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your-url-is-problematic:
it’s that Millennial Müde
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your-url-is-problematic:
it’s that Millennial Müde
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obaewankenope:
punsbulletsandpointythings:
poplitealqueen:
jvlianbashir:
why do people try to pit star wars and star trek against each other when we all know damn well jim kirk would be all over that psychic twink with a laser sword
OP you are so wise
The meeting of James. T. Kirk and Obi-Wan “Always Fucking Flirting” Kenobi would be AMAZING.
“Well, hello there.”
Jim turns, phaser at the ready. He blinks at the sight of the man in a brown robe with gingery hair.
“Hello?”
The robed man smirks, just a little.
In the middle of a senate meeting a certain Chancellor suddenly gets a headache and has to excuse himself before he falls over in a rather undignified manner. He barely makes it to his office before he drops to the floor, feeling as though there’s a hole being burned through his chest.
Somewhere in the universe, a meeting of minds has just occurred and it will forever alter his plans. The light blazes brightly, almost drowning out the darkness he has steadily built up over the years.
Palpatine growls. “Kenobi.”
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obaewankenope:
punsbulletsandpointythings:
poplitealqueen:
jvlianbashir:
why do people try to pit star wars and star trek against each other when we all know damn well jim kirk would be all over that psychic twink with a laser sword
OP you are so wise
The meeting of James. T. Kirk and Obi-Wan “Always Fucking Flirting” Kenobi would be AMAZING.
“Well, hello there.”
Jim turns, phaser at the ready. He blinks at the sight of the man in a brown robe with gingery hair.
“Hello?”
The robed man smirks, just a little.
In the middle of a senate meeting a certain Chancellor suddenly gets a headache and has to excuse himself before he falls over in a rather undignified manner. He barely makes it to his office before he drops to the floor, feeling as though there’s a hole being burned through his chest.
Somewhere in the universe, a meeting of minds has just occurred and it will forever alter his plans. The light blazes brightly, almost drowning out the darkness he has steadily built up over the years.
Palpatine growls. “Kenobi.”
(Your picture was not posted)
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greenekangaroo:
dingoes8myrp:
asymbina:
makeitearlgrey:
littlesystems:
robotsandfrippary:
gothiccharmschool:
ladynorbert:
kyraneko:
nerdfighterwhatevernumbers:
whatsamobtoamadkingryan:
drhu0806:
the960writers:
lestatthewolfkiller:
vraik:
anton-mordrid:
My name is Lisa.
I’m five foot nine. My hair is long and it’s dark brown. I wear leather a great deal, high boots always, and sometimes glove-soft vests and even leather skirts now and then, and I wear lace, especially when I can find the kind I like: intricate, very old-fashioned lace, snow white. I have light skin that tans easily, large breasts, and long legs. And though I don’t feel beautiful and never have, I know that I am. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be a trainer at The Club.
–Exit to Eden by Anne Rice (aka Rampling), 1985
Hi my name is Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that’s how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Amy Lee (AN: if u don’t know who she is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Gerard Way but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a vampire but my teeth are straight and white. I have pale white skin. I’m also a witch, and I go to a magic school called Hogwarts in England where I’m in the seventh year (I’m seventeen). I’m a goth (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly black. I love Hot Topic and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside Hogwarts. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of preps stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.
–My Immortal by Tara Gilesbie, 2006
#g o d#that can’t be a real Anne rice quote
*”Rampling” was Rice’s pseudonym while she was writing erotica, mainly for this and the Sleeping Beauty quartet
i mean ….
lestat is on the my immortal train too lol
Anne Rice hates fanfiction! My Immortal is a satire of fanfiction about the fiction from an author who hates fanfiction. This makes everything even better.
@imperfectkreis
This is just more evidence that you could teach a full semester course on My Immortal.
Add this to the ‘My Immortal was a troll all along’ evidence pile
I am absurdly, pettily happy that it’s Anne Rice getting slammed with the My Immortal comparisons.
(Is it me or does “My Immortal” sound very like the sort of title an Anne Rice book would have?)
Have we considered the possibility that Anne Rice actually wrote My Immortal?
:: squints ::
Y’know, the theory of Anne Rice having written My Immortal is nowhere NEAR as cracky as her last book was …
I didn’t know what the hell “My Immortal” was referring to for a long time and I just ASSUMED it was an Anne Rice novel by all the quotes I saw.
Anne Rice being the secret author of My Immortal is actually… not a bad theory? I mean, we know she HATES fanfiction, but also seeks it out (at least well enough to sue them) so she has some knowledge of fandom and probably of some of the styles/themes of the time. I could totally see her writing My Immortal in the dead of night, trying to wrap up every single thing she hates about fanfiction in one terribly-written package.
And she would never own up to it. EVER.
Alright guys spread the news: we’ve figured out who actually wrote my immortal. It was Anne rice.
Honestly, this makes just as much sense as any other theory that’s been proposed over the years
What fresh hell is this? Someone fill me in. @greenekangaroo ? Is this a thing you know about?
oh my god friend.
Hold on to your butt here’s the reader’s digest version:
The exact year escapes me but once upon a time there was a terrible, and I mean TERRIBLE, harry potter fic put up titled My Immortal. What you see up there is the opening paragraph, word for word, of said fic. It is so iconically bad that it became its own meme. The rest of My Immortal was just as atrocious.
The writer of My Immortal remains a complete mystery. This is kind of weird because a lot of fic writers are easily found despite handle changes, especially fic writers who write stuff that gets big for one reason or another.
We have zero info on My Immortal’s creator. No one knows if he, she, or they intended the fic as satire or a piece of trollfic. No one knows if they were serious.
In the past couple of years there have been serious attempts to hunt down the author and there was a big thing about mid-2017 where the internet thought they’d found her. This turned out to not be true. Not only was the potential author lying about writing My Immortal, she was lying about a bunch of other stuff too including trying to find her brother who was adopted out of foster care.
So, like the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa, we may never know who wrote My Immortal.
(and yeah Ann Rice is definitely a fanwork hating nightmare who doxxes and threatens people who make art re: the Vampire Chronicles. She also goes after people who leave bad reviews on her books.)
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greenekangaroo:
dingoes8myrp:
asymbina:
makeitearlgrey:
littlesystems:
robotsandfrippary:
gothiccharmschool:
ladynorbert:
kyraneko:
nerdfighterwhatevernumbers:
whatsamobtoamadkingryan:
drhu0806:
the960writers:
lestatthewolfkiller:
vraik:
anton-mordrid:
My name is Lisa.
I’m five foot nine. My hair is long and it’s dark brown. I wear leather a great deal, high boots always, and sometimes glove-soft vests and even leather skirts now and then, and I wear lace, especially when I can find the kind I like: intricate, very old-fashioned lace, snow white. I have light skin that tans easily, large breasts, and long legs. And though I don’t feel beautiful and never have, I know that I am. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be a trainer at The Club.
–Exit to Eden by Anne Rice (aka Rampling), 1985
Hi my name is Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that’s how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Amy Lee (AN: if u don’t know who she is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Gerard Way but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a vampire but my teeth are straight and white. I have pale white skin. I’m also a witch, and I go to a magic school called Hogwarts in England where I’m in the seventh year (I’m seventeen). I’m a goth (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly black. I love Hot Topic and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside Hogwarts. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of preps stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.
–My Immortal by Tara Gilesbie, 2006
#g o d#that can’t be a real Anne rice quote
*”Rampling” was Rice’s pseudonym while she was writing erotica, mainly for this and the Sleeping Beauty quartet
i mean ….
lestat is on the my immortal train too lol
Anne Rice hates fanfiction! My Immortal is a satire of fanfiction about the fiction from an author who hates fanfiction. This makes everything even better.
@imperfectkreis
This is just more evidence that you could teach a full semester course on My Immortal.
Add this to the ‘My Immortal was a troll all along’ evidence pile
I am absurdly, pettily happy that it’s Anne Rice getting slammed with the My Immortal comparisons.
(Is it me or does “My Immortal” sound very like the sort of title an Anne Rice book would have?)
Have we considered the possibility that Anne Rice actually wrote My Immortal?
:: squints ::
Y’know, the theory of Anne Rice having written My Immortal is nowhere NEAR as cracky as her last book was …
I didn’t know what the hell “My Immortal” was referring to for a long time and I just ASSUMED it was an Anne Rice novel by all the quotes I saw.
Anne Rice being the secret author of My Immortal is actually… not a bad theory? I mean, we know she HATES fanfiction, but also seeks it out (at least well enough to sue them) so she has some knowledge of fandom and probably of some of the styles/themes of the time. I could totally see her writing My Immortal in the dead of night, trying to wrap up every single thing she hates about fanfiction in one terribly-written package.
And she would never own up to it. EVER.
Alright guys spread the news: we’ve figured out who actually wrote my immortal. It was Anne rice.
Honestly, this makes just as much sense as any other theory that’s been proposed over the years
What fresh hell is this? Someone fill me in. @greenekangaroo ? Is this a thing you know about?
oh my god friend.
