unless you turn it off, he’s calling, constantly. If it’s not him, it’s the ghost dog. You can’t even walk down some hallways without the dog popping out and arbitrarily halting your exploration, so you can watch him walk through the door you’re SUPPOSED to go through. Or, fail a few times getting the hang of a mechanic, or try the wrong thing - never fear! Your ghost dog friend will show you how to do it!

A few instances of this can feel charming, a refreshing break between the tenser times of a trickier game. But this game floods you with it. When you finally get to some periods of silence in between, though, there’s not much for you to discover yourself that feels cumulative, feels like you’re really figuring it out - you almost rush to the next context sensitive moment, because that’s obviously where the game is.

I can see where a hotel setting for this game would have worked really well. It could have expanded in a larger sense, if it was inside of these rooms, that secret passageways took you to unbelievable areas. But you would still be exploring a hotel, the architecture, the way a hotel works, and trying to understand how to awaken and capture the tenants that otherwise would just ignore and pester you - not just be the obvious point at the end of an obvious line.

#luigi's mansion 3

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garyofrivia · 5 years

Text

For They Shall Be Satisfied

Arthur Morgan x OC

Chapter 1

(masterlist in bio - find more chapters there!)

Summary: In the days before the Blackwater Massacre, everything was simpler. Life has never been about the delicacies of luxury for the Van der Linde gang. It’s about surviving. Annie Bolton is no stranger to survival. With a natural talent for robbing, killing, and con-artistry, she fit in perfectly when she fell in with Dutch and company 6 years ago. But with time, more than what meets the eye is revealed. Not everyone is who they say they are and everything is always more than it seems. What is uncovered from beneath the guise of freedom and liberty is a world full of chaos, death, and deceit. For Arthur, John, Dutch, and Annie, the struggle for power is coming to an end and the time to make important decisions closes in, quicker than any of them could prepare for. (Takes place just before RDR2 and then continues into the game's events - Arthur will get his happy ending if it's the last thing I do goddamn it)

A/N: soo this is my first chaptered RDR fic, heck! feel free to let me know what ya think, stay tuned for updates, she’s gonna be a long one, kids.

Warnings/Categories: Violence, Angst

(WC: 4,312)

The plains of West Elizabeth were just as they had always been. Dry, hot, barren, practically a desert. For miles, all you could see was grassland that seemingly swallowed the horizon. It gave the illusion of being flat, though jagged rocks stuck out of the earth like fangs. Steep hills and ridges disrupted the terrain and painted the picture of a wasteland, though it was quite the contrary. The wildlife that thrived there endured the elements as they came. When it rained, it poured. At night, the temperatures reached near freezing, a stark contrast to the scorching midday sun with rays that seemed to make its way through every cloud break in the sky. Even in early spring, it was unbearable. With the heat beating down on her shoulders, the hunter on the road finally gave into the temptation of shedding her jacket and slung it over her horse’s back behind the saddle. She was a tall, fair woman, with strong shoulders atop her lean frame and wide hips. Her long, deep brown hair was tied off her sweaty neck and tied into a braid down her back, and even without the jacket she felt as if she was baking alive in the dry heat. She wiped the sweat from her brow and grimaced. She truly did not miss the this climate.

