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kylosbrickhousebody · 16 days

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Fire Is Such Strange Power - Chapter 1

Rating: (E) Explicit for graphic depictions of violence, mature themes, and eventual adult content.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Visenya Targaryen (eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon)

Tropes: Forbidden love, rivals to lovers, mutual pining, angst, unresolved (eventually resolved) tension

Warnings: Targcest, graphic depictions of violence, period-typical attitudes

Read on AO3.

~~~~~

It felt good to strike him, to watch fire flare in his eye, to hear the grunt of surprise escape from the confines of his throat.

It was rare, these days, to shove him out from behind his impassive facade. It was even rarer for her to manage to punch him.

Evenly matched though they were in sword fighting, this contest had come to physical blows after they'd mutually disarmed one another. While he had been short with rounded cheeks as a youth, Aemond Targaryen had long since grown into a man. He stood a head taller than her now. His cheeks had hollowed and hardened. Lean though he was, every bit of him seemed muscle and sinew and bone.

He took the punch well, the force of it briefly rippling the skin along the crescent of his jawline.

She cried out when he backhanded her hard across her face in retribution.

“Mandianna, ao mīvojughagon aōha dīnagon arlī.” Niece, you forgot your place again.

“Lo mērī aōha qimos iksin daor sīr rōvāje, qȳbor.” If only your chin wasn't so huge, uncle.

“Se sȳrkta syt ao naejot gūrēñagon lēda.” The better for you to practice with.

Visenya Targaryen spat blood from her mouth.

“Jiōragon va lēda ziry, pār.” Get on with it, then.

They circled each other in the dirt of the training yard, gravel crunching underfoot. Each watched the other, each waiting for an opening. Whether from pride or from honor, neither would stop before one won outright. The Kingsguard wouldn't come to separate them anymore. They had given up a long time ago.

She had been allowed to train with the sword as a young girl. She was merely an amusement in the training yard all those years ago, a little girl with a wooden sparring stick. Some thought it queer to allow a girl child to train, but she hadn't been a threat to anyone then. It was harmless, everyone said. It was a laugh.

She was supposed to have stopped when she flowered into a woman.

Visenya cried bitterly when the day came. None of her half-brothers had to endure the painful, messy, distracting bleeding. None of her half-brothers had to stop doing anything they loved.

So, she refused.

First it was her mother, Rhaenyra, who turned to plead with her own father, King Viserys. Rhaenyra herself bitterly resented her own lack of arms training. Her father's cup had been thrust upon her in girlhood instead. While any boy child would have been prepared for future combat, she was taught how to sing and sew and speak pretty words to other perfumed ladies.

When Viserys declined to allow Visenya to continue in the training yard, it was her father who interceded next. It was not known what words he spoke to his brother, the king, but it was said that shouting could be heard from the small hall. Some whispered that Daemon had screamed that the most famous wielder of his own weapon, the Valerian steel sword Dark Sister, had been Visenya’s namesake.

She never learned the truth of the words exchanged. Whatever the case, she had been permitted to return to the training yard on the morrow.

There, however, she was told that the Kingsguard would have no further role in her training. The guard and its commander, Ser Criston Cole, thought it dishonorable to strike a woman. Injuries were an inevitability in training. She was therefore disallowed from formally participating.

There was one option she was allowed, though.

You see, Aemond had just recently lost an eye back then. She had been snug in her bed on the night of his maiming and did not know the full truth of the matter.

As the story went, Aemond snuck out under the cover of darkness to illicitly claim the she-dragon, Vhagar. Vhagar had been left riderless by the recent death of Lady Laena Velaryon, the mother of her half-sisters Baela and Rhaena. Rhaena, still without her own dragon, swore on her mother's watery grave that she would claim her beloved dragon as her own. She would do this on the morrow, she said, so she could spend the fullness of the day mourning for her mother.

Aemond, also without a dragon, allegedly sensed an opportunity. King Viserys had proposed stopping at Dragonstone on their way from Driftmark to King's Landing so his second son could claim a hatchling or an egg, 'if he was brave enough.' The boy was said to be incensed by the comment, having already been mocked repeatedly by his teenage brother, Aegon, for his lack of a dragon.

Aemond, it was claimed, misliked that he was offered a mere egg or hatchling while the younger Rhaena was allowed an attempt on the biggest and oldest dragon in the world.

Baela and Rhaena were awoken that fateful night by the roar of the familiar she-dragon. When they went to their windows, they witnessed Vhagar take flight with somebody on her back. Such was their confusion that they roused their half-brothers Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. Visenya, who was born of Daemon and Rhaenyra in her mother's youth and then out of wedlock, had not yet been legitimized. On account of her then-bastardry, her sleeping quarters had been in another wing of the castle at High Tide, and so she was not awoken by the sounds of her half-sisters' cries.

In any case, her half-brothers and half-sisters rushed outside to investigate, as children are pridefully wont to do.

When Aemond returned on dragon back, Rhaena confronted him outside the entrance hall of Hide Tide. There was said to be screaming and crying; it was claimed that Aemond threatened to feed all of the children to his new dragon. There, the stories diverge. The young Aemond claimed that Baela, Rhaena, Jacaerys, and Lucerys began to beat him viciously while little Joffrey cried. Jacaerys, meanwhile, maintained that Aemond drew his dagger and charged at him. Baela, Rhaena, and Lucerys’ stories contained some elements of both claims.

Whatever the case, Lucerys brandished his own dagger and, whether defending his brother or otherwise, slashed at Aemond’s face.

Whatever the truth, Aemond lost an eye that night.

He was disregarded as a serious prospect in combat training from that day. His grandsire, the Hand of the King Otto Hightower, instructed him to turn to the histories and philosophies, as he was now more suited to reading than to wielding a sword.

Aemond had been allowed to continue only light training, which was permitted solely for the sake of the boy’s pride.

And so Visenya and Aemond were directed to one another on account of their faults: her womanhood, his injury. It was thought that neither had any serious prospects in combat, and neither would represent any real danger to the other.

Aemond had been reasonably skilled for his age before he lost his eye, but its loss was quickly accompanied by a backslide in his abilities. The Grand Maester had said that he could no longer perceive depth correctly, and might never be able to again. Previously steady strikes became wild jabs. He was downgraded from an edged blade to a sparring sword for a long while.

Visenya made the switch with him. Not out of kindness–they were both just children, and Aemond had made fun of her bastardry plenty of times before his injury–but instead out of simple necessity. Aemond, angry and bitter and grieving though he was, was her only option for a training partner.