Hold on to your butt here’s the reader’s digest version:
The exact year escapes me but once upon a time there was a terrible, and I mean TERRIBLE, harry potter fic put up titled My Immortal. What you see up there is the opening paragraph, word for word, of said fic. It is so iconically bad that it became its own meme. The rest of My Immortal was just as atrocious.
The writer of My Immortal remains a complete mystery. This is kind of weird because a lot of fic writers are easily found despite handle changes, especially fic writers who write stuff that gets big for one reason or another.
We have zero info on My Immortal’s creator. No one knows if he, she, or they intended the fic as satire or a piece of trollfic. No one knows if they were serious.
In the past couple of years there have been serious attempts to hunt down the author and there was a big thing about mid-2017 where the internet thought they’d found her. This turned out to not be true. Not only was the potential author lying about writing My Immortal, she was lying about a bunch of other stuff too including trying to find her brother who was adopted out of foster care.
So, like the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa, we may never know who wrote My Immortal.
(and yeah Ann Rice is definitely a fanwork hating nightmare who doxxes and threatens people who make art re: the Vampire Chronicles. She also goes after people who leave bad reviews on her books.)
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cheshiresense:
What if: Both Ichigo and Urahara were booted back in time in the Swinging Pendulum universe?
Notes: Idk if I’ll continue this later (once those later SP canon parts are written). But I was in an UraIchi mood, and I’ve been trying to write some more of SP so here’s hoping this helps me get past that writer’s block.
Keep reading
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cheshiresense:
What if: Both Ichigo and Urahara were booted back in time in the Swinging Pendulum universe?
Notes: Idk if I’ll continue this later (once those later SP canon parts are written). But I was in an UraIchi mood, and I’ve been trying to write some more of SP so here’s hoping this helps me get past that writer’s block.
Keep reading
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squirrelwrangler:
As an apology for the last angst fic, here’s the written out proper version of this headcanon.
…
Still wiping away tears from his eyes, Námo calls to the other side of the enveloping darkness that formed the outermost ring of the Circles of the World, hoping to reach the ear of Ilúvatar or one of his brethren that did not journey into Arda. He knows there is a counterpart of his that must be the one to hold and handle the mortal souls that leave his Halls and enter Beyond (he hopes, in the way the Children have described and defined hope). Finally, someone answers. At first it is hard to separate the tones from the reverb of his call, and there is a terribly annoying static to the vibrations on the upper places of thought. Manwe never has these issues, he thinks, and never has to wait this long. It is a vaguely familiar voice, but one he has not heard in so long he has forgotten the name that their father assigned them. Something that started with a Ha or He sound, he thinks. Or was it Nef?
“Námo!” the voice calls. “You were not supposed to contact us unless it is of great need. What is this request you ask for?” There are undercurrents of peevishness and stress to the voice, a sense that they are distracted and cannot give him their full attention. It could be merely the distortion of communicating across barriers of existence. Námo tries not the feel any personal offense.
“A great boon,” the Judge says, pitching his tones to those of resolve and determination, and as succinctly as possible describes the situation with Melian’s daughter and her mortal lover. “They wish to remain together, and thus Lúthien is willing to join Beren to his mortal fate, to leave the confines of Arda.”
A great sigh echoes through the Outer Void. “Look, Námo, I know you have all your First Children to deal with and they can be a tad unruly, but we are swamped. Do you realize how exponentially greater the number of the Second Children are, and how swiftly it increases? And how fractious they are? I would trade you positions for some peace and quiet, even if it meant having to share a universe with Melkor. And you want to dump an extra soul on my overworked shoulders? Truly?”
The moratorium on the coldness of his heart has ceased; his sympathies can no longer be manipulated. Námo steels himself and replies, “My brethren and I wish to grant them some years together here on Arda, then allow them to leave together. I will give you time to prepare, and I am only asking you accept one soul. Not even our most intractable. But I swear by the name of our Father and Creator, I will not suffer a second permanent resident of my Halls declaring to never leave my couch and spend all of eternity bemoaning their lost mortal beloved. I have one already, and Vairë is exhausted already listening to him weep and pout and get accidentally tangled in her skeins as he searches for fresh handkerchiefs and frozen dairy sweets. Aegnor is bad enough. I won’t have twice the misery.”
The humming sound that signaled that the Ainur on the other end was only humoring Námo’s rant without giving it consideration screeched to a halt and the line of communication intensified with sudden loudness and clarity. “What was that name?”
“Melian’s daughter that wishes to have a fate of one of the Second Children?”
“No, no, the other. The one already moping in your personal wing of your Halls. The one that was in love with a mortal- it was mutual, wasn’t it? The name, please!”
“Aegnor,” Námo says slowly. “Ambaráto Aikanáro Arafinwion. And the woman he cries over was of the House of Bëor named-”
“AEGNOR!” the counterpart howls with the chords of extreme vexation that he thought only Melkor’s disharmony could inspire. “OH YES, HIM. We are sick of hearing that name. We know the woman of the Third Song, Andreth Saelind. There is not a soul here that does not, to our sorrow. For more than ten of your years, we have had to listen to her complaints, of her list of grievances of the inequalities and ill-planning of Eru’s Songs, critiques of your jobs and ours and philosophical bitching. Of which we always hear from the newly arrived, mistake me not - but this one! Brother, she has gone to Ilúvatar himself and has not shut up. Your Lúthien at least could sing with incomparable beauty and skill. We got her. If I never have to hear another word about her beautiful block-headed Aegnor, I would take all the First Children into my keeping.”
Námo is aghast at what to possibly respond with.
“Look, I’ll talk to Father but I can guarantee he’ll agree. We’ll swap you Lúthien for Andreth. And it’ll take a while for any of us to interrupt her diatribe to inform her of the deal, which should give your Lúthien and Beren a grace period for a second chance at life together. Oh, Most Joyous of Songs! Peace and Quiet at Last! We can be rid of Saelind! I was almost tempted to pull a Tulukhastaz to get away from her. I have never cried before. What are these things on my face?”
“Tears of joy,” Námo explains dryly.
(Your picture was not posted)
squirrelwrangler:
As an apology for the last angst fic, here’s the written out proper version of this headcanon.
…
Still wiping away tears from his eyes, Námo calls to the other side of the enveloping darkness that formed the outermost ring of the Circles of the World, hoping to reach the ear of Ilúvatar or one of his brethren that did not journey into Arda. He knows there is a counterpart of his that must be the one to hold and handle the mortal souls that leave his Halls and enter Beyond (he hopes, in the way the Children have described and defined hope). Finally, someone answers. At first it is hard to separate the tones from the reverb of his call, and there is a terribly annoying static to the vibrations on the upper places of thought. Manwe never has these issues, he thinks, and never has to wait this long. It is a vaguely familiar voice, but one he has not heard in so long he has forgotten the name that their father assigned them. Something that started with a Ha or He sound, he thinks. Or was it Nef?
“Námo!” the voice calls. “You were not supposed to contact us unless it is of great need. What is this request you ask for?” There are undercurrents of peevishness and stress to the voice, a sense that they are distracted and cannot give him their full attention. It could be merely the distortion of communicating across barriers of existence. Námo tries not the feel any personal offense.
“A great boon,” the Judge says, pitching his tones to those of resolve and determination, and as succinctly as possible describes the situation with Melian’s daughter and her mortal lover. “They wish to remain together, and thus Lúthien is willing to join Beren to his mortal fate, to leave the confines of Arda.”
A great sigh echoes through the Outer Void. “Look, Námo, I know you have all your First Children to deal with and they can be a tad unruly, but we are swamped. Do you realize how exponentially greater the number of the Second Children are, and how swiftly it increases? And how fractious they are? I would trade you positions for some peace and quiet, even if it meant having to share a universe with Melkor. And you want to dump an extra soul on my overworked shoulders? Truly?”
The moratorium on the coldness of his heart has ceased; his sympathies can no longer be manipulated. Námo steels himself and replies, “My brethren and I wish to grant them some years together here on Arda, then allow them to leave together. I will give you time to prepare, and I am only asking you accept one soul. Not even our most intractable. But I swear by the name of our Father and Creator, I will not suffer a second permanent resident of my Halls declaring to never leave my couch and spend all of eternity bemoaning their lost mortal beloved. I have one already, and Vairë is exhausted already listening to him weep and pout and get accidentally tangled in her skeins as he searches for fresh handkerchiefs and frozen dairy sweets. Aegnor is bad enough. I won’t have twice the misery.”
The humming sound that signaled that the Ainur on the other end was only humoring Námo’s rant without giving it consideration screeched to a halt and the line of communication intensified with sudden loudness and clarity. “What was that name?”
“Melian’s daughter that wishes to have a fate of one of the Second Children?”
“No, no, the other. The one already moping in your personal wing of your Halls. The one that was in love with a mortal- it was mutual, wasn’t it? The name, please!”
