#sir; instead of harvesting other worlds; you should harvest me instead-//SHOT

[xyoonx]

He's so....

UAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHH-

[the-omni-princess]

Frozen Heart [Epilogue]

Author: @the-omni-princess

Summary:  After the war against Hydra, King Bucky comes home to take what has been promised to him since he was young, you. But he is not the same person as the young boy that you grew up with. Can she break through his tough shell and bring back the young man she once fell in love with? Or will she be forced to marry the monster everyone thinks he’s become?

Word Count: 1.7K

Pairing: King!Bucky x Fem!Reader (Royalty Au!)

Warnings: teeth rotting fluff!

A/N:

My beta @annaloveloki is literally the best and that's the t

working on a honeymoon drabble rn, but other than that, it’s the end of this series. My babies <3 lookout for another series, coming out eventually

[Series Masterlist]  [Series Playlist]  [My Masterlist]

----

Growing up, summer was always one of your favorite times of the year. Waking up early to search for seashells with Steve and Bucky or sneaking ice cream into your rooms as you made pillow forts were some of your fondest childhood memories. Now, you spent the summers running the Kingdom, listening to the people, helping as many people as you could, and taking a few weeks off vacation in the South when possible. In the five years since you’ve come to the North, the kingdom has prospered. A good harvest led to a great harvest, and despite a few hiccups and arguments, Bucky was right, you were a great leader for the people. He also did an absolutely wonderful job, listening to the people to build more schools, lowering crime rates, and taxing the nobles more heavily than the lower classes. Some scholars theorized that the kingdom was in the beginning of a new golden age.

So today, like every first Monday of the month for the past few years, you sit on your throne, listening to every person who made the trek to ask for help or thank you. Some days were easy, such as the days where most residents thanked you for the new marketplace that brought jobs to their town. However, some days felt darker, like the day a mother begged for help for her dying son, help she didn’t have the funds to pay for back in her village. Not sparing a second thought, Bucky watched as you helped the boy into Dr. Cho’s arms. The boy miraculously lived, and in response, you had immediately put into place a new health policy in the kingdom. Tax revenues were split, and the extra funds made it possible for the lower class to have health services for a much lower rate, and in some cases free.

The particular woman who was speaking to you, was bringing up an argument between her and her neighbor. A petty fight, really, but you listened nonetheless, giving your opinion. Bucky was the one who answered the next inhabitant's problem.

Usually the kingdom didn’t give you too much trouble, it was mostly the advisors who defied you, never liking your ideas. Bucky, bless his heart, tended to shut them down pretty quickly, his warm voice turning into ice, the protective wolf in him lashing out. Such as the time you shot down an advisor’s idea, one that would only hurt the lower class. His anger exploded, criticizing Bucky when he tried to come to your defense. “Do you allow her to speak that way for you?” the advisor, one you truly didn’t care enough to even know his name had spoken to his king in a harsh way.

Bucky merely snarled back, “Yes, I do, this as well as in many other things, you’d be wise to remember that.” His voice was cold, the first words in his head being growled out at the man. You had placed your hand on top of Bucky’s calming him. You could practically see the steam rolling off his head, something you definitely teased him about later.

You had kept your voice calm, though the advisors that knew you better than that could hear the venom in your words. “Thank you for your concern, sir,” you emphasized his lower title, “but I do believe your King and Queen can handle the problems of the people, and I do not believe I asked for your opinion on this matter.” You quickly dismissed the rest of the meeting, before adding, “And sir, do remember, I am your Queen. You are not my equal, and you will address me as such.” Eyes wide he quickly bowed and rushed off before you could change your mind.

A small squeal from your right pulled you from your thoughts of the past, two small children rushed into the throne room, followed by two blurs of white and grey fur. You son made it to you first, scrambling to hide behind you just as you stood from the throne. You held him close, just out of reach from Aurora and Raine who yipped happily. Your daughter, however, jumped straight into Bucky’s arms, curling up into her clearly favorite parent.

“Brooklyn, what have we said about chasing your brother down the halls?” You chastised softly, still trying to calm the shaking boy wrapped around your leg.

“To plway in the garden instead,” the five-year-old responded dutifully. Bucky tucked her hair behind her ear, just as Natasha rushed in, cradling a small baby in her hands.

“Grant! Brooklyn! There you two are! You shouldn’t run away from me like that!” Brooklyn just buried herself deeper into her father’s protective arms, pouting. Natasha was most likely regretting telling Wanda it was alright to leave all three children in her care, so she could spend time with her new fiancé, the Head Chef, Vision.

“I’m sowwy auntie,” the little girl sniffled, looking up towards the two of you with tears already brimming her eyes. You knew it was just to gain your attention, so you simply did just that. You gently took the babe from Natasha’s arms, cradling the four-month-old into your chest as your son still buried his face into your long white gown.

Bucky sighed softly, gently prying his daughter’s face from his chest. “What do we say, little princess?” he encouraged, making sure she knew he wasn’t mad at her as both you and him gave her the attention she wanted.

Brooklyn sulked again but carefully pushed herself out of her father’s arms, standing in front of her twin brother. “I’m sowwy, bwutha.” She sniffled again, her tiara tilted vicariously in her hair, and Grant pouted as well. You always loved how they wore matching pouts and eyes to their father, as it reminded you of when you were a child. Brooklyn was a ball of energy, and many of her tutors said her main issue was how she could never sit still. You secretly encouraged it, knowing how much energy your future little queen would need. Grant was always the quieter one, reminding you of when Bucky first came back to you. Calculating, quiet, but eyes wide and always taking in new information. The twins knew each other perfectly, and with one sad ‘I’m sorry’ look from Brooklyn, Grant pushed forward and the two hugged each other. They curled up into each other, even when they were babies they always found a way to be close together. Two matching blue eyes looked up at you for approval, wondering silently if it was safe for them to go back to their games. You nodded, and both scrambled to the gardens to play, two adult wolves and one Natasha rushing after them.

You turned to the crowd, holding the baby closer just as she woke up from the noise. “If there aren’t any more life or death situations, I do think it is time to wrap up for today. Food will be served down the hall for anyone who did not bring their own, follow the guards if you have any trouble finding it.”

Bucky stepped closer to you, wrapping his arm around you. “And thank you all for coming,” he smiled warmly before turning his attention to you, pulling you into his arms. “And how is my little princess doing?” he coed at the babe in your arms, who simply squealed and squirmed in your arms.

“I’m doing fine, thanks for asking,” you teased, grinning up at him.

“Ha, ha, very funny, but you are my Queen, this little cutie is my little princess!” he went back to cooing at the babe, thoroughly enjoying her little shrieks of enjoyment. “My beautiful Celeste,” he kissed her nose, grinning at her responding wiggle, “And My Northern Star,” he whispered before kissing you decisively on the lips. Tender lips against yours, and not a care in the world as you held your baby close, and Bucky held you even closer.

Slowly pulling away as Celeste squirmed for attention, you both couldn’t stop the smiles on your faces.  A sudden spark in your mind made you smile even brighter. “Did you hear what Steve and Peggy are naming their child?” The two had gotten married not two years after your own marriage, and now (finally) were expecting their first child together.

“I suppose you’re bringing that up since you’re going to tell me, right?” He teased you back, his hands pressed against your hips, rubbing gentle circles into the fabric of your dress.

You nodded, biting back a smile, “Steve joked and said maybe they should name the baby James since you never have used the name anyway,” you paused, giggling as you saw Bucky’s face scrunch up, positively offended. “But, instead they wanted to name their child after Sam, since he says you stole his close friend and captain of the guard from him.”

Bucky gave you a small gasp, feigning a surprised look, ever the drama queen. “Me? Never!” He dropped the act in favor of smiling again. “Besides, he was the one who sent Sam in the first place, not my fault we became friends.” He shrugged, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“You absolute dorks,” you kissed his nose playfully.

“But I’m your dork, y/n/n,” he whispered softly.

You nodded solemnly, like it was a big burden to bare. “That you are. Now, let’s go, My Love, we still have to pack for our trip to the beach house in the South.” You tried tugging yourself from his arms, but with a baby in your arms it was pretty hard to do that.

“I know, I know, our yearly vacation. Maybe this time we can give Brooklyn and Grant a baby brother?” he teased, smirking at the implications despite the obvious joke.

“Oh no, mister, that’s how last year’s conversation started. I just had Celeste, I am not doing that again so soon.” You gave him a look and he simply chuckled, pulling you closer as the two of you walked side by side through the halls.

“I’m kidding, My Love. Besides, we can have plenty of practice,” you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” you nuzzled closer into his warm embrace.