Annie Bolton had gone out alone on a hunting trip for a few days to the northwestern part of West Elizabeth. She told herself that it was a way to get away from camp and seemingly everyone’s watchful eyes for a while and to scout the perimeter of the territory as she tracked herds of pronghorn. The trip had been relatively unsuccessful, and while she collected about a half-dozen jackrabbit pelts, the bigger game in the area had seemed to have disappeared. She was trekking back to camp on foot, leading her stallion, Nero, around snake holes and loose rocks. Her bowstring was rubbing her collarbone raw, but she didn’t care. The frustration of the hunt had sent her spiraling into a whirlwind of thought. The Van der Linde gang had retreated east to escape the long arm of the law in multiple. Dutch had thought it best, since that’s really the only direction they could go without running out of land. Civilization did not sit well with the gang; or rather, the gang didn’t sit well with civilization. While the area around Blackwater wasn’t as populated or industrialized as other places out east, it was still… different. On the other hand, cities and towns offered profitable more opportunities than the open frontier. Annie and Hosea made a killing in the towns. They were a good team when they worked together, especially considering he taught her everything she knows about running a scheme. She was a natural at it, sweet talking any unsuspecting businessman at a saloon she could to draw their attention and give them the rundown, but she preferred to remain in the background and watch from afar. The more information she could gather about her surroundings, the better. She never let anyone go into a job unprepared for a situation that could take a wrong turn. Almost every stagecoach hit, heist, homestead run, or bank robbery that she had taken point on had been a success. Even though she’d been running with the Dutch for less than a quarter of the time his right hand, Arthur Morgan, had been, she’d quickly risen to the top of the food chain under Hosea’s wing. She proved herself to be a valuable member of the team many times over. Although to her, nothing ever seemed to be enough. It’s not that Dutch didn’t like her. He called her his daughter and he trusted her with big jobs as much as he did Arthur or Hosea. But he was… off, as of late. He’d sometimes pull Hosea aside and they’d speak quietly about something in his tent and usually, the conversations turned into heated arguments. She never caught a full conversation, but for more reasons than one, she knew a lot of them had to have been about her. Annie was a loner, even within the gang. After 6 years with them, she still felt the need to keep to herself. This didn’t seem to sit well with Dutch. She’d never cross anyone, not even in her wildest dreams. She would, and had, put herself in any kind of danger to protect them, just as they would each other. Every time it came up with Arthur, which was rarely a conversation either of them enjoyed having, he assured her that her that Dutch loved her like his own. She never believed him, so she’d taken it upon herself to prove her worth. And that she did. But, the less than successful hunting trip had caused her to miss out on a caravan robbery near Blackwater and had barely any game to show for it. She and and her horse both felt defeated as they trudged on through the thick undergrowth and uneven ground. What at first seemed to be a gust of wind in the brush, she soon realized was a voice from over a small ridge to her left. She immediately halted in her tracks and whipped out the binoculars from her saddlebag. She crouched down and approached carefully. Two men came into view and she could just barely make out what they were saying. “I jus’ don’t think it’s a good idea,” the man standing next to a tree said loudly. He spoke in an Irish accent that sent shivers down Annie’s spine. It can’t be… “It don’t matter what you think, dumbass.” “That much is clear.” “Boss says it’s the best thing we can do right now. So we’ll wait up for Thomas and Connelly and the rest of their lot and just do what we’re told.” She peered through her binoculars and caught a glimpse of their faces and notorious blue coats, recognizing them instantly. O’Driscolls. Damn it. It somehow wasn’t a surprise, though it was a bit puzzling. What are they doing this far south? As if on cue, band of five men rode into view and towards the small encampment. “Howdy, Collins. O’Shea,” the man on the first horse greeted them. “Connelly is brining the rest of the boys right behind us. The pair of you ready to go catch us some Van der Lindes?” Shit. “Sure, their hit’s supposed to be just north of here. We scouted the area.” SHIT. Without wasting any time, she took off back to Nero and spurred him into a gallop towards camp. Panic was hitching in her chest. It’d only be a few weeks since they’d been camped near Blackwater and the O’Driscolls shouldn’t have been able to find them so quickly. And the chances of them catching wind of the caravan job were slim to none. Something was wrong. The sight of Charles standing guard just outside camp alarmed her for some reason. She figured he’d be on with the job, but they must have been shorthanded for guard duty. “Annie-,” he started to say something, but she sped past him and right into the heart of camp. “Dutch!” she called. The Count and Boudicca were hitched next to each other near Strauss’s wagon. “Dutch!” “Annie, why on Earth are you yellin’?” Dutch brushed passed the flap of his