“Aegnor,” Námo says slowly. “Ambaráto Aikanáro Arafinwion. And the woman he cries over was of the House of Bëor named-”
“AEGNOR!” the counterpart howls with the chords of extreme vexation that he thought only Melkor’s disharmony could inspire. “OH YES, HIM. We are sick of hearing that name. We know the woman of the Third Song, Andreth Saelind. There is not a soul here that does not, to our sorrow. For more than ten of your years, we have had to listen to her complaints, of her list of grievances of the inequalities and ill-planning of Eru’s Songs, critiques of your jobs and ours and philosophical bitching. Of which we always hear from the newly arrived, mistake me not - but this one! Brother, she has gone to Ilúvatar himself and has not shut up. Your Lúthien at least could sing with incomparable beauty and skill. We got her. If I never have to hear another word about her beautiful block-headed Aegnor, I would take all the First Children into my keeping.”
Námo is aghast at what to possibly respond with.
“Look, I’ll talk to Father but I can guarantee he’ll agree. We’ll swap you Lúthien for Andreth. And it’ll take a while for any of us to interrupt her diatribe to inform her of the deal, which should give your Lúthien and Beren a grace period for a second chance at life together. Oh, Most Joyous of Songs! Peace and Quiet at Last! We can be rid of Saelind! I was almost tempted to pull a Tulukhastaz to get away from her. I have never cried before. What are these things on my face?”
“Tears of joy,” Námo explains dryly.
(Your picture was not posted)
For the title meme- One To Call My Own
Feb. 2nd, 2018 07:26 amvia http://ift.tt/2DU3Y62
@kettish keeps poking me for Venge & Mara Jade fic
@deadcatwithaflamethrower you stirred some stuff last night with the snippets
“What do you think of my little pet project, my Apprentice?” Sidious asks, hated voice creeping like smoke across the ice-cold floor. “It was very difficult, you know. Who could have predicted Rhen’s would turn out to be so troublesome.”
The words don’t quite register. Venge stares at the holoimage, pure hatred curling like smoke in his lungs, in his mouth, his throat, stinging at his eyes and deafening him even to that voice.
“Well, my dear General? I may never have you, but this one is mine.”
Later, he thinks Sidious might have realised he’d gravely misstepped. Venge almost remembers that bond pulsing in Sidious’s vain attempt to throttle and stamp out a rising tide of his fury, but the attempt was too little, and far too late.
Venge is also not entirely sure what he did. Something destructive. Much of it was a blur, and the only thing he remembers with anything resembling clarity is the rage, grief, and desolation poured into the ruin of what was once his home. The carpets were red like rivers of iron-based blood, the walls were black and smooth, shining like Sidious’s lair. By the time Venge is through with it, there isn’t a brick of Imperial Center still lying in its place.
Venge comes back—painfully—to himself, feeling rather like he’d gone another few rounds of electrocution. Channeling that much raw power leaves him feeling like the top of his head’s peeled off, and his teeth are humming still. It feels like a damn spice trip without the instant allergic reaction—skin crawling, burning, and paper-thin, all of him hyperaware of the brush of air, of every sound, every hint of movement.
It’s distantly amusing to consider that Imperial building codes are barely up to par with Republic ones. Or maybe Imperial Center was built in a hurry.
Still. Venge is surrounded by wreckage that looks like the result of aerial bombardment. No building codes could withstand that.
He’s standing in the middle of a smoking slagheap, and there is a child in front of him, watching him with large, curious eyes, not even the least bit frightened.
One to call my own. The words float and twist in his mind, like everything else Sidious had ever touched. Sure enough, there it is. A bond, tethering this child to her Master—more slavemaster than teacher, but she wouldn’t know that at all, would she?
Emperor’s Hand, Venge thinks, and wonders why this four- or five-year-old red-haired child hasn’t run off, or maybe shot him with that blaster she hasn’t got hidden in her boot.
Venge hesitates, then crouches down to her eye-level.
She’s still. Not. Running.
“Hello there,” he says softly. Venge isn’t sure what moves him to do it, but he reaches out with one hand, palm up, and holds his breath.
He leaves the smoking ruin with the child in his arms, walks out into the incongruously brilliant Coruscant sunlight, and right into Vader, standing on the steps in an eerie mirror to the March on the Temple. The black suit that holds together what is left of his brother is completely still, and silent but for its breathing. A lightsaber lies in Vader’s hand, at the ready, but it is unlit. Venge stops, hesitates. The thought of leaving his brother behind, even like this, scrapes across raw and painful memories like sanded paper. Leaving him—it’s impossible.
But Venge stands between two impossible choices, and it won’t be long before the Emperor takes another body.
“Either come with me, or don’t get in my way,” Venge growls.
Vader stands silent and stock-still, and every ticking second drags longer. With a disgusted scoff, Venge shakes his head and steps forward, then again, again, and another time, until he walks past the sentinel of the Emperor’s slave, and keeps walking.
The laboured breathing of the suit does not grow any more distant, however, and heavy footfalls follow him down the many steps. Venge doesn’t quite believe it, until—
“I have a ship,” Vader says.
“Really.” Venge hadn’t given any thought to how he was going to leave here with this child in his arms. Not without stealing, or a hell of a lot of property damage. No way Venge was dragging Dex into this, either. The Besalisk was too valuable an ally.
Venge threw a sideways glance at Vader as the massive, hulking black shape drew even with him. It was impossible to read the damn suit. But Anakin was in there, somewhere, and…
“Lead the way.”
…call it a tentative part 1?
(Your picture was not posted)
@kettish keeps poking me for Venge & Mara Jade fic
@deadcatwithaflamethrower you stirred some stuff last night with the snippets
“What do you think of my little pet project, my Apprentice?” Sidious asks, hated voice creeping like smoke across the ice-cold floor. “It was very difficult, you know. Who could have predicted Rhen’s would turn out to be so troublesome.”
The words don’t quite register. Venge stares at the holoimage, pure hatred curling like smoke in his lungs, in his mouth, his throat, stinging at his eyes and deafening him even to that voice.
“Well, my dear General? I may never have you, but this one is mine.”
Later, he thinks Sidious might have realised he’d gravely misstepped. Venge almost remembers that bond pulsing in Sidious’s vain attempt to throttle and stamp out a rising tide of his fury, but the attempt was too little, and far too late.
Venge is also not entirely sure what he did. Something destructive. Much of it was a blur, and the only thing he remembers with anything resembling clarity is the rage, grief, and desolation poured into the ruin of what was once his home. The carpets were red like rivers of iron-based blood, the walls were black and smooth, shining like Sidious’s lair. By the time Venge is through with it, there isn’t a brick of Imperial Center still lying in its place.
Venge comes back—painfully—to himself, feeling rather like he’d gone another few rounds of electrocution. Channeling that much raw power leaves him feeling like the top of his head’s peeled off, and his teeth are humming still. It feels like a damn spice trip without the instant allergic reaction—skin crawling, burning, and paper-thin, all of him hyperaware of the brush of air, of every sound, every hint of movement.
It’s distantly amusing to consider that Imperial building codes are barely up to par with Republic ones. Or maybe Imperial Center was built in a hurry.
Still. Venge is surrounded by wreckage that looks like the result of aerial bombardment. No building codes could withstand that.
He’s standing in the middle of a smoking slagheap, and there is a child in front of him, watching him with large, curious eyes, not even the least bit frightened.
One to call my own. The words float and twist in his mind, like everything else Sidious had ever touched. Sure enough, there it is. A bond, tethering this child to her Master—more slavemaster than teacher, but she wouldn’t know that at all, would she?
Emperor’s Hand, Venge thinks, and wonders why this four- or five-year-old red-haired child hasn’t run off, or maybe shot him with that blaster she hasn’t got hidden in her boot.
Venge hesitates, then crouches down to her eye-level.
She’s still. Not. Running.
“Hello there,” he says softly. Venge isn’t sure what moves him to do it, but he reaches out with one hand, palm up, and holds his breath.
He leaves the smoking ruin with the child in his arms, walks out into the incongruously brilliant Coruscant sunlight, and right into Vader, standing on the steps in an eerie mirror to the March on the Temple. The black suit that holds together what is left of his brother is completely still, and silent but for its breathing. A lightsaber lies in Vader’s hand, at the ready, but it is unlit. Venge stops, hesitates. The thought of leaving his brother behind, even like this, scrapes across raw and painful memories like sanded paper. Leaving him—it’s impossible.
But Venge stands between two impossible choices, and it won’t be long before the Emperor takes another body.
“Either come with me, or don’t get in my way,” Venge growls.
Vader stands silent and stock-still, and every ticking second drags longer. With a disgusted scoff, Venge shakes his head and steps forward, then again, again, and another time, until he walks past the sentinel of the Emperor’s slave, and keeps walking.
The laboured breathing of the suit does not grow any more distant, however, and heavy footfalls follow him down the many steps. Venge doesn’t quite believe it, until—
“I have a ship,” Vader says.
“Really.” Venge hadn’t given any thought to how he was going to leave here with this child in his arms. Not without stealing, or a hell of a lot of property damage. No way Venge was dragging Dex into this, either. The Besalisk was too valuable an ally.
Venge threw a sideways glance at Vader as the massive, hulking black shape drew even with him. It was impossible to read the damn suit. But Anakin was in there, somewhere, and…
“Lead the way.”
…call it a tentative part 1?
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via http://ift.tt/2nv9ZPE
It would be a beautiful disaster. In the best way, I mean.