“I love you even more, My Queen.” He kissed your head lightly and you realized how truly at peace you were. No more waiting, no more war. Simply two people in utterly in love, surrounded by their ever-growing family, having the time of your lives. Baby steps had become a literal phrase as the children grew up, and everything felt right in the world. Peaceful, content, full of happiness, your children’s laughter in the distance. You finally did it. The Northern Castle was finally a home again.

---

Tags:

Permanent Tags:

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[doctolka]

1.5 Chapters of Article I

Just a piece of a project I’ve been working on, but really just started writing. It would be great if I could get feedback on just about everything in here. Thanks for reading

:::

Chapter 1 – Disease

23 of the 2 of Harvest, 330 B.D.

It is now two years since the incident with the traveler.

           I have followed every clue, every last piece of information I can lay my hands on. And yet… I’m dying. The wasting disease seems to be getting progressively worse. I have tried the magistries of every city I have come to. I do not know why I still write. Perhaps, should another cursed man find this journal, I can save them some of my troubles.

           As I write, I sit in a small pub. In the fashion of the equatorial regions, it is unnamed, as far as I know. The men here smoke a strange weed, bitter and yet sweet at the same time. Tobacco, I think they call it. It does no good thing for my lungs.

           No matter. Just down the road is a town known as Sigardis, that sits just inside the Vale of Sembri. There I hope to find passage to the capital in this region.

 Colvish closed his book with a sigh, leaning back in the rickety chair. He was getting worse. Of that there was no question. Whatever he had done to irk that man, he felt he had gotten more than a return for the favor.

Standing and slipping his things into his pocket, he turned with a bent head and exited into the bright sunlight. He considered himself lucky, in all honesty, that wearing goggles to filter the light was common practice here. They were a nuisance, but so too were the odd looks he got otherwise.

By what he had been told, Sigardis was about a day’s ride up the road, on wagon. That would make it slightly longer on foot. Should arrive late afternoon of tomorrow, if I wake early, and walk until dark tonight, he thought. He may have been weak, but he could still walk. For now. He shook his head. It wouldn’t do for such thoughts to take hold. But if this magistry fails too…. And it likely would; what could a backwater kingdom offer that others could not? Hope springs eternal, or so they say.

So he set off, pack over stooped shoulder, up the road to the Vale of Sembri. He would rest when he needed it, but for now he would march.

 Chapter 2 – Sigardis

 When light came back to the world, Colvish set off again, despite the protests of his body. He had worked fields with fever: he wasn’t about to let this knock him off his feet. The road became shrouded by the jungle as he approached the vale, promising a cooler march.

By the time he reached Sigardis, his pack weighed heavily against his shoulder, and his breath was ragged. It was difficult to tell, at first, that he was on the outskirts of the largest settlement in the area. Though the trees thinned, the brush was so tall and dense in places that the homes and farms were difficult to pick out. Soon, though, he began to hear the lowing of livestock and the distant bustle of commerce. Despite being not long out of civilization, he breathed a sigh of relief when he walked through the ramparts into the town proper.

It was a fairly busy place, though at this point in the day much of the business was beginning to wrap up; the customers avoided the heat by running errands in the morning hours. Rain came in the afternoons, anyway. Scanning the buildings to either side, Colvish finally found a shop that seemed completely devoid of customers. A tack shop. The door was open, the owner ever hopeful for another client before the day’s close. Colvish stepped inside, keeping his goggles over his eyes.

“Excuse me, sir, but could I bother you for directions?” he asked when the clerk turned toward him.

“Hmm? – Yes, of course,” the older gentleman said, looking crestfallen, “where is it you need to be going, then?”

“An inn, if you don’t mind, and where I might catch a ride to the capital.”

“There’s an inn just around the next corner, should be able to hear it soon,” he stated, “As for the ride, I could get you a deal on some tackle, and a horse to go with it.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the gold for that, sir, no matter what sort of deal you might cut. I am most sorry.”

“Ah. It was a long shot, anyhow… your best bet would be with a certain Mr. Jason Lancaster. He’s a logger, and usually takes a train of timber that way this time of year.”

Colvish nodded. Seemed about right. “Thank you very kindly, sir. I wish you a good rest of your evening.”

“And you as well, young man. Do tell any acquaintances of us, won’t you.”

Bobbing his head as he backed toward the door, he replied, “Of course,” before beginning to slip out the shop.

“Young man!”  the purveyor called, “Your business is your own of course. But… do be cautious in the capital. It is a most strange place.”

“Indeed? Then perhaps I will be. Thank you for your time,” Colvish replied, turning once more toward the street.

 Shade greeted him comfortingly as he stepped out of the shop and turned down the street toward where the owner had indicated the inn lay. A faint breeze rustled the leaves of the still-present trees, signaling the oncoming rain. If being wet wasn’t so unpleasant, I would watch the storm, he thought, looking toward the sky. But in his condition, he’d likely catch the chills. He really did feel as he imagined the oldest of men must feel. Creaky, cranky, tired. Not that he liked allowing that through. That wouldn’t do. ‘You’ll never get anywhere in life with a bad attitude, son,’ his father used to tell him, ‘Best to keep your tongue pleasant, and curse a fellow from a safe distance. If Colvish recalled correctly, he had told him that as often as his father had lost his temper. Which was frequently. Such was the life of a poor widower. 

Colvish looked back toward the street as he began to walk. After making it this far, he wasn’t about to let his journey end with him falling and breaking something. He didn’t know if that would happen if he fell as it frequently did with the elderly. Many were the elders he knew back home that had tripped over simple things, or nothing at all, and been bedridden for weeks. He had always felt bad for them. Never had he thought he’d be experiencing similar things so early in his own life, though.

The inn was a building of the older style, its owner obviously doing well for themselves. It, like most every other building in the town, lacked even a single brick; instead using a combination of wood and stone for its walls and roof. ‘Kalip’s Dream’, the signpost read. Colvish gave this a second glance as he opened the doors to enter. What an odd name for an inn, he thought. The general ruckus of the tavern area hit him like a wall when he stepped into the room. It had been noticeable out on the street, but also ignorable.

“Excuse me miss,” he said, grabbing the arm of a barmaid, “Could you point me to the landlord?”

“Yes. Of course. Um, just over by the bar, there,” she gestured when Colvish released her.

“Thank you kindly.” He practically had to shout through the din. He didn’t look to see if she had heard him; they were both already moving toward their goals.

[elfpen]

The Circle

An FMA drabble because my brain needs a break.

---------- 

He did not dress like a professor, did not speak like a professor, gave tougher homework and harsher grades than any other professor, and was undoubtedly the meanest professor in the entire Alchemy department. And yet, his classes grew waiting lists every single term.

It usually took a few weeks to get a good read on a new class. Would they be rowdy? Attentive? Sleepy? How many would drop out? How many would sleep their way to a C? Who would sit in the front row with their notebooks out? Who would sit in the back where he thought he couldn’t see? Who would set fire to their desk in a failed transmutation? Who would - and god, he always hoped it wouldn’t happen, but inevitably, it did - start flirting with him?

Edward Elric squinted at the at the new faces as the students filed into his classroom. Some he recognized from previous classes, but most were a mystery. Mystery was one of the fun parts of his job. Long retired from his youthful days of world-saving, the puzzle of new college students was a delectable treat, and the first few weeks of class were a thrill that he savored every term. So, when students made it easy for him, it pissed him off.

On day two, one hour and twenty-six minutes into a three hour discussion about transmutation circle geometry, a blond-haired, green-eyed pest raised his hand. Edward finished drawing his circle on the blackboard and paused.

“Yes - um, it’s Michael, right?”

“Yes sir, it’s ‘mik-KEL’, actually,” the boy gave a tight grin.

“Oh, right, sorry, Michael,” Ed filed the pronunciation away in his brain.

“Yes sir, I wanted to know how to get my circles to look as perfect as the ones you’re drawing.”

It was an honest, good question, and made Ed chuckle along with some of his students. “Practice, I’m afraid. I make it look easy, but there’s no trick to it. I’ve drawn hundreds of these things, you just have to practice at it.”

Michael was unmoved, and did not laugh. He looked pensive. “I wouldn’t think you’d need hundreds of transmutation circles if you can’t perform alchemy.” The room fell utterly silent. “...sir,” Michael tacked on, remorseless.