tent with Arthur on his heels. “It’s the O’Driscolls. They’re headin’ to the caravan. I don’t know what they’re plannin’, but it can’t be good.” “Shit. Where are they?” “East, down the river a ways. Arthur, let’s go.” Arthur groaned and jogged towards his horse. “Jesus.” “I need to come with you,” Dutch said, starting for The Count. “No, they’ll be gunnin’ for you,” Annie said. “And we need people here to protect camp in case they find it, and by the looks of it it’s only you, the Callander boys, and Charles.” “Were you followed?” Dutch says, narrowing his eyes. “No, of course not! We don’t have time for this,” she said a bit too harshly. Dutch opened his mouth to snap at her but Arthur cut him off. “She’s right, Dutch. Who knows how they found us, they might have more men than just the ones she saw.” “Fine,” Dutch said, nodding reluctantly. “Go on, then.” She took off again at full speed with Arthur at her side. He pulled slightly ahead, leading the way to the hit location. “Why aren’t you on the job, Arthur?” she said. “Who’s takin’ the lead?” “John is,” he replied, monotone. “Dutch wanted a few errands taken care of. Had to tend to that first with Bill, I was gonna catch up later.” “Didn’t seem like it. Since when are you an errand boy and John gets to run point?” “Since today, apparently. Since you wanna ask me all these questions, where the hell have you been?” “Hunting.” “Did you toss all the game back after reelin’ ‘em in? Or did they just get up to put their pelts back on and walk home?” “Shut up. I went ‘cause I thought there would be plenty of guns for this job. Not my fault the fields are dry as hell.” “I told you, I was gonna go!” “Either way, it’s done with now. All that scouting for nothin’. Damn it.” “Well…” She glanced over to him and saw the familiar, sly gleam in his eyes. “What?” “We could cut these boys off. Save the job from goin’ sour. Lord knows we need the money.” Annie paused to think and slowed Nero to a canter, Arthur following suit. “What if they have more men, like you said?” He shrugged. “What’s that magical gut of yours tellin’ you?” “We could… split up?” “Neither of us are that good with a pistol to take on that many O’Driscoll boys alone. I appreciate the sentiment, though.” “Well, I could ride up on that ridge with my rifle just before where the hit’s gonna go down. Pick ‘em off as they come in, with you on the ground to round up the stragglers.” “Now, there’s an idea,” he said, satisfied. “You wanted a hunt, didn’t ya?” Annie smirked and kicked Nero to a gallop again, leaving Arthur to make his way to the rest of the gang. It was about a five minute ride by the time she got to the ridge. She pulled her worn, black bandana over her nose and mouth and dismounted. With a quick survey of the area, she pulled the sniper rifle from her saddle and began aiming to adjust the scope, finding the gang in her sights, just around the bend that would hide them from the oncoming caravan. Arthur tipped his hat when he saw her wave from the ridge and returned to arguing with John. No sign of the O’Driscolls or the stage coaches yet. Annie sighed with relief. They’d gotten there with time to spare. She kept an eye on the gang. John had brought Sean, Micah, Javier, and Lenny. “Idiot,” she mumbled to herself. It wasn’t nearly enough men for a robbery like this in broad daylight. He and Arthur both looked heated, which was nothing new. A few years before, John had run off for a while, longer than he should have according to Arthur. They’d been at each other’s throats since he got back. Annie saw Arthur point to her and across the fields, probably telling the rest of them what the plan was. As he ran off to get in position, she turned her attention to the east. It wasn’t long before the onslaught of O’Driscolls came riding across the plains. Annie quickly counted ten of them in total. This wasn’t going to be easy. She took in a deep breath and lined up her first shot, firing with a steady exhale. One down. The man’s head bobbled, his body immediately going limp and falling sideways off his horse. The piercing sound of the sniper rifle took the rest of them by surprise, but they kept formation, not knowing where the fire was coming from. She pulled the trigger twice more, dropping another two men. Seven more to go. They scattered with the third shot and Arthur instantly took off towards the four riders going south, while Annie focused her fire on the three fleeing north. From her peripherals, she saw the gang fall into motion as the first stagecoach entered the valley, John at the head. She was surprised they hadn’t stopped and turned around the wagons at the first sounds of gunfire. City folk had once again proven themselves to be notoriously naive. One of the O’Driscoll boys ran right past the disoriented escorts, but Annie splattered his brains on the road right next to them. She didn’t miss a shot, even from this distance with moving targets. Though Arthur and the rest of the boys would never admit it, she was the best sharpshooter in the gang. If there was one thing she was sure of about herself, it was her steady aim. She picked off the last O’Driscoll in her sights and turned her attention back to the heist. The three moronic escorts were off to the side in front of Micah on their knees, clear of the robbery. Three coaches full of rich travelers and precious cargo meant a huge haul for them. This was the biggest job they’d done in a few months and she prayed nothing more would get in the way as she packed her gun onto her saddle and began to mount up to