Suddenly Obi-Wan has a sister Padawan in Depa Billaba, who is cool, calm, collected, chill, and completely, utterly wicked about spoiling her new brother Padawan. Obi-Wan keeps bluescreening over this until he gets used to it. Then it’s a game to see who can make Mace drink the most to compensate for the evening. Echuu Shen-Jon, his new brother Padawan, notices that Obi-Wan likes to fly and makes it a life-goal to make certain Obi-Wan is a terrifying pilot because everyone should take some form of revenge against their former Master, and making Mace regret it every time he steps foot on a transport is the best thing Echuu can think of. (Depa already stole drinking rights, dammit.)
He’s just adjusting to the whole “someone wants me!” thing when Mace uses slaying logic to find out just what in the fuck was going on in the creche in the first place. Mace is then seriously pissed off that someone taught his Padawan that being utterly passive to the point of letting someone beat the hell out of you is the act of a “proper Jedi” and goes to tear several creche Masters and Healers as many new assholes as it takes for that attitude to stop.
At first he thought his new Padawan would need Vapaad. Now Mace realizes that his new Padawan would be devastating no matter what Obi-Wan learns and just decides to let him choose.
(Obi-Wan spends about six months panicking about making the Wrong Choice in regards to choosing a lightsaber fighting style because This Is Not How Things Are Supposed To Work.)
Obi-Wan now lives and breathes Council politics and Republic politics and is fourteen the first time he says aloud, “This is such a complete pile of bantha shit.” Mace says there isn’t nearly enough bantha shit involved in that statement, and thank you for waiting to make that comment until after we left the Senate.
Everyone thought that Mace teaching Obi-Wan would curb the boy’s “Defiance” from the creche. No. No it does not. Everyone keeps forgetting what Mace is really like when he isn’t being political, and that is a disenfranchised angry motherfucker who invented his own lightsaber style when nothing suited him and then spent his five-year at home after Knighting to know and understand where he came from. The only other Jedi he knows who did this is Plo Koon. If anything, Obi-Wan is becoming Polite Defiance Personified.
Eventually Obi-Wan gives up on choosing “a” lightsaber style and just learns everything he can physically perform from all of them because he has no idea what else to do. It’s terrifyingly effective.
A lot of people in the Temple think Obi-Wan will Fall because of his “early” behavior and because he’s the Vapaad Master’s Padawan. Obi-Wan looks at Depa and Echuu Shen-Jon and thinks that these people have to be seriously fucking blind not to have noticed Mace’s previous two successfully Knighted Padawans, who are just fine–and the newly titled Master of the pair was just elected to the Council at the youngest humanoid age ever.
Qui-Gon pisses Mace off yet again, so Mace pulls rank and it being his Padawan and assigns Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon to work a mission together. Qui-Gon tries to be himself, except bitter because he still hasn’t gotten over his issues. Obi-Wan gives him a flat look and tells him that he is being STUPID, and also Falling out of Bitterness sounds like a really dumbass idea, but if Qui-Gon wants to go that route, that’s his business. Qui-Gon is rather crankily reminded of the fact that Mace’s Padawan sounds like Mace and that Mace never once put up with any of his shit even when Mace was twelve. He spends the rest of the mission begrudingly listening to this sharp-tongued politician Jedi kid kick ass, fly like the most terrifying being in existence, drink Qui-Gon himself under the table (thank you, Depa) and just generally being the kind of Jedi Qui-Gon remembers he used to be thirty years ago.
This is not a pleasing recollection, mostly because then he has to stop and look at what a clusterfuck of a Jedi he’s allowed himself to become. Qui-Gon blames Mace. Obi-Wan would just like it if Qui-Gon would lower the angst level in the room to at least an 8 out of 10 instead of leaving it jammed at 11+.
Needless to say, the Mandalore mission isn’t any fun, but Obi-Wan is adopted by a clan and gets shiny armor out of it. So worth being shot at for six months straight.
Afterwards, Mace asks Obi-Wan what he did, because Qui-Gon went to the Healers.
“Okay?”
“On his own, Padawan.”
“Okay…?”
“He never, ever goes to the fucking Healers unless someone drugs him first.”
Obi-Wan stares at his Master.
“You drugged him.”
“Just a little bit.”
Mace smiles. “Good job, Padawan.”
“Thank you, Master.”
(Your picture was not posted)
It would be a beautiful disaster. In the best way, I mean.
Suddenly Obi-Wan has a sister Padawan in Depa Billaba, who is cool, calm, collected, chill, and completely, utterly wicked about spoiling her new brother Padawan. Obi-Wan keeps bluescreening over this until he gets used to it. Then it’s a game to see who can make Mace drink the most to compensate for the evening. Echuu Shen-Jon, his new brother Padawan, notices that Obi-Wan likes to fly and makes it a life-goal to make certain Obi-Wan is a terrifying pilot because everyone should take some form of revenge against their former Master, and making Mace regret it every time he steps foot on a transport is the best thing Echuu can think of. (Depa already stole drinking rights, dammit.)
He’s just adjusting to the whole “someone wants me!” thing when Mace uses slaying logic to find out just what in the fuck was going on in the creche in the first place. Mace is then seriously pissed off that someone taught his Padawan that being utterly passive to the point of letting someone beat the hell out of you is the act of a “proper Jedi” and goes to tear several creche Masters and Healers as many new assholes as it takes for that attitude to stop.
At first he thought his new Padawan would need Vapaad. Now Mace realizes that his new Padawan would be devastating no matter what Obi-Wan learns and just decides to let him choose.
(Obi-Wan spends about six months panicking about making the Wrong Choice in regards to choosing a lightsaber fighting style because This Is Not How Things Are Supposed To Work.)
Obi-Wan now lives and breathes Council politics and Republic politics and is fourteen the first time he says aloud, “This is such a complete pile of bantha shit.” Mace says there isn’t nearly enough bantha shit involved in that statement, and thank you for waiting to make that comment until after we left the Senate.
Everyone thought that Mace teaching Obi-Wan would curb the boy’s “Defiance” from the creche. No. No it does not. Everyone keeps forgetting what Mace is really like when he isn’t being political, and that is a disenfranchised angry motherfucker who invented his own lightsaber style when nothing suited him and then spent his five-year at home after Knighting to know and understand where he came from. The only other Jedi he knows who did this is Plo Koon. If anything, Obi-Wan is becoming Polite Defiance Personified.
Eventually Obi-Wan gives up on choosing “a” lightsaber style and just learns everything he can physically perform from all of them because he has no idea what else to do. It’s terrifyingly effective.
A lot of people in the Temple think Obi-Wan will Fall because of his “early” behavior and because he’s the Vapaad Master’s Padawan. Obi-Wan looks at Depa and Echuu Shen-Jon and thinks that these people have to be seriously fucking blind not to have noticed Mace’s previous two successfully Knighted Padawans, who are just fine–and the newly titled Master of the pair was just elected to the Council at the youngest humanoid age ever.
Qui-Gon pisses Mace off yet again, so Mace pulls rank and it being his Padawan and assigns Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon to work a mission together. Qui-Gon tries to be himself, except bitter because he still hasn’t gotten over his issues. Obi-Wan gives him a flat look and tells him that he is being STUPID, and also Falling out of Bitterness sounds like a really dumbass idea, but if Qui-Gon wants to go that route, that’s his business. Qui-Gon is rather crankily reminded of the fact that Mace’s Padawan sounds like Mace and that Mace never once put up with any of his shit even when Mace was twelve. He spends the rest of the mission begrudingly listening to this sharp-tongued politician Jedi kid kick ass, fly like the most terrifying being in existence, drink Qui-Gon himself under the table (thank you, Depa) and just generally being the kind of Jedi Qui-Gon remembers he used to be thirty years ago.
This is not a pleasing recollection, mostly because then he has to stop and look at what a clusterfuck of a Jedi he’s allowed himself to become. Qui-Gon blames Mace. Obi-Wan would just like it if Qui-Gon would lower the angst level in the room to at least an 8 out of 10 instead of leaving it jammed at 11+.
Needless to say, the Mandalore mission isn’t any fun, but Obi-Wan is adopted by a clan and gets shiny armor out of it. So worth being shot at for six months straight.
Afterwards, Mace asks Obi-Wan what he did, because Qui-Gon went to the Healers.
“Okay?”
“On his own, Padawan.”
“Okay…?”
“He never, ever goes to the fucking Healers unless someone drugs him first.”
Obi-Wan stares at his Master.
“You drugged him.”
“Just a little bit.”
Mace smiles. “Good job, Padawan.”
“Thank you, Master.”
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Mace Windu Unfucks the Timeline
Jan. 4th, 2018 01:55 amvia http://ift.tt/2lQk3Tb:
hellsbellssinclub:
the-last-hair-bender:
Hahahah I wrote it!!!
Mace Windu takes his seat on the council and waits for the other members to join the session. Currently it’s only Ki Adi and Yoda who’ve joined him, both quiet and lost in their own thoughts. Mace isn’t about to bother either of them, not wanting to deal with Yoda and his constant rambling speeches that circle around and around, like an Albatross looking for land.