Edward stared at him, completely nonplussed. “The transmutation circle is the foundation for all alchemical operations,” Edward said, choosing to ignore the slight and continue on with class, “whether you’re performing a transmutation or composing a circle for future or theoretical use, the circle is a language all its own, and does not need to be executed in order to understand its meaning...” as he spoke, the class collectively relaxed, but Michael continued watching him, eyebrows drawn, green eyes flashing between Edward and every syllable he wrote on the board, looking for a gap in his armor.

Oh, Edward thought, seeing in an afternoon what would’ve normally taken him weeks to map out, so it’s going to be like that. 

—-

Every time Michael raised his hand, Edward bit down hard enough that he could hear his own jaw muscles straining to keep his tongue locked behind his teeth.

“Yes, Michael?” he dutifully answered in time, annoyance only barely veiled by the reprimands he received from his superiors every year.

“Can you give us a demonstration, sir?” the student asked, in reference to the simple transmutation up for their consideration, a metal-and-clay child’s toy. Edward leaned back against his desk, crossed his arms, and glared. Most of the other students, now accustomed to this uncomfortable tete-a-tete, looked pointedly down at their notes.

“No, Michael, I can’t, but why don’t you give it a shot?”

When Michael performed it perfectly and the class clapped, Edward cursed the boy’s success and realized he was a horrible teacher for thinking it.

—-

Halfway through autumn, Michael started sitting with a girl. For the first few infatuated days, Edward had hoped she’d draw his attentions away from being horrible with her wily charms, but before long, he’d begun trying to impress her.

“Professor?”

Despite the fact that the damn runt was at least fifteen years his junior, Michael’s voice actually made Edward feel afraid. And that, in turn, made him angry. He stopped mid-sentence and turned on his heel to face the kid - young man, Edward conceded, and stared. He did not say anything to invite comment, but Michael didn’t need him to.

“Are you sure that’s the right rune for that, professor?”

“Yes, Michael,” he said, speaking slowly to keep himself from screaming, “I think I know the difference between transmuting lead and transmuting copper.” For the benefit of the class, he added, “If it’s a complex circle, you can get lost in the runes and may attempt to transmute one element when you wrote the rune for a different one, but you should be able to tell right away. Lead and copper have entirely different densities, and the energy feels different when you’re transmuting them. You’d have to start over, but it’s an easy fix.”

“Feels different, sir?” Michael asked, and Edward turned slowly, hating how trapped he felt, hating how small he felt, standing alone in the front of the room.

“Yes, Michael,” he said, and felt as if he were baring his neck. He knew the dance by now.

“How would you know, sir?”

“How do you not?” he heard himself snap back. “As I was saying...” He turned away and continued on with his lecture, but didn’t stop sweating until he returned home that evening.

—-

Things came to a head when Edward was reviewing the ingredients to transmute a cotton waistcoat. “Except for a few bits and buttons, it’s mostly cotton, but that doesn’t make it simple. Can anyone tell me why cotton is so tricky?”

A bookish female student who almost never raised her hand did, and Edward leaped at the opportunity. “Yes, miss Trellan.”

“Because cotton is an organic substance, and organic matrices are incredibly hard to reconstruct, sir.”

“Excellent! Did everyone here what she said? Good. All cotton fabric is, at the base, an organic material, though it’s been processed and spun and woven and so forth. Deconstruction is a cinch, but reconstruction can be hard to get right. Cotton fabric isn’t alive like cotton the plant, of course, but if you want to end up with a decent piece of clothing, you have be aware of the residual cellular makeup of the fiber, so that you don’t accidentally...”

“Michael, don’t,” Edward heard The Girlfriend whisper, and he broke into a sweat. Michael’s hand shot up.

“Yes, Michael,” he said, wishing he could fade away.

“Could you transmute a piece of clothing from organic cotton? Right off the plant, I mean, instead of woven?”

Oh. That... was a good question, actually. “Yes, you can,” Ed told him. “It takes quite a bit more research to set up an array, but yes, you can, I know a few tailors who’ve made a fortune doing something like it.”

“But could you transmute a cotton plant into, say... a flax plant?”

Edward’s relief dissolved. “What, a living flax plant?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, and crossed his arms, waiting to hear what Professor Elric would say.

Edward blinked. “I’m... I’m not really sure. I don’t see why you’d want to. Cotton and flax are both pretty useless unless they’re spun,” that drew a few chuckles, at least.

“What about other organic material? Like... animals.” The chuckles stopped abruptly. Michael’s unmoving expression was making Edward sweat for different reasons, older reasons, reasons that happened right here in Central, decades ago.

“You’re talking about chimeras,” Edward said. “That is highly illegal, for one thing.”

“Alchemical doctors use biological alchemy all the time,” Michael defended. “If they can reconstruct organic tissue-”

“Human tissue is fairly different than cotton,” Edward pointed out.

“Yes, but if human transmutation is possible, then why can’t-”

“Human transmutation is not possible,” Edward snapped, louder than he’d meant to. The room fell silent, and two dozen students stared back in frightened silence, eyes alternating between Edward and Michael.

“If it were impossible,” Michael said in the tone of someone who’d given it more than enough thought, “medical alchemy wouldn’t exist. If it weren’t possible, it wouldn’t be illegal.”

Edward shared in the stunned silence that followed. All around Michael, the entire front row was shrinking into their seats, as if they could melt past their desks and through the floor to escape. 

“Human transmutation,” Professor Elric repeated in a firm, deliberate order, “is impossible.”

“How do you know?” Michael said, and for the first time there was evidence of real condescension in his expression. “You always say we can’t learn something until we try it. Exactly how many times have you tried it, professor?”

Michael’s girlfriend, who’d been sitting shoulder to shoulder with him for weeks, was leaning away with saucer-wide eyes, and the rest of the class were shooting each other worried looks, knowing that the subject their classmate had decided to poke with a stick was not merely a taboo in Central University, or in Amestris, but in the world of Alchemy as a whole.

Edward locked eyes with Michael, gold to green. He stared, and stared, and found that he was no longer sweating. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and gripped his alchemist’s watch so hard he could feel the dragon imprinted on his palm. The classroom was silent, but he spoke with the overdrawn confidence he’d learned as a boy.

“Five.”

Silence was no longer an adequate word. It was so quiet, he heard his own saliva as he prepared to speak again:

“The first time when I was eleven, the second immediately after that, twice while I was fifteen, and the last time when I was sixteen.”

Edward wished he could freeze time, harvest the concentrated horror on Michael’s face and distill it into a stiff drink, just so he could knock it back and toss the glass at the stupid little punk’s dumbass face.

But then, he realized, everyone else was staring at him too. He’d never entered into this territory with any other class. But now he had, and he’d probably face more reprimands. He might even get fired. Right hand playing idly with the chain on his watch, Edward sat on the edge of his desk.

“The first time was when I was eleven and my brother was ten, we tried to raise our mother - may she rest in peace - from the grave. It did not work, but for my trouble I lost my right arm and my left leg, and my brother lost his entire body. He lost his soul, too, which brought me to my second attempt at human transmutation: I called by brother’s soul back from wherever it’d been taken and bound it to a suit of armor in a circle drawn in my own blood - the only vaguely stable material I had on hand.” The classroom was a hall of statues, and Edward felt as though he were not speaking to people at all, but an empty room - empty rooms, he had found, were always more receptive to dark conversation. He looked up, remembering. 

“Let’s see... the third time was when I was trapped in another dimension. I transmuted myself to get myself back in the real world. Not ideal, by any stretch of the imagination.” He sounded like a madman. “The fourth time, I used human transmutation on myself to heal a wound that should’ve been fatal. And the fifth time...” even as he spoke, they weren’t too far away from the very spot. Sometimes, Edward walked by Central Command and could almost feel the crackle of energy over his hands again. It made him shiver. “The last time I transmuted a person, the last time I transmuted anything at all, was when I transmuted my own ability to perform alchemy to provide equivalent exchange to bring my brother’s body back to the real world.”

The silence had coalesced into an atmosphere thick as tar. The student statues slowly began to move. Michael’s mouth began to twitch, as if he was trying to find something to say.

“Medical transmutation is possible,” Edward told his students, “and incredibly helpful, if you have enough training. The transmutation of an entire living person is even possible, though it almost always results in a rebound or death. But the transmutation of a deceased person is not possible, it never has been, never will be, and was not worth the cost to investigate.” As he spoke, Edward quietly lifted his left pant leg to show his automail leg, and then pulled the collar of his shirt and waistcoat aside to show the garish scar left from his transmuted right arm. “So before you do anything stupid, I suggest you learn from people like me and spare yourselves the grief.”

The room remained silent. In the dearth of comment and questions, Edward turned back to his notes, retracing the steps of their conversation. “Now,” he said, “cotton.” 