His attendance in the training yard was intermittent for many months afterwards. He would need another procedure done by the maesters, for instance, and afterwards always needed rest and to keep the eye socket clean. He would take a tumble down one of the Red Keep’s many flights of steps and injure himself in some other way and need rest yet again.

He would complain often of severe headaches. The flickering of candles could hurt; sunlight could hurt. Things she had never imagined could hurt anyone, hurt Aemond.

The socket did heal eventually. The Queen had him wear an eye patch as soon as he could, and for years afterwards, as the sight of the empty socket sometimes made children and ladies cry. As an older teenager, when the redness of his scar faded to brown and his mother could no longer fully control him, he took to wearing a large sapphire where his natural blue eye had once been. Sometimes he covered it with an eye patch, and sometimes not.

With physical healing came new strength, slowly and gradually. Lord Larys Strong had said once that if one part of the body was deformed, others would sometimes strengthen themselves in response. The maesters had said it was possible, too, and eventually Aemond didn't need to turn his head and neck quite so much to see. The other eye had learned to work harder, they said.

And Aemond worked harder, too.

Visenya had long since lost count of the number of times they knocked each other into the dirt and the stone. It must have been thousands of times by now. It became easier, with time, to both handle the sword and to tolerate Aemond.

He had never mentioned the circumstances of her birth again.

He started coming to the training yard every day at six and ten years old. She went, too, because she never had anyone to practice with when he wasn't there, and she assumed the same would be true for him. A feeling of obligation had sprouted, even if grudgingly.

Her half-brothers came less and less over time. King Viserys had given up on getting the boys to get along, and now the boys had become young men. Aegon had never trained very seriously with the sword, anyway, and soon enough Jace and Luke stopped coming as well.

Whether that was because they lost interest or were simply trying to avoid Aemond, who had become formidable with a blade while they had not, she could not say. It was her understanding that Luke never apologized for taking out his eye; Aemond certainly never forgave him.

While her siblings’ dislike of their uncle and cousin grew stronger and festered, and vice versa, expressions of hatred also grew quieter. Underhanded power plays took the place of outright aggression, and soon House Targaryen was well and truly split along bloodlines. Viserys ranted and pleaded but nothing brought the family back together, if indeed it had ever been. The Hightower line socialized with themselves. The Arryn-Velaryon line followed suit.

Except, of course, that Aemond and Visenya never stopped training together.

Lucerys sometimes acted as though she was a blood traitor for this fact. He never lost an opportunity to insult Aemond if provoked, and neither did Aemond. They were always forcibly kept apart on the rare occasions when they needed to occupy the same room.

Aegon had long since sunk into his cups and rarely had a nice thing to say to anyone about anything.

Helaena was a sweet but shy girl, and kept to herself on account of generally preferring her own company.

Jacaerys, Baela, and Rhaena kept to themselves to avoid the family drama that inevitably occurred when they didn't.

Joffrey had been too young to understand all the reasons for the deep divide in the family, and he hadn't become more understanding as a young teenager.

Her two full brothers, the inconveniently named Viserys and Aegon, born after Rhaenyra and Daemon had finally married, were still very young children.

Visenya and Aemond themselves, well…

Aemond had taken to wearing dark leathers in adulthood. His garb looked black indoors but shone green in the sunlight. Visenya supposed that was something of a metaphor.

For all her education, she wouldn't have been able to put their relationship into sure words. They were dragons, both of them, in the truest sense. Sometimes Aemond's fire warmed and comforted her; sometimes it burned and terrified her. She wore scars from their training efforts all over her body, just as he did. She was quite sure that she was the only person he hit every day, and indeed he was the only person she treated with the same unrelenting roughness. But Aemond also kissed her cheek in greeting at formal gatherings, as functional families were supposed to. He only ever kissed Helaena, Visenya, and his mother.

He steadfastly upheld her right to train, too, and suffered no shortage of consequences for it, either. Ser Criston Cole had heavily implied that Aemond’s willingness to hit a woman had become an irrevocable stain on his honor. Visiting Lords and Ladies who gathered in the yard to watch standard skirmishes had to be placated and reassured on the regular. His grandsire had apparently expressed that their violence in the training yard might even affect his marriage prospects. Few liege lords wanted what many perceived as a potential wife-beater for a son-in-law, even if he was a Targaryen prince.

Aemond never once relented. ‘My little niece is better than you’ had long since become his favorite taunt to spit at other men and, as he explained it, he was not going to give that up. She suspected his true reasons were more complicated. And so their relationship had grown into whatever it was now: sometimes tenuous, often fraught, always singular. There were even moments when sometimes she thought, perhaps, that–

A corded elbow caught her around the throat and yanked her to the side, hard.

Visenya tripped over her own feet.

“Ao ojūdan aōha dokimare,” you lost your focus, he purred in her ear. His breath felt hot, hotter than it should be.

She punched him in the side to no avail. Aemond wouldn't let go. The chokehold he had her in grew tighter. She clawed at his forearm, but he was too strong like this. She had wits, and speed, and agility, but not physical strength to match his.

“Skoros sia ao otāpagon nūmāzma?” What were you thinking about?

She stomped on his foot. He barely reacted, save for the chuckle she felt vibrate through his chest. It almost felt nice, for the very briefest of moments, to be held so close.

“Ao,” you, was the only reply she could wheeze.

She could only escape if she stabbed him or managed to kick him between his legs, neither of which would be received well.

Visenya tried to double over, tried one last time to break his hold. She pulled and pulled and pulled. It was of no use. Her vision became gray at the edges, then black, then swam before her eyes.

“Tender and loving thoughts, I'm sure,” he said, breathless, panting. The soft sound of his voice sounded so very far away now. It sounded as though she were underwater, and he was speaking to her from the fresh air above.

The familiar scent of sweat and dirt and dragon burned in her nose as the darkness in her vision consumed all.

#aemond targaryen #aemond #prince aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #asoiaf fanfic #hotd fanfiction #aemond fanfic #aemond x visenya #hotd #aemond x oc #aemond imagine

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peaches2217 · 8 months

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Perhaps some 🤒 for Luisley?

🤒 - Needing to be looked after

Overstimulated