Today they’re discussing Obi-Wan Kenobi. The youngling who has a hard time controlling his temper and a harder time finding a Master. He’ll be thirteen soon, and from the way things are going, it doesn’t seem the young one will find anything within these temple walls.
Perhaps-
The thought stalls out before Mace can even finish it and he feels a shatterpoint begin to form. A shatterpoint that feels oddly familiar. It feels like-
Him.
There’s a burst of light and Mace finds himself staring up at….himself. Ki-Adi and Yoda both startle in their chairs, Ki-Adi drawing his saber on the intruder who he can only see from the back.
“Put that away before your hurt yourself.” Mace Windu says and turns to face Ki-Adi.
“What in the Sith!” Ki-Adi exclaims and then holsters his saber.
“Calm down.” Windu says, hands on his hips. "I came back through a shatterpoint to take care of some very urgent business.“
“Very urgent this must be.” Yoda croaks in his horrible little gremlin voice and Windu considers planting his fist in Yoda’s entire fucking face before opting against it. Punching the master of the order isn’t going to help him….yet.
“Only if you consider the obliteration of the Jedi Order urgent.” He snaps it at Yoda, pissed beyond belief at the sass he’s getting. Yoda’s ears perk up and he looks more alert than Windu ever remembers seeing him.
“The obliteration of the order?” Mace echoes it and shares a look with Ki-Adi. "What happened?“
“The fucking Sith happened.” Windu half shouts and waves his arms. "Motherfucking Sith are invading the motherfucking SENATE.“
"The senate?” Ki-Adi parrots and Windu snaps his head to glare at the man.
“Senator Sheev Palpatine.” Windu confirms. "He’s a Sith lord.“
"A very heavy accusation this is.” Yoda humms and Windu goes from mildly pissy to volcanic eruption.
“HE CUT OFF MY HANDS AND THREW ME OUT A FUCKING WINDOW.” Windu explodes. "I’LL SEE THAT ASSHOLE BURN IN THE DEEPEST PITS OF HELL BEFORE I LET HIM KILL ME AGAIN.“ Even Yoda goggles at him, mouth dropping open at having someone, anyone lift their voice at him in anger. It hasn’t happened in….Yoda doesn’t actually remember.
"How.” Ki-Adi clears his throat. "How we do stop that from happening.“
"The first step.” Windu says, voice dropping to a low angry growl. "Is to get that little shit Kenobi a master.“ He stabs a finger in Mace’s direction. "And NOT your wookie-fucking friend.”
“That was one time.” Mace says incredulously, taken aback at Windu’s anger at a man he thought they would both call friend. "And he’s just going through some hardships, he needs-“
"Qui-Gon Jinn needs SHIT.” Windu spits it. "He needs some fucking therapy is what he needs. If I come back here and find out you gave Kenobi to him I will be VERY unhappy.“ And as suddenly as he appeared he vanishes, leaving Mace alone with two other very confused members of the council.
XxX XxX
Mace tries.
He talks to the few Jedi Masters around the temple that don’t have Padawan’s to teach, even goes so far as to ask Master Dooku if he’d be willing to train a youngling with a case of anger issues.
No one wants the boy.
Mace is….just too busy. No really, with his new seat on the council he’s far too busy with paperwork and council meetings to even consider taking on a padawan, especially one as volatile as Obi-Wan Kenobi, who is being disciplined yet again for picking a fight with another youngling.
Whatever that child has against young Bruck, Mace hopes he can be reasoned with, and soon. Or he’s going to find himself aged out with no one to blame but himself.
Well. There’s always-
Pain explodes in his face and leaves him reeling, stumbling back and blinking away the stars as blood starts to pour from his newly broken nose.
"WHAT THE FUCK DID I TELL YOU?” Windu roars at him and Mace cups hands over his nose, staring at his older self with both apprehension and terror.
“I asked around.” He says, sounding nasily and annoyed. "No one wants the boy. He’s too quick to anger.“
"Too quick to anger my entire black ASS.” Windu says and Mace raises an eyebrow. "That boy is being bullied and no one gives a shit because you’re all too busy shoving your heads so far up your own asses you can taste your own shit.“
"Force, you’re full of profanity.” Mace says, glaring at his older self who slaps his hands out of the way and fixes his nose in one hard crunch of pain.
“You shut the hell up and go tell that boy you’re going to train him.”
“I’m too-” Windu has a handful of his robes, backing Mace up into the wall hard and fast and somehow LOOMING even though they’re the same damn height.
“The next words out of your sithdamned mouth had better be ’overjoyed to train Obi-Wan Kenobi’.” Windu snarls and Mace’s shoulders slump.
“I’ll see what I can do.” He mutters it and Windu vanishes like he’d never been there at all. "I really don’t like future me.“ He says to himself and then heaves a long sigh and goes to track down Obi-Wan.
XxX XxX
"I hear you’ve been having visitations.” Qui-Gon greets Mace during one of his very rare temple visits.
“I am and I hate him.” Mace grumbles into his caff.
“How can you hate him? He’s you.” Qui-Gon points out, like a bastard who’s never been punched in the face by his future self.
“He’s an asshole.” Mace says. "He punched me in the face and every second word out of his mouth is a profanity.“
"Well.” Qui-Gon cocks his head to the side and for a moment Mace can pretend the darkness that lives in Qui-Gon’s soul over the loss of Xanatos has lessened. "You must have done something to piss you off. Force knows I’ve wanted to punch you over the years.“
"Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Mace says dryly and Qui-Gon laughs for the first time since Xanatos fell. Force. It hurts to see his friend hurting and Mace takes a careful moment to consider-
“WHAT THE FUCK DID I SAY?”
“Oh come ON.”
“I honestly thought you were joking.” Qui-Gon says, looking wide eyed between the two Mace Windu’s. The older one isn’t much older, maybe thirty years or so, but he wears them well.
“I am so sorry.” Mace tells him and Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow in question and completly misses Windu’s fist.
He wakes up on the floor, groggy and covered in his own blood.
“You can’t just PUNCH people.”
“I CAN PUNCH WHOEVER I WANT YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE.”
“Look. I wasn’t going to-”
“No YOU look. I can only show up when you’re about to make a FUCKING DECISION that will lead to the FUCKING DESTRUCTION OF THE GODDAMN JEDI ORDER.”
“Do I do that?” Qui-Gon asks from where he’s staring up at the ceiling, fixated on a missing tile.
“You don’t fucking HELP matters.” Windu says, voice sharp. "Get your dumb ass up off the floor before someone mistakes you for garbage.“
"What do I do?” Qui-Gon asks again and Windu fucking growls at him, fixes Mace with a hard look, and vanishes. "Okay you’re right.“ Qui-Gon tells Mace who snorts out a laugh and goes to help him off the floor.
"Oh I don’t know. I’ve wanted to punch you over the years.” He echoes Qui-Gon’s words and earns a groan as Qui-Gon hauls himself up off the floor.
XxX XxX
“Talked to many masters we have.” Yoda says and Mace hunches over in his chair because if Yoda is about to say what he thinks, this is going to be a very bad council session. "Train the young Kenobi, none of them will. Too much anger he has.“
"He was always so promising.” Ki-Adi sighs it and Mace breaths out in relief that maybe, just maybe he can get through talking or thinking about Obi-Wan fucking Kenobi without his alternate self showing up to throw hands and yell, as if that’s going to solve problems.
The future must be a very bleak place.
“Talked with Obi-Wan, I have.” Yoda says. "Speak to Qui-Gon Ji-ACK.“ Yoda’s words cut off at the enormous Korun fist in his face.
"HOW MANY FUCKING TIMES DO I HAVE TO COME BACK HERE?” Windu roars it and then turns in a circle so he can address the whole council. "HOW GODDAMN HARD IS IT TO FOLLOW ONE FUCKING RULE? DO. NOT. GIVE. OBI-WAN KENOBI. TO. QUI-GON. MOTHERFUCKING. JINN. YOU DENSE MOTHERFUCKERS MIGHT AS WELL SEND A FORMAL FUCKING SURRENDER TO SHEEV PALPATINE.“
"Oh fuck my entire life.” Mace mutters it, drawing a startled look from Kit sitting to his left. "Fine. Fine. I’ll train the boy.“
"This had better be the last fucking time I come back here.” Windu warns in a low, mean voice and then he’s gone. You could hear a pin drop in the council chambers until Yoda sniffs.
“Bleeding, I am.”
XxX XxX
Mace scowls all the way down to the creche, scowls all the way through picking up Obi-Wan, who looks equally sullen even though he’s finally been taken on as a Padawan. Together they scowl all the way back to the new rooms Mace has taken, already missing his single suite.
“I have to go take care of some things for the council.” Mace says, not even looking at his new padawan for fear of resenting him. "I’ll be back by the evening bell.“
"Yes Master Windu.” Obi-Wan says, as if having a Master is some horrible obscure punishment. Should have given him to-
“Finish that thought and I will kill you and take your place.” Windu hisses in his ear, making Mace jump like a frightened cat.
“Why are you here?” Mace demands, trying and failing to calm his pounding heart. "I took the boy didn’t I? I’m training him just like you wanted.“ Rather than respond, Windu shoves him out of the way and then goes down onto one knee in front of the boy.