help Arthur. “Long time no see, Bolton’.” She froze. The eerily familiar voice came from behind her. A revolver hammer locked into place and a chill ran down her neck when she felt the barrel turn its aim on her. “Gregory,” she said, glancing over her shoulder and raising her hands. “What brings you boys to these parts?” “Just on the trail of some vermin. Looks like I caught myself some. Why don’t you come on home with me?” “Why? You miss me?” “I sure as hell don’t. Colm do, though. I’m just doin’ his biddin’,” he scoffed Anger rose up within her at the mention of Colm. He’d taken her in when she was a child, but not in the way Dutch did with orphans who need a home. He was more like her owner, making her dress up for jobs to use her as bait, training her to kill, steal, and fight. If she did do it the way he said, she earned herself a beating, if he was feeling kind. She eventually was able to get out when she was about 13. They’d had a few run-ins since, but she always somehow managed to escape. But it came close once. Too close. About a year ago, she was laying in her bed, mending the gunshot wound that should have killed her. The bullet somehow left all vital organs undamaged, missing her left lung by just under an inch. It still gave her a run for her money when it got infected after being stranded out in the elements for a day or two. Hosea found her facedown in the mud, 40 yards from camp. She didn’t remember how, but she walked and dragged herself the whole way from town, nearly six miles away. How she didn’t bleed out was beyond anyone. By some unruly stroke of luck, surely. She slowly turned to face the man she once knew as Joseph Gregory. His left shoulder was shot, likely in the collarbone from the way his arm was limp at his side. He must have been one to get away from Arthur. Now that he had her cornered once and for all, the manic grin across his face was hauntingly overjoyed. “You boys been followin’ us, then?” “‘Course we have,” he said. He’d lost a lot of blood, but he seemed more angry than concerned. “There’s a price on your head in two different states. Figure it’s easy money.” “Well, seems like nothin’s changed with you. You can’t take me in to the law if Colm wants me. Where’s your loyalty lie, Joey? With Colm or with the money?” Gregory smiled. “Colm says he’ll let me have you after he’s done with what he needs to do witcha. I’m gonna call the bounty money a bonus.” “We both know that’s a damn lie.” “It ain’t!” “So you intendin’ to take me alive, then?” “So long as you cooperate. I’ll shoot them pretty little legs right off ya if you don’t. He only needs a part of you still breathin’.” “C’mon now, you don’t think I’ll willingly get on that nasty ole nag of yours, hands tied with no way of defendin’ myself, do you?” His smile faded. “I don’t see how you’re in any position to be makin’ demands, bitch.” “Go on, then,” she taunted, dropping her hands to her side. “Shoot my ‘pretty little legs’ off.” He frowned and cinched his eyebrows together in frustration. It was a thin line she was treading, but she knew Colm O’Driscoll. He wanted her for himself. And Gregory was afraid of Colm more than he hated Annie. “You can ride your own horse,” he mumbled, reluctantly. “But I gotta tie your hands to my saddle.” She smirked and held her hands out. “See? That seems reasonable.” He holstered his gun and started to restrain her. Annie smiled when she saw the rider in the black hat pop up over the hill, just behind Gregory. Arthur pressed a finger to his lips and crept towards them, revolver in hand. When he was in position he nodded and Annie made her move. “Achoo!” she sneezed right into Gregory’s face, stunning him for half a second. It was enough time for Arthur to jump into action and pressed the gun right into the O’Driscoll’s spinal cord. Annie rubbed her nose, mockingly. “Sorry, must be all the dust.” “You goddamn bitch! I’ll gut you for this!” “Hey now, didn’t your mama ever teach you how to talk to a lady?” Arthur said. He grabbed Gregory by his arm and forced him to the ground, face down. “That ain’t no lady,” Gregory snarled. “That’s a damned she-devil.” Annie chuckled as Arthur smashed the butt of his gun into the man’s head, making him yelp like a dog. “Nah, he’s right, Arthur. I ain’t no lady. I’m so, so much worse.” She approached him and knelt so that he could see her face clearly. “Now, if you survive this, you tell Colm we’re far too smart for him. We’ll always see him comin’. We’ll always be one step ahead. Always.” She nodded to Arthur and he hogtied him without struggle. “C’mere,” he said, slinging Gregory onto his shoulder and walking him down the hill to the his horse. He threw him on the back and secured him to his own saddle. “Have a good trip, now. Make sure you take a left at the crossroads.” With that, Annie slapped the man’s horse and they took off into the distance. “You shoulda shot him,” she said. “I didn’t wanna miss and accidentally hit you.” “All the same.” “You okay?” She shuffled her feet and adjusted the brim of her hat. “Yeah, no reason why I shouldn’t be.” “Well, you were just starin’ down the barrel of that bastard’s gun.” “Nothin’ new. Concern’s not a good look for you, Arthur.” “Sure. How many you get?” “In all? Six.” “How many shots?” Annie grinned deviously. “Do I really need to answer that?” “No,” Arthur laughed and shook his head. “You sure don’t” Annie’s smile faded and she sighed. “They’re trackin’ us. Bastard said so himself. They’re… uh, tryin’a get to me.” “Shit. I knew Colm to be vengeful, but not like this. What