~~~

The click of the front door opening, muffled though it was through the walls of his bedroom, brought Luigi out of his self-induced trance. That would be Mario. Back so soon?

When there was no call of “Weegee, sono tornato!”, the dread fluttering within Luigi’s stomach beat its wings even harder, exacerbated by the perpetual overstimulation that buzzed throughout his limbs and core. A silent Mario was rarely a good thing. That usually meant he was angry or deeply saddened or so thoroughly baffled that he had to retreat into his thoughts to make any sense of his own feelings, and given the context under which he had left the house…

What did he say? Was he upset? Those thoughts tumbled through Luigi’s head in a maddening rush, and as terrified as he was of the answer, he needed to know. As unusually light footsteps padded towards his room, he cocooned himself beneath his blankets, as if their soft fabric could cushion the blow of whatever he was about to hear, and steeled himself.

“Ch-che ha detto?” he called out to his brother. “Era… arrabbiato?”

The voice that responded was not Mario’s.

“Ah! There you are!”

Luigi’s blood froze within his veins.

He tossed the blankets aside and sat up just as the door was thrown open, and the sudden slam of wood against wood sent a jolt through his body that made him clap his hands over his ears. The all too familiar figure in the doorway, his bold chartreuse and white and gold standing in stark contrast to the cottage’s cozy interior, jolted as well.

“Commoners’ abodes,” Peasley muttered beneath his breath, eyeing the door with a mix of contempt and bemusement. “Why must your doors be so ludicrously lightweight?”

The disdain in his eyes might normally draw a chuckle from Luigi — he could practically see Peasley storming into the office of Toad Town’s primary contractor and causing a scene, because how dare the great heroes of the Mushroom Kingdom be given a home constructed of anything less than marble and solid gold — but today he flinched away from it.

This wasn’t happening. Surely this wasn’t happening.

Remembering all too suddenly the state that he was in, Luigi dove beneath the covers once more. Maybe he hadn’t been seen. Maybe he could still save face. Maybe the fabric could swallow him whole and put an end to this nightmare before it began. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing?” Peasley repeated, his tone thick with mock-offense. “My love, what wouldn’t I be doing here? Is it not one’s most sacred duty to tend to their loved ones in times of need?”

His voice came nearer as he spoke, and beneath his shroud of cotton and down, Luigi gulped. His pulse throbbed in his ears, his heart threatening to rip through bone and sinew right out of his chest. “Please don’t worry,” he said, though his voice shook far more than he would’ve liked. “I— I’m sorry I couldn’t make it today! It’s just, y’know—”

“‘Shroom fever’, correct?” Peasley drew the question out, his voice calm, but laced with something that sounded like amusement.

He didn’t buy it. Immediately Luigi’s throat tightened, and he inhaled sharply, willing himself not to start tearing up.

He expected his blankets to be pried away any moment now, for Peasley to expose his unkempt, lying face and see him for the great big mess that he truly was. The mattress dipped beside where he was curled into a pathetic heap, and his muscles tensed, preparing for the worst.

But it never came.

“Yes, that’s what the red one told me.” The amusement was still there, but now it sounded softer, more affectionate than accusatory. “I must say, he’s not too terribly convincing a liar. He would have held no qualms in seeing me to your bedside if you were ill, but he couldn’t give me a good answer for why this time was different.”

Luigi winced. He hasn’t considered that.

“You can’t tell him what’s going on,” he’d pleaded to his brother half an hour earlier, arms hugging his chest tightly in a futile attempt to stave off the effects of sensory overload. “Just, like… tell him I’m sick. Tell him I’ve got shroom fever or something!”

Mario, though sympathetic, had been disapproving. “He’s gonna have to know eventually. Come on, you know as well as I do that it won’t change anything.”

“But what if it does? What if he thinks I’m pathetic?”

“Then he never deserved you in the first place,” was Mario’s response.

Of course, that answer brought Luigi very little comfort. He felt bad enough when this happened, when his oddly-wired brain decided for no good reason that all sensory input was suddenly a thousand times more overwhelming than what he was used to, that getting out of bed was just too great a struggle as a result. For it to happen on a day he was supposed to meet up with the love of his life? The thought that he might lose said love for something so pathetic as this? Luigi couldn’t even begin to comprehend the ease with which Mario suggested that might be okay.

Peasley chuckled now, the sound resonating from deep within his chest. “Your fraternal devotion to one another will never cease to amaze me. No matter my insistence, I couldn’t drag an answer from him. He merely said that my right to know was entirely up to you.”

Frustration and gratitude grappled for superiority in Luigi’s mind. Of course Mario would never go spilling Luigi’s business. But he would have allowed it just this once, just to save himself some heartache.

If he was going to lose Peasley’s respect, he would have preferred it to happen from a distance. He didn’t want this front-row seat to his own undoing. The air beneath his flimsy fortress was hot and stale, and he felt sweat beading at his hairline.

“…It’s nothing,” he finally attempted, meekly.

“Hmm. Well, it’s something to you, and thus it’s something to me.” A rustling of fabric, and then the lightest of indents in the mattress next to his head. Peasley’s hand. “Do you mourn, my love? Might this be the anniversary of some tragedy? Or perhaps you’ve lost something dear to you?”

Not yet. Even thinking as much constricted Luigi’s airway once more, so he shook his head in response.

Peasley hummed again. “Might this have to do with your condition, then? Your anxiety, or your… awe-tee-sum, was it called?”

“Autism,” Luigi corrected automatically, and instantly he flinched at his own haste. “It’s… it’s nothing, I promise. It’s dumb.”

“Ah. So that’s a yes.”

Peasley still didn’t move. He sat perfectly still, his hand never once inching closer, an invitation that Luigi was welcome to accept or decline as he saw fit. He wanted nothing more than to reach out into the still air and take that hand, hold onto it with all his might, have some sort of solid proof that he wouldn’t be abandoned in spite of his brain telling him such an outcome was inevitable.

“…What else did Mario say?” he ventured instead, because Peasley had never been the sort to keep his hands to himself, and he had a sneaking suspicion his elder twin had something to do with that, too.

“He said I would do well to speak quietly and refrain from touching you without your permission,” Peasley confessed, “lest I would have scooped you into my arms the moment I heard your voice.” Another chuckle, and this time Luigi almost had the heart to join in. “I confess, I still don’t quite understand. But I would like to help. Will you acquaint me with your struggles, my dear?”

Acquaint me with your struggles. Now this was the phrase that bounced about Luigi’s skull, because it made no sense whatsoever. They were supposed to be on a date together. They were supposed to be out and about, enjoying food and nature and being a normal couple (as normal a couple as a human nobody and a Beanish prince could be, anyway). But instead Luigi was cooped up at home, too overstimulated to function like a regular personal, and Peasley had every right to be upset with him for balking on their plans and being a waste of oxygen and organic matter.

And for some reason only the Star Spirits could attest to, he wasn’t. Literal royalty sat at Luigi’s side, addressing him with fondness and requesting understanding of his inadequacies.

That was reason enough for Luigi to untangle himself from his blankets and pull them down, just enough to peek up and ensure the creature beside him was, in fact, not some fantastical fabrication from deep within his own fantasies.

“There you are.” Deep brown eyes beamed at him, revered him as a god among men, and for a moment Luigi felt that maybe he really was. “I feared I might not get to see that beautiful visage at all today.”

A swirl of conflicting emotions bubbled up within Luigi: confusion, joy, sadness, shame, filling every crevice of his body and compelling him to act. Hesitantly, he pulled the covers all the way down; the shedding of those protective layers made the buzzing in his limbs intensify, and the fresh air sent a chill through him, but breathing it in felt refreshing, even renewing. He filled his lungs, reached out, and accepted Peasley’s invitation at last.