"Hello young Kenobi.” Windu’s face brightens with a smile and to Mace’s surprise the boy goes from sullen storm cloud to a bright little sunbeam.
“Hi Master Windu. I knew you were real, even if no one else did.”
“Well of course I’m real.” Windu reaches out and ruffles Obi-Wan’s hair, tugging gently on the boy’s ear to make him laugh. "I’m just from another point in time, that’s all.“
"Thank you for finding me a Master.” Obi-Wan says and then his voice lowers and Mace can barely make out what he’s saying.
“Youngling.” Windu’s voice goes impossible fond, the way Mace remembers talking to Deepa when she’d first moved to their new quarters and she’d had bad dreams. "Everything is going to be alright. I promise.“
"Okay.” Obi-Wan’s voice goes small and he darts forward suddenly, circling his arms around Windu’s neck in a tight hug. Windu wraps him up in a hug, holding on until Obi-Wan draws back first, rubbing at his cheeks like he’s trying to keep Mace from seeing his tears. "Thank you.“
"Of course.” Windu says and then gently bumps Obi-Wan’s chin with a knuckle. "Chin up young Kenobi. You’re future is as bright as the sunrise.“ And then he’s gone and Mace is left with Obi-Wan who sniffles wetly.
Mace swallows the urge to heave a long, endless sigh at how his life is turning out and drops to one knee, tugging out a handkercheif and wiping down Obi-Wan’s wet cheeks. "There’s no need for tears, padawan.”
“’M Sorry for crying.” Obi-Wan’s eyes drop and he shuffles his feet, like he’s waiting for Mace to administer a punishment for having the ever dreaded emotions.
“It’s fine.” Mace says and then gives into the urge to sigh. "Would you like to meditate?“ He asks, mentally reshuffling his afternoon.
"I’d like that very much.” Obi-Wan says and he feels like a beacon of brightness in the force. "Thank you Master.“
"Alright.” Mace gets to his feet. "Let me show you where the mats and incense are.“
This is amazing. I love this so much
(Your picture was not posted)
hellsbellssinclub:
the-last-hair-bender:
Hahahah I wrote it!!!
Mace Windu takes his seat on the council and waits for the other members to join the session. Currently it’s only Ki Adi and Yoda who’ve joined him, both quiet and lost in their own thoughts. Mace isn’t about to bother either of them, not wanting to deal with Yoda and his constant rambling speeches that circle around and around, like an Albatross looking for land.
Today they’re discussing Obi-Wan Kenobi. The youngling who has a hard time controlling his temper and a harder time finding a Master. He’ll be thirteen soon, and from the way things are going, it doesn’t seem the young one will find anything within these temple walls.
Perhaps-
The thought stalls out before Mace can even finish it and he feels a shatterpoint begin to form. A shatterpoint that feels oddly familiar. It feels like-
Him.
There’s a burst of light and Mace finds himself staring up at….himself. Ki-Adi and Yoda both startle in their chairs, Ki-Adi drawing his saber on the intruder who he can only see from the back.
“Put that away before your hurt yourself.” Mace Windu says and turns to face Ki-Adi.
“What in the Sith!” Ki-Adi exclaims and then holsters his saber.
“Calm down.” Windu says, hands on his hips. "I came back through a shatterpoint to take care of some very urgent business.“
“Very urgent this must be.” Yoda croaks in his horrible little gremlin voice and Windu considers planting his fist in Yoda’s entire fucking face before opting against it. Punching the master of the order isn’t going to help him….yet.
“Only if you consider the obliteration of the Jedi Order urgent.” He snaps it at Yoda, pissed beyond belief at the sass he’s getting. Yoda’s ears perk up and he looks more alert than Windu ever remembers seeing him.
“The obliteration of the order?” Mace echoes it and shares a look with Ki-Adi. "What happened?“
“The fucking Sith happened.” Windu half shouts and waves his arms. "Motherfucking Sith are invading the motherfucking SENATE.“
"The senate?” Ki-Adi parrots and Windu snaps his head to glare at the man.
“Senator Sheev Palpatine.” Windu confirms. "He’s a Sith lord.“
"A very heavy accusation this is.” Yoda humms and Windu goes from mildly pissy to volcanic eruption.
“HE CUT OFF MY HANDS AND THREW ME OUT A FUCKING WINDOW.” Windu explodes. "I’LL SEE THAT ASSHOLE BURN IN THE DEEPEST PITS OF HELL BEFORE I LET HIM KILL ME AGAIN.“ Even Yoda goggles at him, mouth dropping open at having someone, anyone lift their voice at him in anger. It hasn’t happened in….Yoda doesn’t actually remember.
"How.” Ki-Adi clears his throat. "How we do stop that from happening.“
"The first step.” Windu says, voice dropping to a low angry growl. "Is to get that little shit Kenobi a master.“ He stabs a finger in Mace’s direction. "And NOT your wookie-fucking friend.”
“That was one time.” Mace says incredulously, taken aback at Windu’s anger at a man he thought they would both call friend. "And he’s just going through some hardships, he needs-“
"Qui-Gon Jinn needs SHIT.” Windu spits it. "He needs some fucking therapy is what he needs. If I come back here and find out you gave Kenobi to him I will be VERY unhappy.“ And as suddenly as he appeared he vanishes, leaving Mace alone with two other very confused members of the council.
XxX XxX
Mace tries.
He talks to the few Jedi Masters around the temple that don’t have Padawan’s to teach, even goes so far as to ask Master Dooku if he’d be willing to train a youngling with a case of anger issues.
No one wants the boy.
Mace is….just too busy. No really, with his new seat on the council he’s far too busy with paperwork and council meetings to even consider taking on a padawan, especially one as volatile as Obi-Wan Kenobi, who is being disciplined yet again for picking a fight with another youngling.
Whatever that child has against young Bruck, Mace hopes he can be reasoned with, and soon. Or he’s going to find himself aged out with no one to blame but himself.
Well. There’s always-
Pain explodes in his face and leaves him reeling, stumbling back and blinking away the stars as blood starts to pour from his newly broken nose.
"WHAT THE FUCK DID I TELL YOU?” Windu roars at him and Mace cups hands over his nose, staring at his older self with both apprehension and terror.
“I asked around.” He says, sounding nasily and annoyed. "No one wants the boy. He’s too quick to anger.“
"Too quick to anger my entire black ASS.” Windu says and Mace raises an eyebrow. "That boy is being bullied and no one gives a shit because you’re all too busy shoving your heads so far up your own asses you can taste your own shit.“
"Force, you’re full of profanity.” Mace says, glaring at his older self who slaps his hands out of the way and fixes his nose in one hard crunch of pain.
“You shut the hell up and go tell that boy you’re going to train him.”
“I’m too-” Windu has a handful of his robes, backing Mace up into the wall hard and fast and somehow LOOMING even though they’re the same damn height.
“The next words out of your sithdamned mouth had better be ’overjoyed to train Obi-Wan Kenobi’.” Windu snarls and Mace’s shoulders slump.
“I’ll see what I can do.” He mutters it and Windu vanishes like he’d never been there at all. "I really don’t like future me.“ He says to himself and then heaves a long sigh and goes to track down Obi-Wan.
XxX XxX
"I hear you’ve been having visitations.” Qui-Gon greets Mace during one of his very rare temple visits.
“I am and I hate him.” Mace grumbles into his caff.
“How can you hate him? He’s you.” Qui-Gon points out, like a bastard who’s never been punched in the face by his future self.
“He’s an asshole.” Mace says. "He punched me in the face and every second word out of his mouth is a profanity.“
"Well.” Qui-Gon cocks his head to the side and for a moment Mace can pretend the darkness that lives in Qui-Gon’s soul over the loss of Xanatos has lessened. "You must have done something to piss you off. Force knows I’ve wanted to punch you over the years.“
"Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Mace says dryly and Qui-Gon laughs for the first time since Xanatos fell. Force. It hurts to see his friend hurting and Mace takes a careful moment to consider-
“WHAT THE FUCK DID I SAY?”
“Oh come ON.”
“I honestly thought you were joking.” Qui-Gon says, looking wide eyed between the two Mace Windu’s. The older one isn’t much older, maybe thirty years or so, but he wears them well.
“I am so sorry.” Mace tells him and Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow in question and completly misses Windu’s fist.
He wakes up on the floor, groggy and covered in his own blood.
“You can’t just PUNCH people.”
“I CAN PUNCH WHOEVER I WANT YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE.”
“Look. I wasn’t going to-”
“No YOU look. I can only show up when you’re about to make a FUCKING DECISION that will lead to the FUCKING DESTRUCTION OF THE GODDAMN JEDI ORDER.”
“Do I do that?” Qui-Gon asks from where he’s staring up at the ceiling, fixated on a missing tile.
“You don’t fucking HELP matters.” Windu says, voice sharp. "Get your dumb ass up off the floor before someone mistakes you for garbage.“
"What do I do?” Qui-Gon asks again and Windu fucking growls at him, fixes Mace with a hard look, and vanishes. "Okay you’re right.“ Qui-Gon tells Mace who snorts out a laugh and goes to help him off the floor.