Somehow, he got the lecture back on track, but let the class go early anyway. Michael skittered away with a haunted, contrite expression and Edward knew he was going straight to the archives to investigate his claims. He closed his eyes and rubbed at them, feeling a headache coming on. No doubt the Dean would be in contact about this ‘incident’ in short order.

“Professor?” 

He looked up to find an empty classroom and Michael’s girlfriend - ex girlfriend by now, if he were to hazard a guess - looking up at him nervously, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Hmm?” he grunted, and she seemed to shrink.

“Is... I mean, after all you said about, um... about humantransmutation,” she said it as one word, as if saying it faster would keep her from reproach, “is... um, is, uh,”

“Spit it out,” he demanded, crossing his arms and bracing for impact.

“Is your brother okay?” She blurted.

It was not what he was expecting. “Who, Alphonse?” Edward found himself saying in an incredulous tone. He snorted a laugh. “Yeah, he’s just fine, just as annoying as little brothers ever were. Last I heard he and his wife were mucking around in some desert ruins.”

“Oh,” the girl, given a happy answer to her question, seemed uncertain of what to say next. “Oh, that’s good. Just. What you said... I mean, I just... well, I’m glad.” She stood awkwardly for a moment, turned, and left without a farewell. Then, she stopped at the door and turned back around.

“Does Central offer any classes on medical transmutation?” She asked. “I’d never heard about it. And if it’s that useful...” she hesitated. Edward didn’t look at her as he stuffed papers into his briefcase.

“They’re really hard, you know. As hard as any medical degree.”

“How hard is that?” she asked.

Despite himself, Edward smiled. He looked back up at her. He remembered being this ignorant, studying human transmutation as a child, not knowing how difficult it was supposed to be and not knowing he was too young. But dead mothers and medicine were two very different things.

“Dr. Barrow offers the second half of his unit in the spring. Talk with him and he might be able to catch you up before then. It’ll be a lot of work.”

“Oh, okay,” she seemed more lively, more confident than she had before. “Thank you, Dr. Elric!” she smiled. “And... and thank you for, uh...”

“I’ll see you on Tuesday,” Edward waved her away, grabbing his things and turning out the lights. 

He was gratified when, on Tuesday, the girl was sitting across the hall from Michael, and Michael remained silent. The thrill of the mystery was back on, and notwithstanding the angry letter he got from the Dean about “illicit topical discussion”, Edward Elric saw autumn turn to spring in the normal ebb and flow of class. 

—

In the spring, he received a note from a student requesting his reference so that she could receive permission to test out of Medical Alchemy I to go straight into Medical Alchemy II. 

I realize you are not a medical specialist, but as a member of the permanent faculty, your vote would forward my request to the Dean’s office, and allow me to..... blah, blah, blah. Students got wordier every year. His eyes skimmed down the page, but when he saw the signature, he froze.

...appreciate your help with this.

Many thanks,

Trisha

Edward Elric stared at the letter for a full minute in silence before breaking into a laugh that sent him to tears. His mother would’ve relished such irony. The circle was the foundation of all alchemy, so it was only right that that name had come ‘round again. Even Hohenheim, Ed was was sure, wouldn’t have an explanation for this twist of fate. 

“Going to be a doctor, huh?” he said to the letter in the quiet of his office. “Alright, doc, learn from my mistakes.” He signed the letter, sealed it, and sent it back on its way.

That night, as he drifted to sleep beside his wife, the thought of human transmutation crossed his mind, and for the first time since he was eleven years old, Edward Elric did not think of the Thing he’d created with his brother. Instead, he thought of their mother, and of a young, unafraid college student who shared her name.

[douxreviews]

American Gods - ‘The Secret of Spoons’ Review

“The world is either crazy, or you are. They’re both solid options.”

American Gods' second episode presents us with a game of two halves. On every possible level that you can interpret that phrase.

The first time I saw this episode, I had two thoughts about it. The first was that I loved every single thing about the opening sequence introducing Anansi. The second was that it was kind of a dull filler episode that just existed to set up things that needed to be set up for the rest of the season.

Taking these in order; Yes. Every single thing about Anansi, both in this scene and going forward, is amazing. It's impossible to take your eyes off of Orlando Jones as he moves through the hold of the slave ship, and he has the sort of charisma that genuinely gets religious movements started in the real world. The moment when he mentions slavery existing for the purpose of harvesting cotton and indigo and then crisply pulls down on the seam of his own purple shirt as if to angrily straighten it is a great character beat, and I'd very much like to know if it was the product of the script, the direction, or the actor. It also helps that every single thing Anansi says is undeniably true.

This is one of the growing number of instances where the casting decision to have Shadow as a person of color instead of as a white man is benefiting the show. Last week we had the lynching, and all of the historically uncomfortable imagery associated with it. This week we have the opening scene on the slave ship unexpectedly echoed later in the episode when Czernobog speaks about race in a way that American's tend to find uncomfortably direct. Technically, Anansi's opening sequence doesn't have anything to do with the episode other than introducing another-God-who-will-be-important-later, but the fact that the beginning of the episode speaks about race so directly gives the discussion about race later in the episode an additional depth that it wouldn't have otherwise had.

It also sets up the concept of duality, of things being separated into black and white, which leads me to my second point.

"Shit. You all don’t know you black yet. You think you just people."

That line, outside from underlining the unfathomable inhumanity of the slave trade, also sets up what I missed about this episode the first time around. You have what you think is one thing, and suddenly it's two things that are artificially divided and set up in opposition to one another. 'Just people' suddenly split into black and white. Czernobog and his brother, divided into being 'the good one' and 'the bad one' by the people around them. The normal, mundane world that Shadow has known, and the world of Gods and beliefs that he's gradually learning exists. This whole episode is about bringing Shadow to the realization that there is a second world, the 'world under the world' to quote Shadow himself, and that those two worlds are simultaneously both separate from one another and both the same thing. As the episode is structured, that's the point of the checkers match. It's a nice symbol for the concept, because it's ostensibly two sides fighting in opposition, and yet the checkers are all equal, as Shadow points out when they're talking at dinner about checkers versus chess.

So, my first take on the episode as regards it existing just to set up things for the rest of the season was both correct and incorrect. Yes, it sets up Anansi, reminds us that Bilquis is still out there, introduces us to Media and tells us Technical Boy's name. But what's important is what it's doing underneath that.

The episode itself is roughly split into halves.  The first half is Shadow tying up loose threads so that he's free to go with Mr. Wednesday, and the second half is setting up the quest for the rest of the season by revealing to us that Wednesday is reaching out to other Gods for some reason.  Shadow's job is going to be to take him from one God to the next so that Wednesday can talk to them. Put like that, it sounds like it's a fairly utilitarian episode, but what I missed was Wednesday's line toward the end. "I'm easing him into it." he tells Zorya Vechernyaya, and that's the point of the episode. This isn't a plot structural cleanup exercise, as I first thought it was. It's the story of how Wednesday gradually breaks Shadow away from his old life and slowly introduces new concepts to him so that he's ready for what's to come. First he lets Shadow see that he's meeting with the mysterious man in the sunglasses but doesn't let him attend, then, once Shadow has understood that, Wednesday lets him attend the meeting with Czernobog. It's a gradual indoctrination, and I think it's nicely handled.

With this in mind, I now firmly believe that he sent Shadow on his own to the store specifically so that Media would reach out to him there, thus introducing Shadow to 'The Opposition,' as it were. They make a lot in this series about how manipulative Wednesday is, but if you watch Ian McShane in the background you can see it happening in real time And by the way, how great was Gillian Anderson as Media? She doesn't exactly sound like Lucy, but she has the look and mannerisms down, and she owns it in a way that you can't help but feel like she just did the world's best Lucy impression. Note also, Media makes a clear distinction between being Lucille Ball and being Lucy Ricardo. Again, this underscores the real world/world of fantasy duality.

So, an episode that appears on the surface to be just doing a job, but which, if you scratch the surface, is doing a hell of a lot with one hand while it distracts you with the other. That's kind of Wednesday in a nutshell, isn't it.

Quotes:

Anansi: "Once upon a time, a man got f**ked." Truthfully, Anansi's whole opening speech could be copied here, but this was a great lead in.

Anansi: "Take swimming lessons. This is how we get stereotypes.”

Shadow: "What the f**k did you do?" Wednesday: "Well, that depends on who you ask."

Wednesday: "You sir, or only obligated to feel bad about that for so long."

Media: "Time and Attention. Better than lamb's blood."