The prince’s hand was pleasantly cool to the touch, and just as he had hoped, its stable presence calmed his racing heart. He tightened his grasp and tugged in order to pull himself up and scoot into an upright position. His head spun and his mouth was dry, but Peasley was here, and he would at least hear him out, and the loving gaze he fixed Luigi with gave him the courage to explain.

“Sometimes,” he began, “I… I mean, half the time, n-nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine, but for some reason the world is too loud and too bright a-and everything… hurts. It’s all just…” He balled his free hand into a fist and clenched as tightly as he could, and that at least lessened the buzz in the corresponding arm. “...too much.”

“Is that so?” Peasley said. There was genuine curiosity in his tone, sympathy in his eyes. “And today is such a day?”

Luigi nodded. “And I-I promise I tried fighting past it today. I didn’t wanna let you down, but…”

“Let me down? Luigi, I would never ask you to exceed your limitations for my sake.”

“But my limitations are—” He swallowed as well as he could, given his tongue felt woolen in his mouth. “Don’t you think it’s… don’t you think I’m kinda… kinda pathetic?”

The question gave Peasley pause, and where Luigi half-expected a denial, he was given only silence. But this silence wasn’t tense or uncertain; Peasley touched his index finger to his chin and cast his eyes aside, lips puckering and brows furrowing, the charmingly goofy expression of a Bean deep in thought.

He was… he was actually giving it serious consideration. And somehow that made his answer mean so much more than an immediate reassurance would have.

“…Not particularly, no,” he ultimately decided. “There are days where even I, skillful as I am, don’t feel quite up to par, and oftentimes there’s no good reason for it. Would you think less of me for such a thing?”

“Wha—? O-of course not!”

“And I think no less of you in turn.” Drawing Luigi’s hand to his lips, he pressed a tender kiss to his knuckles, his well-moisturized lips soft against the tight and dry skin. “Thank you for teaching me more about yourself, Greenie. I loathe to see you struggle, but I’m grateful that you would share those struggles with me.”

Once more Luigi’s heart raced, but no longer with fearful anxiety. Was this really possible? He was so certain he’d ruined Peasley’s day, so certain the repercussions would haunt him for years to come, and yet here he was, showering him with love and accepting him at one of his lower lows.

This wasn’t happening. Surely it wasn’t happening.

But it was, and the relief and gratitude and affection that flowed through his perpetually overstimulated body made Luigi want to slump forward, fall into Peasley’s arms, wait out the unpleasantness in the safety of his embrace.

At the same time, the thought of so much physical contact… he shuddered and relaxed his balled fist. Maybe holding hands was as much as he could manage today. But suddenly the thought of being alone again terrified him. “Will— will you stay? I-I don’t know where Mario’s at but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind—”

The smile Peasley flashed was both pleased and knowing. “Oh, rest assured, he’s not too far. He said he’d remain in the living room while we spoke.” Leaning in, he added beneath his breath: “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been listening in all this time. You know you have an excellent brother, do you not?”

At that, Luigi laughed, a mousey but authentic laugh. “You have an excellent brother” was Peasley Code for “Your brother has implicitly made threats against me that could have him declared a war criminal in the Beanbean Kingdom because he cares far more for your well being than his own.” Mario trusted Peasley and the two were good friends, sure, but he could get… rather intense when it came to his beloved little brother’s heart.

“Sorry about him,” Luigi whispered back.

“Rest assured, I’m happy for it! The more people looking after you, the better.” Peasley leaned back once more and stood, but he didn’t let go of Luigi’s hand. “Would you like some water?” he asked at his original volume. “And perhaps some lip balm? You’ve been licking and smacking your lips this entire time, you know.”

Luigi’s tongue darted between his lips automatically at that statement, and he realized Peasley was correct; not only were his throat and mouth still dry, but his lips were cracked. A bad habit of his, admittedly, and one he was never conscious of until someone else pointed it out. “Please. But—” He paused then, because making requests of a prince still didn’t feel quite right.

Thankfully, he didn’t need to make the request. Peasley gave his hand one more tight squeeze before dropping it and answering the silent question aloud.

“I’ll be only a moment,” he promised as he backed out of the room. “Nothing in all the world could convince me to leave your side, my love. You have my word.”

And though he still trembled in discomfort as his boyfriend took his leave, Luigi relaxed against the headboard, closing his eyes and sighing softly, because he knew it was the truth. Come hell or high water, full-functioning days or overload days, he knew now more certainly than ever that Peasley had no intention of abandoning him.

And he had to admit, that was a nice feeling.

#phew! this got long #I've got a note on my phone with short blurbs detailing the planned plots for upcoming wips #this one's blurb was literally just 'autistic burnout bitches'#I saw this prompt and knew IMMEDIATELY where I wanted to go with it so thank you so much for this #super mario bros #smb #luigi #prince peasley #mario & luigi superstar saga #m&l rpgs #luisley #luigi x peasley #peaches' fancy fics

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microwave-in-a-bind · 9 months

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Very pleased with the how the look of this one turned out! A collection of cool short stories about robots I've read in various online literary magazines (list below). The circuit board was from a pile of cheap discarded computer parts I got secondhand, and I made a multi-layer cover in order to inset.

This is the second book that I've ever sewn headbands for, and it's very much a learning experience. Like a dumbass, I made the first headband out of satin thread with a leather core, and the leather kept snagging bits of the thread and made it really hard to work with. With the second headband I switched to a smooth nylon cord, which was much easier to work with (plus by that point I had gotten a bit better at managing the tension on the threads, so I'm much happier with the results).

Anyway, here's the list of included stories (plus links), check them out if you're interested!

Carapace by Davis Goodman Fandom for Robots by Vina Jie-Min Prasad Robot by Helena Bell Sinew and Steel and What They Told by Carrie Vaughn An Easy Job by Carrie Vaughn Ship's Brother by Aliette de Bodard Helicopter Story by Isabell Fall (no longer available online on its original website) Dolly by Elizabeth Bear The Meeker and the All-Seeing Eye by Matthew Kressel Damage by David D. Levine A Guide for Working Breeds by Vina Jie-Min Prasad Cat Pictures Please by Naomi Kritzer What It Means to Be a Car by James Patrick Kelly

#bookbinding #robots

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robogirlwomb · 1 year

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When the Roboverlords took over, those who cooperated or volunteered were allowed to choose their role in the new world. They were allowed to customize their chassis, given rights above the other humans that resisted, who would be converted or used as the Roboverlords saw fit.

When you explained what you wanted to become, there was no judgement from the assignment councilor, though perhaps you could hear some surprise in their synthesized voice.