"Oh I don’t know. I’ve wanted to punch you over the years.” He echoes Qui-Gon’s words and earns a groan as Qui-Gon hauls himself up off the floor.
XxX XxX
“Talked to many masters we have.” Yoda says and Mace hunches over in his chair because if Yoda is about to say what he thinks, this is going to be a very bad council session. "Train the young Kenobi, none of them will. Too much anger he has.“
"He was always so promising.” Ki-Adi sighs it and Mace breaths out in relief that maybe, just maybe he can get through talking or thinking about Obi-Wan fucking Kenobi without his alternate self showing up to throw hands and yell, as if that’s going to solve problems.
The future must be a very bleak place.
“Talked with Obi-Wan, I have.” Yoda says. "Speak to Qui-Gon Ji-ACK.“ Yoda’s words cut off at the enormous Korun fist in his face.
"HOW MANY FUCKING TIMES DO I HAVE TO COME BACK HERE?” Windu roars it and then turns in a circle so he can address the whole council. "HOW GODDAMN HARD IS IT TO FOLLOW ONE FUCKING RULE? DO. NOT. GIVE. OBI-WAN KENOBI. TO. QUI-GON. MOTHERFUCKING. JINN. YOU DENSE MOTHERFUCKERS MIGHT AS WELL SEND A FORMAL FUCKING SURRENDER TO SHEEV PALPATINE.“
"Oh fuck my entire life.” Mace mutters it, drawing a startled look from Kit sitting to his left. "Fine. Fine. I’ll train the boy.“
"This had better be the last fucking time I come back here.” Windu warns in a low, mean voice and then he’s gone. You could hear a pin drop in the council chambers until Yoda sniffs.
“Bleeding, I am.”
XxX XxX
Mace scowls all the way down to the creche, scowls all the way through picking up Obi-Wan, who looks equally sullen even though he’s finally been taken on as a Padawan. Together they scowl all the way back to the new rooms Mace has taken, already missing his single suite.
“I have to go take care of some things for the council.” Mace says, not even looking at his new padawan for fear of resenting him. "I’ll be back by the evening bell.“
"Yes Master Windu.” Obi-Wan says, as if having a Master is some horrible obscure punishment. Should have given him to-
“Finish that thought and I will kill you and take your place.” Windu hisses in his ear, making Mace jump like a frightened cat.
“Why are you here?” Mace demands, trying and failing to calm his pounding heart. "I took the boy didn’t I? I’m training him just like you wanted.“ Rather than respond, Windu shoves him out of the way and then goes down onto one knee in front of the boy.
"Hello young Kenobi.” Windu’s face brightens with a smile and to Mace’s surprise the boy goes from sullen storm cloud to a bright little sunbeam.
“Hi Master Windu. I knew you were real, even if no one else did.”
“Well of course I’m real.” Windu reaches out and ruffles Obi-Wan’s hair, tugging gently on the boy’s ear to make him laugh. "I’m just from another point in time, that’s all.“
"Thank you for finding me a Master.” Obi-Wan says and then his voice lowers and Mace can barely make out what he’s saying.
“Youngling.” Windu’s voice goes impossible fond, the way Mace remembers talking to Deepa when she’d first moved to their new quarters and she’d had bad dreams. "Everything is going to be alright. I promise.“
"Okay.” Obi-Wan’s voice goes small and he darts forward suddenly, circling his arms around Windu’s neck in a tight hug. Windu wraps him up in a hug, holding on until Obi-Wan draws back first, rubbing at his cheeks like he’s trying to keep Mace from seeing his tears. "Thank you.“
"Of course.” Windu says and then gently bumps Obi-Wan’s chin with a knuckle. "Chin up young Kenobi. You’re future is as bright as the sunrise.“ And then he’s gone and Mace is left with Obi-Wan who sniffles wetly.
Mace swallows the urge to heave a long, endless sigh at how his life is turning out and drops to one knee, tugging out a handkercheif and wiping down Obi-Wan’s wet cheeks. "There’s no need for tears, padawan.”
“’M Sorry for crying.” Obi-Wan’s eyes drop and he shuffles his feet, like he’s waiting for Mace to administer a punishment for having the ever dreaded emotions.
“It’s fine.” Mace says and then gives into the urge to sigh. "Would you like to meditate?“ He asks, mentally reshuffling his afternoon.
"I’d like that very much.” Obi-Wan says and he feels like a beacon of brightness in the force. "Thank you Master.“
"Alright.” Mace gets to his feet. "Let me show you where the mats and incense are.“
This is amazing. I love this so much
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Percival has felt off all day. No, not off. “Like shit,” as he elegantly sighed through his teeth to Phina, when she flowed down the stairs to share their customary coffee cups during break. In her soft-grey cloak and perfectly-coiffed halo of white curls, she looked like the polar opposite of his sorry person – but she still patted him on the back and told him she understood. This is what friendship looks like.
He was Percival Graves, though, so he did one of the things he does better – he bluffed his way through the day. He pushed through meetings and paperwork, Auror complains and improbable suspects telling him even more improbable bullshit down in the holding cells, powered mostly by caffeine, sense of duty and good ol’ spite.
He managed. But he doesn’t think he fooled anyone doing so: he’s seen the looks his Aurors shared over his head, Tina’s pinched face fastened on the bags under his eyes and his pastry complexion every time he stumbled out of the restroom. It annoyed him. It worried him. Does it mean he’s not even good anymore at faking? Does it mean Grindelwald actually made him look so miserable, so pitiful, so weak everyone’s just waiting for him to snap like a twig?
Percival has left for work that morning feeling off. Now he comes home feeling off and angry.
His mate knows it the moment he watches him fighting his way through the door – and stumbling in a heap of bags of Erumpent’s food in the process.
“You’re pissed,” Newt says, looking up from the essay on dragon wings’ membranes laying open on his knees. He got his reading glasses on, the left lens still cracked from an unfortunate disagreement with one of the Thestrals.
“No shit,” Percival growls, having lost his charming politeness somewhere down the Macusa’s offices’ stairs. He stomped his way to the kitchen. “We still got that half a strudel from the Goldsteins’ dinner, right? I need it. All of it. Now.”
Behind him, he hears a rustling of fabric, the soft thump of Newt climbing to his feet and crossing the room. Percival’s currently busy scavenging through their cupboards in search of the strudel, cabinets and drawers shoved open with way more force than strictly necessary. He only slows down when he feels Newt’s arms circling his waist – pressing him against the familiar, grass-scented warmth of his body.
He’s still angry, and still tired: but the feeling of his mate so close, of the bond flaring to life like a pulse and the stunning way their bodies simply click together is slowly seeping in his bones, easing the knots that had been twisting along his back all day.
Percival sighs, head lolling back against Newt’s shoulder – giving up the fight. Six months together, and this thing – this mating he had dreaded and despised all his life – still shocked him to the core.
Simply put, had never even dreamed it would feel so good.
Newt’s lips are a butterfly-caress against his temple. “Feeling like something sweet?”
“Yes,” he breathes out.
Newt shifts against him. There’s a tension, a jolt of alarm and jumbled things rushing down the bond, but is gone so soon Percival is pretty sure he’s just imagining things. “You’re not big on sweets,” Newt says simply. “Except for chocolate and raisin cookies.”
Percival feels a small smile pull at his mouth. It’s always a special pleasure to realize how closely Newt had studied him even before proper courtship – how interested he is in everything Percival is. “I know,” he growls, good-naturedly. “I don’t make any sense. This morning I’ve spent more time with the toilet than with my Aurors. Two hours ago, I was throwing up my guts for the third time. And now I’d gladly commit murder for a slice of Jake’s triple-chocolate cake.”
“You’ve been feeling unwell?” Newt is talking almost before Percival is finished. There’s urgency, in his tone, voice made lower and rougher by worry – arms closing a bit tighter around Percival’s waist. His lips are still pressed against his skin, and when they move, Percival is barely able to repress a shiver. “Percival, you should have told me,” he says. “You shouldn’t over overwork yourself like this.”
This time, Percival does crack one eye open – fixing it on his mate’s furrowed brow. Frost seeping in his voice. “I thought we already went over it, Newt,” he replies, teeth clenched. “I may be born an Omega, but I’m still the goddamn Director of Magical Security. If you ever try playing the big angry Alpha on me I’ll – “
Keep reading
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Percival has felt off all day. No, not off. “Like shit,” as he elegantly sighed through his teeth to Phina, when she flowed down the stairs to share their customary coffee cups during break. In her soft-grey cloak and perfectly-coiffed halo of white curls, she looked like the polar opposite of his sorry person – but she still patted him on the back and told him she understood. This is what friendship looks like.
He was Percival Graves, though, so he did one of the things he does better – he bluffed his way through the day. He pushed through meetings and paperwork, Auror complains and improbable suspects telling him even more improbable bullshit down in the holding cells, powered mostly by caffeine, sense of duty and good ol’ spite.
He managed. But he doesn’t think he fooled anyone doing so: he’s seen the looks his Aurors shared over his head, Tina’s pinched face fastened on the bags under his eyes and his pastry complexion every time he stumbled out of the restroom. It annoyed him. It worried him. Does it mean he’s not even good anymore at faking? Does it mean Grindelwald actually made him look so miserable, so pitiful, so weak everyone’s just waiting for him to snap like a twig?