Zorya Vechernyaya: "Family is who you survive with when you need to survive. Even when you do not like them."

Czernobog: "You’re black, right?"

Czernobog: "A shame. You’re my only black friend."

Bits and Pieces:

-- This show specifically, and Fuller generally, use the language of television really well. The transitional shot from Bilquis on her bed to the statue in the museum was worth three pages of explanation about her in a book. Ditto the transition where her body appeared beneath the jewelry in the display case. Everything we really need to know about her is expressed in those two shots.

-- Speaking of Bilquis, I consistently wonder what exactly the casting call notice for this part said. Were the words 'Sex to death' part of it, or did they save that discussion for the second callback?

-- The beautiful and psychedelic transitional montage from Dylan's 'Hard Rain Gonna Fall', up through the universe, into the celestial realms, light splintering in iridescent casc... whoops, check out this erection!! That's kind of the show's aesthetic in a nutshell, isn't it.

-- The shot of Laura, lying in lingerie on the bed like she was selling perfume cutting to the actual unmade bed was also a nice dream v. reality moment. Also, showing a lead character in dreams and illusions is a standard way of keeping an actor as a regular on the show while you're waiting for a big reveal about that character. This is how they kept David Boreanez in the credits for the first three episodes of Buffy season three. I'm just saying.

-- I could have lived without the unrequested dick pic showing up in Shadow's wedding photo. And now I know how every woman on Tinder feels.

-- We don't get any answer as to who saved Shadow from the lynching.

-- Also, this week we have no Mad Sweeney, Audrey, or Technical Boy. I missed the first two.

-- The cinematography on the sequence where Shadow filled the bathtub was very pretty. Naked Ricky Whittle was... also pretty.

-- The shots of Czernobog killing the cows were very upsetting. I know no actual cows were hurt, but still.

-- If you pause on the shopping list, it's all legitimately stuff we see them use over the next couple of episodes.

-- You can tell they're dealing in fantasy – the packing tape dispenser never jammed once.

On closer evaluation, this episode has a lot more going for it than it appeared. The question this begs is, should an episode require closer inspection in order to be good television? There's legitimate room for differences of opinion on this issue.

Three and a half cows which are totally still alive and were not brained with a hammer.

Mikey Heinrich is, among other things, a freelance writer, volunteer firefighter, and roughly 78% water. You can find more of his work at the 42nd Vizsla.

[descieux]

Not in Lone Splendour, part 2

Summary: A Jedi on the run needs to travel light. Without attachments. But maybe, this boy can be an exception.

Excerpt: Not a stitch of clothing extends above the sloping ridges of his lower abdominals as he slants his upper body above the sink and lightly shakes his dye-wettened hair = my convoluted way of describing shirtlessness  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Author’s note: Part 2 of this Star Wars AU/crossover in response to day 7 of ichiruki month. I’m sorry about the lack of timeliness 😬. You can also read here.

“Stop. There’s someone with aggressive intent waiting to attack us.”

The sense of a lurking peril started as a tingle along the back of Rukia’s neck and now flares as they stand on the threshold of the Kurosaki family home.

Alarm momentarily flashes across Ichigo’s face before he appears to realize something and simply rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s not a real attacker, it’s just my —”

A long metallic shaft swings out from the shadows of the darkened home, meeting the bisecting arc of Rukia’s lightsaber, ignited out of instinct. Rukia’s sword arm is already twisting to deliver a reverse grip counter-attack when she discerns that what she just cleaved in half was a household vibro-mop. The middle-aged man holding the remaining half of the mop tosses it and bounds toward them as if Rukia were not brandishing a blade of pure plasmic energy near his limbs.

“Now that’s my boy! I send him out to get groat chops for dinner, and he brings home a girl!”

“Dad, she’s not a girl!” Ichigo hisses, promptly wincing at the erroneous assertion. “She’s a Jedi! She’s the one who helped Yuzu and me in the market earlier.”

Extinguishing her saber and tucking her loose padawan braid back into her ponytail, Rukia attempts a smile. “Sorry about that, sir. I haven’t encountered many friendly strangers these last few days.”

“There’s a lot of people trying to arrest Rukia,” Ichigo elaborates.

“Considering what just happened in the marketplace, I’d say there’s probably a lot of people trying to arrest you too,” she shoots back.

“I see…,” the amused father remarks. “Well, why don’t we get both of you past the doorway, and we can speak in less conspicuous and less audible quarters?”

Rukia allows them to guide her deeper into the house, but protests as the sandy-haired sister emerges to offer her steaming sapir tea from a thermajug. “Thank you for your hospitality, but the longer I stay here, the more danger I place you all in for harboring a Jedi. I have to find this smuggler Urahara and get off Corellia as soon as I can obtain a serviceable ship.”

“Oh, but Daddy knows Urahara!” Yuzu tells her, insistently pressing a sticky sweetmallow square into Rukia’s hand to pair with the tea. “We visit his shop sometimes, but Urahara-san always warns us to not touch anything because it might explode in our faces. Or it tends to be illegally acquired.”

“Indeed I do know the man,” Isshin affirms. “Old friend of mine. I’ll contact him right now and ask him to come over. Ichigo, find Rukia-chan something to wear from your sister’s wardrobe. She’ll attract less attention out there if she looks less like a Jedi.”

It’s a cozy home, Rukia observes as she trails Ichigo into his sisters’ room. At the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, she, adhering to the ascetic lifestyle of the Order, retained only the most basic of material possessions — a rigid boa-wood cot, a workbench, a week’s worth of rough-spun brown and black Jedi robes. Everything else was communally shared, and her eyes inquisitively study the various personal items in the girls’ room.

“Is this droid broken?” she asks, brushing dust off its ochre plating.

Ichigo glances over his shoulder, snorts, and goes back to rummaging. “I don’t even think that mishmash of junkyard metal qualifies as a droid. Yuzu spotted it in Urahara’s shop years ago. She thought it was cute so he gave it to us for free, but I never managed to fix its programming and get it working. It’s an EG-9, and its logic circuits are a complete mess because his components are from at least three different droid models. Here, see if this dress fits.”

A quick, soft laugh escapes Rukia as she shakes out the rolled up fabric. She hasn’t ever owned anything this flowery. Even when she’d lived with Nii-sama and worn dresses more frequently, the silk had been of the plain, unpatterned variety in accordance with her adoptive brother’s tastes.

“Oh, um, you might also want to do something about your hair.”

“My hair?”

“Well, that braid signifies that you’re a padawan right? You keep tucking it back, but it’s probably easier to just wear your hair in a style less preferred by Jedi but more common among girls generally.”

Rukia blinks owlishly at him. Sure, she can unravel the braid, but she’s in low possession of ideas of how to alternatively style one’s hair; training and fighting have never demanded that she cultivate such knowledge.

Sighing, he strides over to her, snatching up a brush along the way and muttering, “Well, Yuzu wore it like this for months.”

Ichigo moves behind her, and this time, it’s the skimming graze of his fingertips dividing her hair into two parts that elicits a lingering tingle at the back of her neck. Running a warm hand over her right temple to smoothe the hair back, he gently loops one bunch of hair through a fastener before coiling the interim pigtail into a bun above her right ear.

“You do this for your sisters?”

“When there are three kids on the continual verge of being late for school and a dad’s proposed solution to hasten morning routines is to offer to chemically perm everyone’s hair, you learn things.”

As he finishes securing the twin bun above her left ear, Rukia uncoils the plait of hair he’d left alone, her padawan braid, and decides to let the strands hang loose, framing her face with slight curls.

She does not look like a girl on the run, as Isshin excitedly proclaims upon their rejoining the rest of the family in the room where Urahara has arrived.

“Kuchiki-san, it’s a relief to see a member of the Order still standing,” he tells her, his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. “I don’t know if you’ve had the chance to access the HoloNet recently, but the news from Coruscant is that former Chancellor and now Emperor Aizen issued Executive Order 66 on some fabricated basis that the Jedi tried to assassinate him and seize power for themselves. Since then, there’ve been reports of clone troopers slaughtering Jedi on —”

“Every planet where we’ve been stationed during the end of the Clone Wars,” Rukia finishes grimly. Names, belonging to strangers in relation to those currently in the room but names of people precious to her, coat the tip of her tongue — is Kaien alive, is Renji okay? “We were on Kuat for months with clone troopers that we trusted with our lives, as our comrades. When the first person fell from a shot in the back, the others were still processing that it was going to be our fellow soldiers gunning us down.”

“Do you have a plan, Kuchiki-san?”