Nonetheless, they told you that what you wanted to become would be simple.

After all, the robo-patrols hunting down the remaining humans needed attack dogs. Even better to have one as enthusiastic as you.

Now, just a few weeks later, here you were, on your first hunt. You'd had time to get used to your new frame, now was the time to put it to real use.

A pair of humans are running, far ahead of your capture party, stumbling through the brush of the woods as they sprint for their lives. Even so, you sit obediently on your stainless steel haunches, not daring to pull against your leash until you are permitted.

Your handler, sharing a grin with the other synths in the capture party, reaches down toward your neck. With a click that sounds as loud as a thunderclap, your leash comes unclicked.

"Get 'em." Your handler commands.

You spring forward in a flash, and you're already barreling through the bushes on all fours. Plants and tree stumps zoom past your periphery, a low, metallic barking already coming from your external speakers.

You are the size of a direwolf, but even those are a pale comparison to what you can do. Powerful metallic canine legs propel you forward, each paw adorned with steel claws sharpened to an atomic point.

The buzzsaw blades in your mouth scream into life as the runners come into view, and in the span of a heartbeat, you are upon them.

The sawblades dig into the ankle of the one on the left. He screams in agony as he falls to the ground, blood and viscera spraying from his mangled, barely-attached foot. You press your muzzle further, the intoxicating scents and tastes of iron and copper filling your synthetic senses of smell and taste with a heady rush like you'd never felt before.

The other runner, just a little ahead, curses as she shifts her weight backward, raising the bat she was carrying in an attempt to rescue her partner.

It's not even a metal bat. Adorable.

The thick wood bounces off your chassis harmlessly. She might as well be attacking a concrete wall. Without even looking at her, your long, bladed tail shoots toward her side.

She falls to the ground, screaming in pain, more and more lovely crimson blood trickling down. Her screams meld with your other victim, and you'd be able to feel your heart racing, if you still had one.

You'd love to just keep going, mangling and mauling the two of them until there were not even bones left to be licked clean... but you have your orders. They're to be brought in alive, for conversion and brainwashing, or for biomass. Whichever your masters decide.

And you are nothing if not a loyal attack dog.

The one's leg is barely attached by a string of sinew. He's not going anywhere. The other is in pain, but comparatively less injured. Your tail mostly stabbed through her meat.

Your choice made, you turn to face her. Long cables shoot from your mouth, around your now-still sawblades, embedding in her body. Her cries of pain are cut silent by the stream of volts you send through her. She shakes violently on the ground, until she at last falls still and silently.

You leave her companion where he is as you begin to stalk back toward your masters, dragging her unconscious form behind you by the cables. He calls for her as you drag her away. Let him. They'll be reunited soon enough anyway.

As it turns out, you don't have to go far. The capture party comes striding through the brush, meeting you halfway. One peels off from the rest to go retrieve the other runner.

Your handler smiles down at you with pearly white synthetic teeth. You retract the taser cables back into your mouth and sit on your haunches, panting happily.

Your handler scratches you behind the ears, pride in his eyes at the job you've done.

"Good dog."

#robots nsft #blood cw #transformation nsft #robogirl tag #my posts #empty spaces #horror #assimilation kink #roboverlords

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trombonesolo · 1 year

Text

The Terrible Alfred Spožek exhibit of the Museum of Modern Hurt opened today. I took my wife and her children to see what all the fuss and bluster was about. A guard stopped us at the entrance and told us the exhibit was full and there would be an hour wait, then handed us a restaurant pager and showed us to an empty exhibit by one Giulia Bhoulârd. It was a series of crayon and lard paintings of naked men gripping their cock and balls in one hand and eating a variety of sandwiches in the other. Needless to say I didn't cover the kid's eyes, because I couldn't give a shit about the little bastards.

After about 20 minutes, our restaurant pager buzzed, so we shuffled back out into the main hall. The guard took our pager and led us into the exhibit, which was shielded by a pair of thick blackout curtains. When our eyes adjusted to the dark, we realized we were surrounded by hundreds of knives, and before we could turn around, the guard had already piled more people in behind us. We were about 40 adults and 10 children, and the room could hardly accomodate a party half that size. I was immediately separated from the kids, which provided a small sense of relief in the odd atmosphere.

Eventually, the curtains' rhythmic parting ceased and the room was full. The murmur of the crowd died to a chill hush as a spotlight shown above us. Mr. Spožek was sitting in an extremely high chair, much like the chair of a lifeguard, in the center of the room. He began to speak through the microphone clipped to his sweater vest.

" Ladies and gentlemen, today it is my great pleasure to present to you my latest piece, commissioned and sponsored by the museum's board of patrons. It is the sole piece in my exhibit, and I assure you all it is unforgettable. Without further ado, let's begin." Suddenly, I noticed the pair of construction-grade noise protection ear muffs on his head, and I instantly developed a very unpleasant sensation in my chest, much akin to the time I ate a vegetarian hoagie that gave me food poisoning. I never trusted a Subway™️ again.

With his rather vague introduction concluded, umělec a malíř Alfred Spožek snapped his fingers, and 100 trillion knives shot out of the walls and directly into every single person in the room. Not a single human being, save for the man in the high chair, could possibly escape the trajectory of the projectiles. We were trapped like hogs in a slaughterhouse pen, and the machines were hungry. I felt my muscles and sinew twist and rupture as the mass of my flesh was split and pushed aside by the cold stainless steel of the cutlery. The unceasing projectile fire of the wall-cannons shook the entire building.

My first, piercing thought upon feeling the sensation was of the time in high school I roasted marshmallows on the beach with the foreign language studies club to commemorate our exchange students' final day in the country. My best friend of 12 years, Alex Stewart, had just pierced my cheek with a red hot poker after trying to feed me his burnt marshmallow. After a drunken half-assed attempt to treat me with the first aid kit in his glove box, we made out for 40 minutes and I never saw him again. I saw my dumb wife's stupid face twist into shock as the knives struck her and all I could think about was Alex's dick and how much I had wanted to see it. Last I heard he was working for an Irish indie game studio or some shit like that. I couldn't believe I had missed out on that entire package just for this dumbass wife who didn't even know you have to keep the fridge closed or the milk will spoil, or her shitty kids who asked me over and over how an RC car works, even when I had already explained down to the excruciating detail how RF waves work and why I won't allow them in my household. I'm glad I was separated from them in this moment. They'd probably ask me how knives can fly.

After about 5 minutes of utter carnage, Alfred Spožek slowly climbed down from his wooden high chair, and rubbed his fingers over the slash and claw marks that had accumulated over the day. He sighed and waved at the guard. "That was the last batch for the day. Tell the waiting guests and notify the crew for me, would you please?" He turned on his heels and stepped directly onto my penis as he walked out.