did you even do to the man, again?” “I left him, joined up with his sworn enemy, and started killin’ his men. I reckon that’d make him pretty mad.” “This ain’t mad. This is crazy.” “There a difference?” Before he could respond they saw John ride up to them from around the side of the hill, followed closely by the rest of the gang on the job. “Thanks for havin’ our back, you two,” John said, nodding to the pair of them. Javier tossed them both a single stack of bills. “Here’s your cut. We should be gettin’ outta here.” “Right, Arthur and Annie, always there to save the goddamn day.” Micah said, a bit too loudly. “We didn’t run it, why do we get a cut?” Annie asked, ignoring Micah’s jab. “There wouldn’t have been a bloody job if it weren’t for you two bastards,” Sean chimed in. “Why are you arguin’? Let’s get a move on!” “I ain’t arguin’,” Arthur said, shrugging. He whistled for his horse and Annie did the same. “Let’s go, law’ll be here any minute on account of all the gunfire. Separate ways everyone. Stay outta sight and outta trouble.” Annie mounted her horse and turned to ride off with the rest of them when she noticed Arthur hanging back, taking in the view of the scattered O’Driscoll corpses from the ridge. She rode up to him and noticed a puzzled look on his face. “What is it?” “Oh, uhh… I was just… wonderin’ about how they heard about the heist. Kinda suspicious, don’t ya think?” Annie sighed. “We can figure all that out at camp. There’s nothin’ here that’ll help.” “Maybe there’s -.” “Arthur,” she said, cutting him off. “What is it?” He sighed, hesitating. “It’s Dutch. He’s concerned for… well, us. You and I.” “Why’s that?” “A while back he told me that Colm’s apparently been hearin’ the message that you’re close with me. Dutch says he’ll try to use me to get to you. Now I don’t rightly worry about myself in that regard. But the way Colm’s been gunnin’ for you… It’s unsettling.” Annie shifted in her saddle, a bit unnerved. “Why’s any of this on Dutch’s mind?” “Don’t be like that, Annie, he’s only lookin’ out for the gang.” “Just seems he shoulda come to me about it, seein’ as it’s my responsibility.” “It’s just as much mine as it is yours.” “Is it? You don’t know what Colm’s capable of, I can guarantee you that much.” Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think I know what he’s done?” “No,” she said, plainly. “I don’t. The next time you or Dutch have a conversation about who will be dyin’ ‘cause of me, I’d like to be there for it.” “We weren’t talkin’ about-.” “About what? Throwin’ me out?” “Jesus, no! Of course not, Dutch’d never do that to one of his own.” “Really?” she scoffed. “I was an O’Driscoll once, you think he’s forgotten about that?” “He ain’t Colm. You were a kid, same as all of us when we fell into this life. Dutch knows that, he knows your story, how it went for you. It’s bad business.” “He ain’t know the half of it. Neither do you.” “Tell me then,” he challenged, raising his hands in exasperation. “If you’re so hellbent on us knowin’ the whole story.” “I ain’t,” Annie snapped. “Look. I know what Colm’ll do once he’s got his sights set on someone. He’ll use anyone he can, anyone you’re close to.” “Is that what we are then, Arthur? ‘Close’?” He paused, taken aback by the question. “Well, I don’t know, are we?” Annie shook her head and sighed loudly. She felt a confusing mix of anger and sadness swirling in her stomach. If the two of them had anything in common, it was their temper. “Arthur, you gotta understand, if anything happened to you… or the rest of the gang for that matter... because of me, I’d never forgive myself. I was a fool for hopin’ it’d be different. After everything I’ve done…” Arthur didn’t seem like he knew how to respond. He just looked at her with longing eyes, begging her to not finish building the wall she’d been putting up between them for as long as he’s known her. The silence grew more and more tense between them. But she realized she knew what she had to do. “I’ll talk to Dutch and Hosea,” she continued, her voice suddenly weak. “I’ll do a few more jobs with you all, help you out some while I make what I need to be on my way.” Arthur shook his head in denial. “No, Annie. That ain’t gonna go over well.” “Damn what Dutch says then. I won’t do that to everyone. We have our differences he and I, but you all are fine people. Hosea will-.” “No, not with Dutch. Not with Hosea. With me, with John and Charles, Lenny, and Tilly and the rest of everyone-.” “I just-.” “Shut up for once, will ya?” he snapped at her. Her breath hitch on the lump forming in her throat and she suddenly couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. “Annie, we’re family now, ain’t we? We’ll protect you. I will. I won’t… I can’t do none of this without you. None of us can, we need you.” “We should go, Arthur,” she said, her voice cracking. The feeling of dread sank in her stomach like a rock. She lowered her head so her hat hid her face, fearful of what her expression might reveal. “Please, can I see you at camp? Can we talk about this?” “Since when are you one for talkin’?” She cleared her throat and hesitated. “I’ll meet you back there.” With that, she took off towards Blackwater, mustering all her strength to hold herself together. She knew it wouldn't last very long.

#rdr2 fic #red dead redemption fic #rdr fanfic #red dead redemption fanfic #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan fic #rdr oc #my fics #my oc #annie bolton #for they shall be satisfied #ftsbs

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