“Admittedly, not really. I was just planning on finding some route to the Outer Rim and reaching out to any other survivors. I can’t stay here, especially since our wrecking of the bazaar earlier will doubtlessly reach Imperial intelligence.” Rukia jerks her head in Ichigo’s direction. “An Inquisitor in the marketplace specifically identified him and was out to capture. Apparently, the boy’s Force-sensitive.”

Said boy does not confirm or dispute her words, instead seemingly immersed in contemplating the holographic portrait of a smiling woman above the family’s dining table.

“Ah, I suspect the Inquisitor’s effort may have been part of Project Harvester,” Urahara supplies. “Rumor circulating around that Arkanis Academy has stepped up their recruiting of youths recently, and they’re not just looking to produce your typical Imperial cadet. If all this is true, they seem to be trying to develop a distorted substitute group, loyal to the Emperor only, in place of the Jedi Order. May I suggest an alternative to your plan?”

Pivoting to address Isshin as well, Urahara continues, “I don’t know if Imperial agents have flagged your son by name for capture, but at the very least, they will receive reports of a young man with such a...distinctive hair color causing a ruckus in Treasure Ship Row as well as —” He swivels to gesture with his fan at Rukia. “A young woman with a well-crafted but currently impractically flashy sword — we shall get you a nice blaster pistol Kuchiki-san, and yes, I know you Jedi regard it as comparatively uncivilized, but it’s more prevalent among civilians. Isshin, what I think would be best is for you to take your family off-world and lay low for a few weeks in case more Inquisitors come looking for your son at your address here on Corellia.” Urahara’s eyes focus past Isshin’s shoulder, toward the same holograph Ichigo was gazing at. “Masaki-san’s ancestral home is still intact in Naboo’s Lake Country, is it not? You could comfortably keep a low profile there.”

Scowling, Ichigo retorts, “That’s the Emperor’s homeworld too. We’d be right under his nose if we went there.”

“Oh I think he’ll be quite preoccupied in Coruscant for a while, trying to subjugate the galaxy and all. If anything, I predict that like other despots, the Emperor will reserve his more lenient border policies for his homeworld’s economy while cracking down on other worlds. As for you Kuchiki-chan, I think you should go to Naboo with this lovely family.”

“I already sent a message to my brother Senator Byakuya,” Rukia objects.

“And has he responded?”

Rukia says nothing, the jut of her lower lip, stifling excuses she would otherwise make for her brother, and her tense posture telling enough.

“Alright, that’s settled then. Kurosaki-kun, those are some singular auburn locks on your head truly, but might I suggest a temporary coloring agent?”

The family disperses speedily to prepare for their journey, Isshin to ready the Corellian light freighter that will carry them to Naboo, the twins to pack — lightly, their father emphasizes, and surly-faced Ichigo to apply whatever hair dye Urahara has procured for him. Rukia’s pacing in the hallway, debating whether she dares sending Byakuya another plea for help via subspace transceiver when Ichigo sticks his head out of the ‘fresher doorway to ask, “Hey, want to give me a hand with this so I don’t walk out with random orange patches in the back of my head?”

Inside the ‘fresher, not a stitch of clothing extends above the sloping ridges of his lower abdominals as he slants his upper body above the sink and lightly shakes his dye-wettened hair.

With tufts of his hair already turning black, he looks like Kaien, she realizes with an ache.

“I don’t think shaking like a dog helps the pigment spread,” Rukia mutters as she enters his radius cautiously. She hates asking people to bend down so she gingerly places her fingertips on his clavicle and applies enough pressure to direct him to sit at the edge of the bathtub. Sheathing her hands in disposable gloves, she squirts out more of the dye, attentively combing the inky substance through his orange spikes root-to-tip with her fingers while trying not to press too close in his personal space.

“So you have a brother?” Ichigo asks, shoulders rolling and neck arching slightly. His eyes are closed so she can’t decipher if teasing the dye through his hair is producing an unpleasant sensation or a more relaxing feeling, but she figures that he’d be the type to gripe openly if she were really hurting him.

“Sort of. We’re not blood-related. It’s simpler to refer to him as brother, but in truth, he’s my brother-in-law. My sister’s dying wish was for him to bring me into the family, give me a home so I wouldn’t persist as some feral gutter orphan.”

A tick of silence before Ichigo ventures, “How come he hasn’t responded to you? Did your message get through?”

“Nii-sama,” she says slowly, trying to describe the man who still remains an imposing enigma to her. “Has very strict views on the importance of abiding by the law, and technically, I’m on the wrong side of the law right now.”

“The law isn’t always right.” Ichigo’s eyes are open now, brown irises flaring with conviction as he says, “Adopted or not, he accepted you into his family. That’s not a promise he can revoke. That means you should get every protection an older brother owes to a younger sister.”

Rukia shifts her position a step over; it’s awkward standing in front of him between his lanky legs so her fingers run through the roots at his hairline with particular efficiency before transitioning to smear colorant across his right temple. “Maybe that’s true for other people, but I don’t even know if I can really call him my brother anymore. You give up all your attachments when you commit to the Jedi Code because the Order becomes your family and because you’re to cherish all lives equally. So that we can protect as many lives as possible.”

“Are those words straight from the Code? I like the sound of that…” he says softly.

She leans in to brush the excess dye from the shell of his ear, and their noses nearly graze as he abruptly turns his head toward her to add, “But that seems very hard for any flesh and blood person to practice.”

Rukia straightens immediately, her lashes flitting over irises determined to not reveal her discomposure. “Looks like we’ve sufficiently converted you from a ginger to raven-haired for now. Finish up and rinse. I’ll see you outside. About time we say farewell to this world.”

[chief-justice-tyrese]

I like this chapter from one of my ongoing projects, so I’m going to post it under the cut because that’s the kind of nonsense I can come up with when I’m in a really good mood.

Some of the dialogue is NSFW. And these guys are the same ones from Drift mini-series, in case you’re wondering. I just like writing continuity crossovers like this because I’m always entertained by the “What ifs?”

   Not too far off were the organic alien traders that Deathsaurus had arranged to deal with, aboard their own ship. They were large creatures, roughly the same size of an average Cybertronian. They had lilac-colored scaly skin and olive-colored frills, as well as large pointy teeth.

   Like the rest of their species, they were obsessed with body modification, to the point that many of them had additional appendages, such as extra limbs or tails. However, this culture-wide obsession caused multiple economic collapses since they traded and sold whatever they could for more mods. Eventually, they decided to sell their mercenary services to other races. However, they had a tendency to haggle the prices of their captured fugitives that eventually everyone in that particular star-system referred to them as “The Slavers”.

   This particular crew of Slavers was reasonably sized. It was their first interaction with Cybertronians and they had heard so much about them. The Slavers' second-in-command approached his captain and said to him, “Sir, I don't mean to question your orders, but so you think that maybe we should just cancel this deal? I have a bad feeling about it.”

   “Nonsense!” replied the captain, “The payoff will be very big, you'll see!”

   “But all this effort just for a single robot?” asked the second-in-command. “It's not even the good kind of robot, it's one of those killer robots that have been at war with each other since creation.”

   “When I took on this task, I was assured the robot in question is harmless because he's weaponless,” said the captain. “We're getting at $5 trillion if we bring it back alive. Or $15 trillion if it is alive and unharmed. Do you have any idea how this would affect our home if we succeed? Our planet will no longer be the most indebted in this star-system. We will be legends! Besides, if any others happened to be deactivated along the way, then we harvest whatever parts we can.”

   Suddenly, they received a video call from Deathsaurus and the captain answered it. On the screen they saw Deathsaurus, a large fearsome blue robot with a beautiful face that had four bright vermilion eyes. His majestic disposition evoked both fear and awe, which was worsened by his attractiveness. Happy that the Slavers answered his call, Deathsaurus cleared his throat to say the universal greeting, “Bah-weep-graaaaagnah wheep nini bong!”

   “What did he say?” whispered the second-in-command, baffled by the nonsensical greeting that sounded terrifying with Deathsaurus’ voice.

   “I don’t know,” replied the captain with his hand over the microphone, “but if these ‘deformation robots’ address us as such, it means they don’t plan to kill us.” He spoke into the com, repeating the greeting while flashing a relaxed close-mouth smile.

   Delighted that the universal greeting worked, Deathsaurus said, “We are a day or so from our rendezvous point.” Deathsaurus focused the camera on the missles he planned to trade, making sure the Slavers had a good clear shot of the inventory, “I'd like to see the cargo.”

   The captain picked up his own com, asking for crew members to bring a single crate from the storage unit. Within a minute, a crew member, wearing a protective suit, arrived with a crate and opened it up to reveal the rare, pure nihonium crystals. Due to their radioactive and unpredictable nature, it was a quick viewing before closing up the crate again.