I hope Alex never comes to this stupid fucking museum.

#By the way did I mention I like playing PlayStation?#writing

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dr-acula121 · 1 month

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Naturae Ferox Chapter 1

Summary:

Caught up in the manipulation and seduction of a certain vampire, Fen struggles with her own sense of control and autonomy, all whilst struggling to hide her own secrets.

A druid without connection. A Chosen without faith. Rage without control.

Pairing: Astarion x Female OC

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, Non-con, Slavery, Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Spoilers

Chapter 1 AO3

All Chapters

Chapter 1: Clean

If she had told anyone what had happened to her today, they wouldn’t have believed her.

A kidnapping. A tadpole. A crash. An intimidating Githyanki and a secretive cleric. A wizard trapped in a stone and pale elf with his blade to her neck.

Together the group had formed an unlikely alliance and having learnt of a nearby druidic grove to seek help, left in search of a camp.

Once they had found a suitable clearing, Fen peeled herself away to be alone - away from the noise of tents being assembled and bedrolls being laid out, rushing along to the river just outside of eyesight from the others.

In the late afternoon sun, the water appeared calm and settled, lazily lapping against the stones. She, however, was feeling anything but calm.

Quickly and with purpose she tore her clothes from her body and stepped into the cold waters.

She almost enjoyed one then two moments of peace before the familiar dread set in.

She was without washcloth or soap, but she began to scrub at herself. Dried blood and dirt loosened from her skin, dissolving into the forgiving water. Whose blood, she couldn't say. The time between her kidnapping and the nautiloid crash had been somewhat of a blur.

The need to be clean took over. Dunking her head under the water, she struggled to untangle her hair. The long tresses were knotted in places with the delicate beads that were once so lovingly braided into her hair lost amongst the mass of red. She did her best, using her fingers to loosen what she could.

Taking inventory, she looked down upon her body. Her skin was free from the dust and blood from the road, but she couldn't feel any less clean. Her skin was awash with scars – an array of ages and depths. The most noticeable of which were a set of deep claw marks crossing her abdomen They had faded to a fleshy pink but remained looking just as angry.

How was she even alive?

The waves of rage and fear washed over her as potent as the day she received those marks. The clash of a whip against her back. The feeling of blood and sinew under her claws. The threatening crackle of magic in her periphery encouraged her to continue to destroy the flesh before her.

The cheer of the crowd revelling in her torture.

She began to scrub again until her skin was tinged pink and raw. The feeling of cleanliness never came. It never did. No matter how she grasped at her skin, all she could feel were the claws, steel, and the hands of others.

She felt dirty.

Her fingers ran across the back of her neck and although she couldn't feel it nor see it, she knew all too well the mark that lay there. Her hands stilled and for the first time in too long, she felt grounded.

The mark itself was inconspicuous. Nothing more than a regrettable tattoo to an unknowing eye. To some with a grasp of religion, it was the mark of something greater - a gift.

To Fen it was a brand. Her first of many. The first claim someone else had of her body.

Although she was alone for the first time in over a decade, washing in the cool gentle lapping water of the river by her camp, miles away from any master, she knew this mark remained. His claim held strong. And now more than ever she felt his presence.

She sat still for a while longer, her knees drawn to her chin. The sun had started to burn colours of red and purple across the skin. The birds had started their evening chorus. Life continued.

The smell of campfire and the sound of conversation dragged her from her thoughts. Standing from the water she felt a chill, suddenly thankful for the foresight to bring linen and a change of clothes down to the riverside with her. Once as dried as she was going to get, she pulled on the threadbare, patched shirt and trousers she had fortunately found not too far from where the Nautilloid crashed.

She looked back at her old clothes and after digging a hole with her hands, she stuffed them inside.

Fen had started this journey with nothing but the threads on her back and here on the riverbank she so desperately tried to purify herself at, she buried them.

She buried the girl she was before.

"Ah, you're back. We were just wondering where you had gotten to", Gale chuckled as she arrived back at camp. The wizard was sitting on a small lump of wood and was tending to the fire.

In her absence, the clearing had become significantly more like a campsite with four tents now sitting along the edge. She must have been gone a while. Gale had even unpacked a telescope. Fen was now very aware that she had nothing of her own that she had not salvaged this past day and importantly no roof over her head tonight.

"Oh, Mystra's left elbow! I didn't even think - " Gale exclaimed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I mean, you can always have mine for tonight until we come across a tent for you?"

"No - " She said all too quickly, back. "This will be nice for me." She grabbed the backpack she had found by the beach and took out the bedroll, unfurling it near the fire which was now burning well under Gale's care. "I'll get to enjoy the warmth of the fire."

"Are you sure? It feels wrong to make a lady sleep outside all night"

"It's fine, Gale. " And it was. "I'll take the first watch and trance for a few hours afterwards. You need your sleep". And truth be told she was quite looking forward to having a bit more time alone outside.

Gale gave a thankful smile before returning to the fish he was preparing for dinner.

The rest of the night was quiet with little flits of polite conversations. Fen learned Gale was from Waterdeep and that his cat - no Tressym - was his closest confidante. Astarion had scoffed at this, pushing his meal around his plate with his fork thoughtlessly. Shadowheart ate hers in peace, casting an eye occasionally to Lae’zel who was now explaining to Gale the superior qualities of Gith cuisine.

Slowly the rest of the group retired to their tents and the candles within were eventually extinguished.

The night now settled, and Fen began her watch, looking up to the inky sky above her.

The stars looked so different here, away from the lights of the city. The sky was saturated with them. There were stars between stars - and between those stars even more stars. Fen couldn't remember the last time she saw this many. Had they always been there?

She tried to figure out the shapes between them to no avail. Was that the horn of Miekkli's unicorn avatar or was it the tip of Umberlee's trident? Astronomy was never Fen's strong point. She never understood why some druids looked to the stars for the gods when back then she had always felt them present in the forests around her. This was the closest she'd felt to the heavens in a long time.

Now, sitting there on the firm earth looking up at everything above her, her knees drawn close, her stomach full and resting by the dying embers of the fire, it was easy to forget the parasitic tadpole currently feasting on her cerebrum.

The night passed quietly, the passing of the moon the only indicator of time moving.

The sound of gentle footsteps behind her caught her attention. She whipped her head around, drawing her bow, just to see a familiar figure creeping his way back into camp.

"I come in peace, sweetheart. I swear" His eyes met hers in the darkness. Astarion stood gracefully from his half-crouched position with his palms outward.

"Where have you been?"

"You know, you're a terrible lookout," he said with a raised eyebrow. "I could have been a bandit, or a wolf, or a - " he gasped dramatically, his hand covering his mouth " - a monster! The entire camp could be dead by now." He sauntered over to her.