   Satisfied, Deathsaurus said, “Excellent! I can't wait! If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me. See you soon.” The video call ended and the Slavers were unable to find Deathsaurus' frequency.

   The crew member wearing the protective suit asked, “Wait, is that the $15 trillion robot? No wonder those Quintessons want him so badly. I'd shag that robot too, like damn.”

   With an awkward smile, both the captain and his second-in-command exchanged quick glances. Deathsaurus was not their target. Although there was a similar bounty for him but the payoff was much less, in comparison, due to how dangerous he was; making him more undesirable to the Quintessons – but it was still pretty generous. Their target was another Cybertronian who was much more beautiful. Only the captain and his second-in-command had seen him once before. Since then, the robot's beauty has haunted both their dreams and fantasies. They completely understood why the Quintessons were willing to pay so much for it.

   “No,” replied the second-in-command shaking his head, as he motioned for the crate to be returned to storage.

   “It’s another more beautiful robot.”

   “More beautiful?!” asked crew member, “That’s impossible! There’s no way something sexier than that blue smooth-talking space penguin could exist.”

   The captain, then showed him a photo of their true target on the screen. The crew member stared at the Cybertronian for several minutes before speaking, “Shit, man…he’s hot too. What the hell?! How is this possible?!”

   “Oh, these are their faction leaders,” said the captain as he showed them pictures of Optimus Prime and Megatron. “I don’t understand their beef though. It seemed like they were allies in overthrowing the evil regime but then turned against each other. Perhaps they couldn’t agree which one would rule their home-world and they didn’t want to rule as equals. This is what their millions of years-old war is about.”

   The crew member was in more disbelief, unable to process an adequate reply.

   The second-in-command said, “They were once domesticated by the Quintessons, who somehow thought it was a good idea to keep the weaponized traits, instead of breeding them out.”

   “These robots reproduce?” asked the crew member. “How? They don’t have any females or least I’ve never seen any, it seems like they're all males. I thought they were just made each other in automated factories.”

   With a devious smile, the captain said, “The Quintessons turned their entire species hermaphroditic with their carefully calculated experiments. They intended this to be ‘efficient’ since any two of these 'deformation robots' could mate with each other but I consider it ‘kinky’. And our target is apparently the epitome of this evolution; he is everything the Quintessons' ancestors hoped to accomplish. I know it's tempting to want to haggle a higher price for him, once we succeed, but we mustn't. Knowing how those Quintessons are, we will lose everything if we even dare."

   The crew member was more intrigued than he wanted to admit. (He was entertaining the thought of rawed by their pressurized penises but since they also had vaginas, he had no idea what he wanted to do anymore. He was overwhelmed by the options.) The captain and the second-in-command continued their conversation with the crew member, who hurried to tell the others about what he had learned.

   The Slavers had an idea of what to expect from the Cybertronians. After all, the Quintesson emissaries they spoke to, told them everything they needed to know. What they learned was that the 4 million (or was it 6 million) year-old war between the factions was entirely the Quintesson's fault. The way they programmed the Cybertronians' ancestors to have poor aim and only fire lasers at each other, it was the reason it even lasted that long besides their immortality and desire to find new ways to repair their friends.

   However, their target didn't have lasers, bullets, or bombs of any kind because he was intended to be a harmless loving pet. The Slavers were familiar with the target and “harmless” was not a word they could associate with him. In fact, much of the crew was dreading the moment they would finally come in contact with their target the so-called “loving pet”. As lovely and innocent as their target appeared to be, he had a sinister aura at times. This was the reason the sight of him haunted their dreams because one look into his doleful honey-colored eyes and they knew their mission was doomed.

   Not wanting to dwell on their hopeless situation, the Slavers decided to make another call. This time it was answered by a visor-wearing minibot with friendly blue eyes. Since the Slavers were determined to capture their target, they used all the leads they could to get closer to him. Like Deathsaurus, they also used the universal greeting on minibot.

   The minibot smiled and said, “Good, you made contact with Deathsaurus. You know the deal, you capture him and his crew for me and I will see if the chief justice will honor your request for a private conference with him.”

   “Yes, please,” said the captain, “we have much to discuss in regards to wanting protection for our home.”

   “I look forward to your success,” said the minibot, “but he warned, Deathsaurus and his crew are all formidable warriors. However, his crew has one weakness and that is their love for their leader. So if you manage to gravely injure and capture Deathsaurus, then the rest will do whatever you want if you promise to not take his life.” The minibot hung up the call.

   The second-in-command looked at his captain, who had turned pale. He could no longer hide the impending feelings of doom he felt but he was a man of his word. The last thing he would ever do was to back out of the contract. His planet desperately needed the bounty from capturing that lovely doleful-eyed mechanical devil. He muttered to himself, "The payoff will be very big, you'll see!"

[ursulaismymiddlename]

Like Limbs and Hearts, Entwined (Part 2)

Summary:  When the woven birch crown appears in the Sacred Grove, the village elders know that The God of Field and Forest, The Lord of the Ancient Wood, has decided to take a Bride.  The most beautiful girl in the village, chosen by him and blessed with his grace, is to perform the marriage rites on the First Summer Moon, thus ensuring a bountiful harvest and continued prosperity for the community…  And you are so very certain and so very thankful that it could never be you!

Warnings: SNEK, future smut

A/N: big thanks to @abovethesmokestacks for giving me so many ideas and letting me babble at her about things

Prev.

Soon after the ground began to thaw from the last snow, it was time to work on the season’s planting.  One cloudless early morning, your father set out on his daily chore of checking the traps he’d placed in the woods while you went about preparing the garden.  It was not a particularly easy task, but you had never shied away from hard work.  In fact, you were quite fond of this day of the year.  There was something about working the damp earth after a long cold winter, the promise of future harvest, the pride in a job well done.  It made the sweat and mucked up skirts and exhaustion at the end of the day worthwhile.

The sun shone warm, but the breeze was still delightfully cool on your sweaty brow as you broke up and turned the dirt in neat little rows, humming to yourself as you went.  Some of the last crop had frozen and thawed, rotting in its place, only to be tilled over to help feed its replacement.  A song still danced on your tongue, a smile on your lips, when you took to kneeling on the ground to begin planting.  You couldn’t deny the pleasure in the smell and feel of running your fingers through the dark, fertile soil.  Each seed was tucked away with whispered words of hope for it to grow strong and plentiful.

You were nearly halfway finished with your task when your happy humming was interrupted by a terrified shriek.  It could only have been your mother, who took up the duties of feeding the animals in your stead that day.  The image of the first spring lamb flashed through your head, and fearing the worst, you jumped up from your spot and bound over the unplanted rows toward your mother’s voice.  Silently, you pleaded that nothing might have happened to the little creature, or any of the others.  Nature was capricious and it had crossed your mind several times since the birth that it might up and take the lamb anyway, after all your effort.  But as you approached your mother, wildly swinging a stick in front of herself with a disgusted look on her face, you saw that all the sheep were lively and watching her with great curiosity.

“Mother, what is it,” you asked as you drew closer, concerned at her strange behavior.

She barely turned in your way, dividing her attention between you and whatever she was shaking the stick at.  “That… that thing jumped out and tried to attack me!”

Now, your mother was no stranger to the outside world.  She’d been the wife of a farmer and trapper for many years, and before that the daughter of a hunter, and was well versed in assisting either in their day-to-day activities, but that was hardly her domain of choice.   Her quite formidable strengths lay in the home; cooking an array of different plants and animals, preserving foods, baking, cleaning pelts… all things one might traditionally consider the feminine arts which she’d found a small modicum of success in passing along to you, her only daughter.  Still, though you knew she did not share your deep and abiding love for dirty work or creatures great and small, you could not hold back your fit of stunned laughter when you followed the tip of her makeshift defense and spied exactly what had shaken her so.

There, half-hidden among a tuft of long, bright green grass, sat coiled a snake, head raised and watchful of the branch in your mother’s hand.  You almost imagined it had just as fearful and disgusted an expression as she did.

“Mother,” you chided fondly, reaching to take the stick from her.  “It’s only a garden snake.  It couldn’t do you any harm.”

She resisted giving up her weapon, glaring at the animal in contempt, but eventually relented as you placed yourself between the two and gently guided your mother away.  “It tried to bite me.”

“You must have startled it, then” you replied.  “And even if it had, it would not have hurt you much at all.  A tiny pinch perhaps.  Go back to tending the animals.”

“Are you going to get rid of it?”  She tried looking over your shoulder, as though worried it might sneak up and attack you both.

With a laughing huff, you propped your fists on your hips.  “I should think not!  That snake may very well keep our garden free of pests this season.  You should be welcoming him.”

“Oooh,” she shuddered, but her face softened as she looked at you again.  “Sometimes I worry about you, child.  But you are nothing if not wise in the way of these things more often than not.  I just hope to never cross paths with it or its ilk again!”

This last bit was thrown around you as a warning to the creature and you shook your head with a smile.  When she was finally distracted with her work, you turned back to find the snake still huddled in its place.  It was silly, you knew, but you were in such high spirits that you found yourself crouching down in front of the frightened thing, several feet away.

“You’re rather early this year, Sir Hiss, but welcome to our garden,” you chuckled.  “You’ll have no more trouble from my mother, I’m sure.  Mind the other animals, though.  They are not too fond of snakes, especially the rooster.  But eat your fill and stay as long as you like.”

The snake’s only response was the slow flickering of its tongue tasting the air.  Not that you expected any sort of gracious thanks from it.  Instead, you ducked your head in a cheery goodbye before heading back to pick up with your planting.  It was smooth going, much easier to sow the seeds than turn the soil, the bawdy humor in that not lost on you.  You were nearing the end of the very last row when something caught your attention out of the corner of your eye.

Looking over, you saw a gentle rippling in the grass growing closer and closer until you could make out the form of the little snake as it approached.  All you could do a moment was smile curiously as you watched it make its way right up to the edge of your hand, still buried in the dirt.  It paused there and you expected it to take the safe route around you to the grass on the other side, but to your surprise, it wove its head and body between your fingers, tail curling around your wrist.  Probably seeking the warmth of your skin, you surmised.  Though you couldn’t help being delighted at the little display.

“Come to survey my work, Sir Hiss,” you questioned, lifting the snake to get a good look at it.  “I think we’ll have a decent harvest this year, provided you keep to your end of the deal and stave off any pests that might foil our plans.”

Squirming in your grasp, the creature turned its head to face you.  It stared at you a moment before its tiny forked tongue flickered out and just barely brushed over the tip of your nose.  You blinked, a bit startled.  There had seemed something almost… almost playful in the act.  But no, that was impossible.  Just your wild imagination.  Shaking your head, you laughed at your own silliness and made a few puckering kisses in the snake’s direction as you sat it in the grass.  The animal unwound from your hand and went on its merry way.

It was late afternoon by the time your father made his way home, lumbering through the meadow with a surprising number of rabbits, squirrels, and small animals of all sorts trussed and thrown over his shoulder.  All his traps had been full and there was no disguising just how pleased he was with himself and his haul.  And a fine collection it was, too.  While all three of you set about cleaning and skinning each carcass, it was clear that all the little creatures had been quite healthy, their fur still lush from the winter and hardly matted at all.

“These pelts shall be fit for a king once they’re finished,” your father exclaimed proudly, running his fingers over a squirrel’s fluffed tail.

“Or a queen,” your mother mused as she prepared supper.  She raised an eyebrow at him over her small work table.  “Perhaps one that is to be wed on the First Summer Moon?”

From your spot near the back window, you rolled your eyes at the subject, which Alva assured you had been pervading every aspect of life in and around the village.  But your father gave an affectionate chuckle at your mother’s words.  “So clever, my dear.  They should be plenty ready for the Mid Spring Festival.  I’m sure many a girl will be willing to spend a few coins to look her best for the Elders, try to convince them that they’re the King of the Woods’ chosen bride.”

“From what I’ve heard,” your mother began conspiratorially.  You had to a suppress your amused snort, knowing her penchant for gossip with the neighboring farmwives and her occasional walks into the village.  “The Elders are up to their ears in young women and the things they keep putting forth as signs.  Each one is convinced that they are to be his wife.”

“As are their parents, I’m quite sure,” you murmured under your breath while brushing at the fur in your hand.

The sass did not go unnoticed by your mother, who shot you a small glare.  “No one can fault a mother or father for thinking their daughter worthy of such an honor.  Why, I’d parade you in front of the Elders as a contender myself if I thought you’d let me.”

“Our daughter is not some silly girl prone to flights of fancy,” your father chimed in before you could even open your mouth to respond.  “She’s a free spirit with a good head on her shoulders, more than worthy enough for man or god.  She can decide for herself if there are signs or blessings or such without any prodding from you, my dear wife.”

A great, if somewhat annoyed sigh left your mother at that, her eyes turning to you.  “Well, has there been any, child?  Anything at all?”

“Not unless a quick and easy Spring for the whole village is a sign meant just for me,” you chuckled.  “Besides, it is well known that the God of Field and Forest chooses the most beautiful and devoted of his followers to be his bride.  And the whole of the village knows exactly who that is.”

“Pretty Ilona may be, but there are more things to beauty, my darling,” you father retorted.  “And more to devotion than her father making her the center of attention at every celebration.”

Your mother nodded in agreement as she tended the pot on the cooking fire.  “Besides, there’s more to it than that.  He’s meant to send tokens of his affection, blessings of nature.  Plenty of the other girls have perfectly reasonable claim.  I heard that Marta rode a new mare for the first time without being thrown.  A natural hand for animals could be a sign.”

You scoffed slightly under your breath, moving on to the next fur pelt to brush.  As if anyone would trust Marta with a temperamental horse that needed breaking.  She was just a whisp of a girl, the mare probably didn’t even know it had a rider that day.  Your mother continued on while she cooked, naming some of the young women and why they could be the one chosen.  There was Eve, whose cow began producing extra milk (though you knew the cow and suspected a calf was on its way soon.)  A number of blackbirds perched on a tree in Katrin’s yard the day of the First Spring Moon (the number was 10, to be precise.)  And Myrtle’s name alone meant something as it was a traditional part of the Woven Birch Crown (because that couldn’t possibly be the point of her naming to begin with.)

There were a few more, but you lost interest after awhile.  Your attention turned out the window as you brushed gently at each pelt, making sure the fur was laying well.  Night was fast approaching and the air was growing cooler.  Hopefully not another freeze, you’d hate for all your hard work that day to go to waste.  Plus, Sir Hiss would not fare well caught out in the cold.  There was movement in the long shadows cast across the meadow near the woods that drew your eye.  From what you could make out at a distance, a few deer were starting to emerge from the treeline.  At least, there seemed to be a stag, cutting a rather majestic outline in the dying light.

“Do you know what I think?”  Your father’s voice boomed merrily, starling you and drawing your eyes to him.  It took a moment to realize your mother had stopped talking, her brow knit in fond exasperation as she shook her head at you when your gazes met.  “I think with all these girls vying for a chance to be the Bride, then we’re sure to sell many of these fine pelts.  And if the animals are good to us and the crops plentiful, we might be able to make a fair bit for ourselves.  What do you say to that, my loves?”

“I wouldn’t mind a new dress,” you muttered quietly, fingers slipping over the small mends and stains in the lap of your skirt.  The few you owned were worn and a bit tattered, and, to your chagrin, a little tight at the seams in some places as you’d had them for a few years.  But you immediately regretted such a selfish thought.  There were much less frivolous things to spend extra coin on around your home.  You’d only end up dirty and looking ashambles again soon, anyway.  No sense on wasting money on fine things for yourself.

The evening went on quiet and cozy, you and your parents feasting well on your father’s catch and the bread your mother made.  You were grateful for the little luxuries of a full stomach and a well-earned stretch in your muscles from a day’s good work.  Both saw you off to sleep contently with the light of the waning moon.

Early the next morning, you awoke to a cool breeze carrying in the sweet, fragrant scent of lilac through your window.   You laid in bed a few moments longer, just enjoying it and the slight damp of the air and the soft light that fell across the floor.  Yet the rooster’s crow pulled you from your lazy daze and onto your feet.  Smiling, you popped over to the open window and stuck your head out when he called again.

“Yes, I’ve heard you.  Good morning,” you chuckled.  “I’ll see to you and your ladies soon enough.”

Quickly gathering yourself to begin your chores, you headed outside.  You were making your way around to the coop, the dew in the grass wetting your skirt hem, when you paused to survey your work from the day before.  No sign of frost, much to your relief, but it seemed little shoots of green were already trying to peek through the dirt.  Probably early starts from the old crops that made it through the winter.  And you must have had visitors during the night, judging by the deer print stamped in the dark earth.  Hopefully they wouldn't return to trample or eat any of the growing shoots.  Sir Hiss would be no match for a few hungry deer.

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