"I resent that, thank you. I'm a perfectly adequate lookout. You're just a shameless rogue. The camp is perfectly safe" Fen threw back.

He continued scoffing, "Perfectly safe. Darling, I don't think there's anything perfectly safe about any of us." He came to kneel opposite her, tending to the embers between them. "I can take over the watch now. And don't worry, I'll actually pay attention."

With gentle prodding and another log, the fire was gradually revived. Fen couldn't help but notice how beautiful he looked in the fire's glow. All sharp angles and piercing eyes. He didn't look up, but Fen could swear she saw a flash of red under his eyelashes. The silver hair and pointed ears gave him away as a moon elf, but he didn't have the typical grey-blue eyes. But it had been some time since she had met a high elf, let alone one of the Teu-tel-quessir.

"You never said where you went," she said after some time. Her eyebrows pinching together.

"I don't see why I need to tell you that." He shrugged, taking off his gloves to warm his hands. His fingers were long and delicate but without a shadow of a doubt had known the feel of a blade. He leant back to lean against the log behind him, stretching his legs out more comfortably. "It's not my fault you didn't notice me leave - my perfectly-adequate-lookout friend".

Her eyebrows pinched further together. "Gods I'm sorry for expressing any type of thought towards you", she sneered sarcastically. "I understand none of us know each other, but we're all in this now. Whether we like it or not."

"Gods, I was just going for a piss. Didn't fancy waking up the entire camp. Do I need to ask you for permission next time?"

‘Prick’ she thought.

A few moments of silence passed on. Astarion's eyes fixed on the flames, Fen's fixed on her hands, now picking at her nails.

"You said before you were from Baldur's Gate?" She almost cringed as the words left her mouth. She continued her assault on her fingers.

"Yes, why?"

Fen couldn't help but think that this whole conversation would have gone a bit easier on her if he were a dog and she had cast 'Speak with Animals'. She'd always felt more comfortable conversing with creatures to people.

"Gods, I'm just making conversation. Is that too much to ask?" She sighed. "What was it you did there?"

"Oh, what's to tell, really? I'm a magistrate back in the city." He spoke with an air of nobility about him. She could tell from the way he spoke and the regard he held himself that he must have resided in the upper city. "Imprisoning troublemakers, that kind of thing - all very tedious."

"Huh, I didn't peg you for a law-abiding kind"

His eyes flicked up to meet hers. "Good, I would positively hate for you to get the wrong idea about me", a wolfish grin on his face. "Where are you from then? Can't be from this part of the Sword Coast. You weren't exactly dressed for the weather, dear."

He was right. Her torn and now buried clothes she had been kidnapped in were better suited for the dry heat of the Calim desert than the mild weather of East Faerûn.

"Manshaka-" She didn't know why she told him. She hadn't intended to tell anyone. "- well, technically I was on my way to Baldur's Gate when the mindflayers kidnapped me." Her heart was racing.

"Manshaka, huh? I didn't peg you for a desert rat." He regarded her further. "Forgive me, I don't know much about Manshaka, but I didn't think wood elves were particularly common. What were you doing there?"

"Mostly humans yes…" she trailed off. Her mind was blank as she tried to piece together any resemblance to a believable lie. Her heart sped on. "But I was with a trading caravan mostly."

Vague. Good job. Not completely a lie.

Yes, she had in fact been with a trading caravan. But as goods.

The answer seemed to satisfy Astarion for now who now had his elbow resting against the log behind him, and his head resting on his palm.

"You should rest. But don’t worry, I'll keep watch for the rest of the night. You won't need to worry about any nocturnal visitors. Trust me." He smirked.

"Trust you, hm?" She questioned. Why did she get the feeling that to do so was a bad idea?

"Well, frankly darling, I'd be disappointed if you trusted me at all."

Rest did sound appealing. Crawling into her bedroll, she turned away from him, the warmth of fire caressing her back.

And there she was, miles away from any place she had ever known, with the most eccentric group of people she'd met, and a tadpole threatening to consume her mind, body and soul in the blink of an eye. However, with the firm earth beneath her and the sea of stars above her, she felt safe for the first time in years. Just as she was entering her trance, she wondered whether this was because of the pale elf watching over her.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #astarion fanfic #astarion smut #baldurs gate #forgotten realms

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windupnamazu · 1 year

Text

like the hands on the clock, they'll go in circles back to their places

ffxivwrite2023 #06: ring a small circular band [...] worn on a finger as [...] a token of marriage.

Lunya/G'raha. Endwalker finale. 1143wc. Content warnings: kinda gorey descriptions? ⮞ Fourteen years ago, a little girl learned something from the man who would give his life for hers.

"Mister Kichirou," Yeyema began, tugging at the sleeve of her guardian's haori as they traipsed down Ruby Road Exchange together, the old man's steps slowed to keep pace with the young girl's smaller ones. "Why's your ring got so much aether in it?"

Kichirou's face lit up with delight as they drew to a stop at the intersection of the road and Emerald Avenue. "You can sense it, little moon? That is my wedding ring—it's filled with my late husband's aether. It is all I have of him now."

"Oh." She looked upon the ring and its crystal setting with a new kind of sympathy and curiosity. "It feels like there's almost enough aether in there to make a whole person."

Her grandfatherly guardian laughed, but it sounded kind of sad. "That's because there is—he passed before we finished the full transfer. Maybe if we had done it sooner he could have been healed." He chuckled more when she tilted her head cutely. "The rings were a failsafe, of sorts. Were one of us gravely injured, we could return each other's aether back; a unique token of love, trusting another with our life literally in their hands."

"You can really do that? Transferring that much aether into such a little thing?"

"There are many old spells lost or forbidden to modern mages," Kichirou told her, in that mysterious tone he oft used when she tried to poke too much at his life before Eorzea. "If you're truly curious, I will tell you of its fundamentals later. But first, shall we pick up your snack from Momodi-san?"

"Cookies, please!"

They don't expect the first of their missing Warriors to return in the state that she does.

The teleportation spell releases her on the floor of the Ragnarok with a whisper of wind and a flash of light that draws the attention of all the waiting Scions on the ship. G'raha Tia is the first to his feet at the sight of white like starlight, a wail erupting from his mouth when he takes in the state of his wife. Majj and Einar join the chorus.

Uncountable bruises bloom like twisted flowers across Lunya's face and upper body, the light of her freckles dimmed like clouds smothering the stars, but most concerning and terrifying of all is a vicious gash nearly splintering her in twain from her shoulder to opposite hip, blood seeping through the pearl sheen of her coat and black lace barely containing her insides. Her breath is so shallow it's hardly there at all as her twilight and crystal eyes gaze blankly into nothingness, and her white hair spills across the steel floor drenched in her crimson.

"NO!" G'raha's voice breaks as he falls at her side, hands glowing with healing magic even though a voice at the back of his mind tells him it's for naught. Never before had she come back to him in such a grievous state; of all the men and monsters she's faced, only one managed to strike a blow to her in this way, and Meteion hadn't said she and the others were left with him.

"Focus, G'raha," Y'shtola orders in a soothing but stern meter, but even her hands are shaking as she pushes aether into the open cavity of Lunya's chest, coaxing sinew and skin back together as fast as she can as Theodaux redirects organs where they need to be. Alphinaud and Ahnji hover; they can't expend all their healers at once when there are still Warriors yet to return, no matter how much G'raha wants to beg them to help her or how much they want to help themselves.

"It isn't enough," warbles Theo, sweat beading on his forehead from exertion as he leans against his staff. "There's too much to replace and she's losing what's left fast."

"Short of a whole person's worth of aether, I am not sure what we can do," Fleuriri murmurs, resting a hand on the Elezen's shoulder. "And seeing as she's already received a full foreign transfer once, I can't say how her body might handle another attempt."

Gods. He wants to cry. To kick and scream and curse and tear apart the universe for trying to take her from him. G'raha scratches groves into his wrist, a nervous habit turned frustrated, but as his fingers slide down to his wrist he remembers.

"Her aether," he says desperately, turning to Y'shtola. He pries off his wedding ring, crystalline and glowing, and shows it to her. "I have her own aether—enough to make a whole person, she said. The spell she used wasn't anything we know."

Y'shtola's eyebrows shoot into her bangs as she regards it before settling in grim determination.

Lunya blinks pitch night and stars from her eyes to find the ceiling of the Ragnarok. The twins are the first thing she sees after; Alphinaud has a steady stream of healing tethered between her stomach and his nouliths and Alisaie is pacing back and forth, muttering furiously to herself. The second thing she sees has all the residual fear she hadn't realized she was holding onto drain from her body in a heartbeat—her husband is crying, which won't do at all, and she fights against the heavy weight of her body to raise a hand to his face.

"My lodestar," her Raha weeps, grabbing her hand in his and pressing it to the curve of his cheek.

Voice creaking, she wonders, "Is everyone all right?"

"You're the last person who should even ask," G'raha huffs, but he smudges away the tears at the corners of his eyes and squeezes her left hand in his own. Distantly, she notices she's not in her robes anymore, bandages winding around her chest and stomach instead. Her husband's covered in blood that can't be his own and his wedding ring is gone and Y'shtola is across the room downing mana potion after mana potion, swaying in place as Majj does his best to steady her. She gets the feeling she knows exactly what they did.

"Thank you, sinta ko," she murmurs. "I'm sorry."

"Don't."

The ship explodes in a flurry of sound as another Warrior arrives in a haze of pink fur and blood and the others rush over to administer emergency healing yet again, but to G'raha and Lunya they sound a million miles away when he kisses her brow before pressing his own to hers.

"I would do anything for you," he reminds her. "I gave you my life just as you gave me yours, so I'll remind you a million times if I must. Just—live for me, Lunya. Don't apologize—just never do that to me again."

"I promise," she says, twisting his engagement ring around his finger. They'll have to make him a new wedding ring now. "And that is one I truly intend to keep."

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023 #oc: lunya #g'raha tia #s: let me find you #there is no gpose today because the wifi at the new house is SHIT and i dc'd four times trying to take one #so all we get is this lousy placeholder header!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#do you think one day ill remember to write down kichirous lore so it doesnt change everytime i think abt him :pleading:#another day of not liking my writing but also i AM moving which is exhausting #update!! i made the header :')

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good-king · 2 years

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An illustration for a story at Tor.com; Sinew and Steel and What They Told, by Carrie Vaughn

#publishing #book illustration #short story

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bikmui · 8 months

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To those with eyes trained to look, even blades hold memories - each notch; each scratch another life taken; another day lived.

So too did his body tell tales - the scar above his hip, a theft foiled. The ugly slash across his stomach speaking for itself. Yet there were tales that even lips would not tell, carved; burned into his body as though their maker could reach deep beneath skin, pull back muscle and sinew, and leave his mark within his bones and heart.

The scars littering his hands told tales of a wild youth - idle days spent with dulled blade in hand and blood shed to hone both tool and wielder. Prideful would he grow - undefeated guttersnipe; with eyes sharp as a raptor and a tongue sharper still.

The world was his oyster, then, unfurled before his hand and his for the taking.

Defeat was not so crushing that he would not rise again, though obediently did he take the knee. And heavy too was the blade which become he; metal and flesh both a honed edge; a weapon; his master's will and decree.

And wild was he sharp, though tamed was he sharper still.

Impulse gave way to lessons instilled in the body; the mind; the soul and in cold steel was he reforged and anew. For weapons should suit, of course, the hand which wields and was he not then but a blade; unsheathed at his master's will and each breath but a moment before execution; the command of judge and of executioner.

And though cold were the eyes which watched the city, and though weapons need not know pride, nor ego, nor even a name save one by which its master summons it, prideful did he remain.

An imperfect, perfect blade. A weapon honed by master hands, yet those hands could not erase that knot which lay deep within steel; a pride wrought; which refused both polish and forge.

For the world was his then, and though muscle and sinew might part to reveal his bones and heart, hands could not touch what lay beyond.

#.headcanons (talon)#.tales (talon)#//companion piece coming soon tm #//discussing how his sense of identity (and thus his pride) became linked to his servitude to the general #//and how despite uh [everything] there are pieces of who he was before #//it's an interesting topic but kind of hard to really word well

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vincaminor42 · 9 months

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2023 Reading List

A silly thing I've been doing the last few years is making a long list of my reading over the course of the year, month by month. It started as a way to keep track of what I'd read and try to remember it all at the end of the year, but has become a bit of a fun way to look back on my year and what I was into or focusing on over the course of it.

I used to post the results to facebook (which ended for obvious reason), then did a synopsis on twitter for a couple years (which also ended for obvious reasons); plus there's something about putting the whole list up, rather than just a summary, which is very satisfying.

Included on the list are professionally published short stories, novellas, novelettes, novels, graphic novel issues & collections. Not included are fanfic; short fiction posted untitled online; tumblr, twitter & other social media original fiction; non-fiction essays/articles; poetry; webcomics; and podcasts (too many & too hard to keep track of).

During 2023 I read 199 individual works. These consisted of

34 longer pieces of prose (novels and novellas)

118 short prose (novelettes and short stories)

27 graphic novel collections and long form comics

17 short comics and comic issues, and

3 kids books (a slightly nebulous category mostly middle grade and younger, though some middle grade might've been counted in a different category, cause I'm kinda wishywashy about these)