Percival has left for work that morning feeling off. Now he comes home feeling off and angry.
His mate knows it the moment he watches him fighting his way through the door – and stumbling in a heap of bags of Erumpent’s food in the process.
“You’re pissed,” Newt says, looking up from the essay on dragon wings’ membranes laying open on his knees. He got his reading glasses on, the left lens still cracked from an unfortunate disagreement with one of the Thestrals.
“No shit,” Percival growls, having lost his charming politeness somewhere down the Macusa’s offices’ stairs. He stomped his way to the kitchen. “We still got that half a strudel from the Goldsteins’ dinner, right? I need it. All of it. Now.”
Behind him, he hears a rustling of fabric, the soft thump of Newt climbing to his feet and crossing the room. Percival’s currently busy scavenging through their cupboards in search of the strudel, cabinets and drawers shoved open with way more force than strictly necessary. He only slows down when he feels Newt’s arms circling his waist – pressing him against the familiar, grass-scented warmth of his body.
He’s still angry, and still tired: but the feeling of his mate so close, of the bond flaring to life like a pulse and the stunning way their bodies simply click together is slowly seeping in his bones, easing the knots that had been twisting along his back all day.
Percival sighs, head lolling back against Newt’s shoulder – giving up the fight. Six months together, and this thing – this mating he had dreaded and despised all his life – still shocked him to the core.
Simply put, had never even dreamed it would feel so good.
Newt’s lips are a butterfly-caress against his temple. “Feeling like something sweet?”
“Yes,” he breathes out.
Newt shifts against him. There’s a tension, a jolt of alarm and jumbled things rushing down the bond, but is gone so soon Percival is pretty sure he’s just imagining things. “You’re not big on sweets,” Newt says simply. “Except for chocolate and raisin cookies.”
Percival feels a small smile pull at his mouth. It’s always a special pleasure to realize how closely Newt had studied him even before proper courtship – how interested he is in everything Percival is. “I know,” he growls, good-naturedly. “I don’t make any sense. This morning I’ve spent more time with the toilet than with my Aurors. Two hours ago, I was throwing up my guts for the third time. And now I’d gladly commit murder for a slice of Jake’s triple-chocolate cake.”
“You’ve been feeling unwell?” Newt is talking almost before Percival is finished. There’s urgency, in his tone, voice made lower and rougher by worry – arms closing a bit tighter around Percival’s waist. His lips are still pressed against his skin, and when they move, Percival is barely able to repress a shiver. “Percival, you should have told me,” he says. “You shouldn’t over overwork yourself like this.”
This time, Percival does crack one eye open – fixing it on his mate’s furrowed brow. Frost seeping in his voice. “I thought we already went over it, Newt,” he replies, teeth clenched. “I may be born an Omega, but I’m still the goddamn Director of Magical Security. If you ever try playing the big angry Alpha on me I’ll – “
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writingfish:
Another snippet from the castlevania time loop au.
The blood he had been forced to swallow burned as it devoured him from the inside. Already, he could feel his nails lengthening. The whip burned in his hand, but he tightened his grip on it. He couldn’t fail now.
Across from him, Dracula laughed. Edged with grief and madness, it made the hair on the back of his neck rise. His heart would have jumped, but it was already slowing, nearly stopping. It would soon.
“Soon,” Dracula hissed. “You will become like me. You turned my son against me and so I have turned you. You will become a perversion of what your family stood for.”
He could feel his heart stop. It did not start up again.
The hunger came suddenly, a blazing rush of thirst that caused his suddenly sharp teeth to ache.
Dracula laughed again, vanishing in a column of flame.
No.
Sypha was still here, unconscious but alive. He could smell her blood. It made the thirst stronger, his fangs lengthen. He gripped the whip tighter, the burn snapping him out of the haze. He had to leave. Now
@nestophersherb
writingfish:
Another snippet from the castlevania time loop au.
The blood he had been forced to swallow burned as it devoured him from the inside. Already, he could feel his nails lengthening. The whip burned in his hand, but he tightened his grip on it. He couldn’t fail now.
Across from him, Dracula laughed. Edged with grief and madness, it made the hair on the back of his neck rise. His heart would have jumped, but it was already slowing, nearly stopping. It would soon.
“Soon,” Dracula hissed. “You will become like me. You turned my son against me and so I have turned you. You will become a perversion of what your family stood for.”
He could feel his heart stop. It did not start up again.
The hunger came suddenly, a blazing rush of thirst that caused his suddenly sharp teeth to ache.
Dracula laughed again, vanishing in a column of flame.
No.
Sypha was still here, unconscious but alive. He could smell her blood. It made the thirst stronger, his fangs lengthen. He gripped the whip tighter, the burn snapping him out of the haze. He had to leave. Now
@nestophersherb
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Thank you!
Learning to see? See what exactly? Hold on here folks, I have no idea what i’m doing!
“Jerry?”
“’m right here, baby,” Jerry says, soft and sad and quiet, right in David’s ear. He starts, a little frightened. The room is a barrage of smells and sounds - David can hear the water running in the pipes and the sound of the cars on the highway half a mile away. He can hear the dry quality of Jerry’s breathing - of his own. He can hear emptiness in his own chest - his heart now cold and silent.
Panic balloons in David’s chest. It feels like it’s crushing him, taking away his ability to breath. And then he realizes he doesn’t need to anymore. David’s eyes fly open, a strangled sound leaving his lips, and then he shrieks in agony. Light pierces into his eyeballs like glass shards. He closes them again, willing away the pain and slapping his hands to his face.
“Easy! Easy!” Jerry says, and he sounds strained, stressed, maybe even afraid. David turns his head to track Jerry’s movements across the room; the rustle of the sheets when he leaves the bed, the slide of his socks on hardwood, the way the fabric of his jeans rub together when he walks. David has those thighs memorized, has every aspect of Jerry memorized; from the little wisp of hair that’s always falling into his eyes to the way he stretches and yawns just before the sun comes up.
David thinks he’ll need it. It’s a bitter thought, and one with claws. It’s already sinking into him, changing and twisting every fibre of David’s being. The light switch clicks, and then Jerry speaks again.
“Alright baby, it’s darker now. Try opening your eyes.”
David bites his lip. Some sort of irrational fear is threatening to swallow him whole. He doesn’t want to open his eyes - he’s been taught his whole life not to look at the sun. Now Jerry’s asking him to, or at least it feels like that.
“It’s alright, Davie,” Jerry coaxes. There’s the rasp of his jeans again, before the bed dips and arms wrap around David, cuddling him to Jerry’s chest. David finds himself amazed by the fact that they’re the same temperature now, as much as the fact that Jerry’s scent isn’t overwhelmingly powerful now, as David expected it would be.
David rests his head in the junction of Jerry’s shoulder, caressing the soft fabric of his teeshirt, investigating the fibres underneath his fingertips. Jerry rumbles out a chuckle and kisses David’s hair.
“C’mon, baby,” Jerry says, “Please?”
David opens his eyes. Slowly, halting, expecting searing agony again. But he’s only met with Jerry’s pale face, features pinched in a pained expression, eyes swimming with sadness and regret.
“Wha’?” David asks.
“Your eyes are black now,” Jerry answers, “You’re hungry.”
David reaches with trembling fingers to massage the space around his eyes, smooth and soft. His gaze flickers around the room, from the sheets to the walls to the window - from the thread count to the pores in the paint to the tiny bubbles of air trapped in the glass as it cooled.
Jerry leans into him, kissing David’s cheek, “You’ll get used to it,” he says, “I promise baby. It gets easier, the sensitivity goes away.”
David closes his eyes again, turning his face so he can press it into Jerry’s throat. His hands shake still, and his brain spins with all this new information.
“I’m scared,” David finally says, admitting the one thing he never has, not since he was a wee tot in Mam’s arms. Jerry kisses him again, forehead resting against David’s crown, “I know. It’s alright. I’m here.”
Thank you!
Learning to see? See what exactly? Hold on here folks, I have no idea what i’m doing!
“Jerry?”
“’m right here, baby,” Jerry says, soft and sad and quiet, right in David’s ear. He starts, a little frightened. The room is a barrage of smells and sounds - David can hear the water running in the pipes and the sound of the cars on the highway half a mile away. He can hear the dry quality of Jerry’s breathing - of his own. He can hear emptiness in his own chest - his heart now cold and silent.
Panic balloons in David’s chest. It feels like it’s crushing him, taking away his ability to breath. And then he realizes he doesn’t need to anymore. David’s eyes fly open, a strangled sound leaving his lips, and then he shrieks in agony. Light pierces into his eyeballs like glass shards. He closes them again, willing away the pain and slapping his hands to his face.
“Easy! Easy!” Jerry says, and he sounds strained, stressed, maybe even afraid. David turns his head to track Jerry’s movements across the room; the rustle of the sheets when he leaves the bed, the slide of his socks on hardwood, the way the fabric of his jeans rub together when he walks. David has those thighs memorized, has every aspect of Jerry memorized; from the little wisp of hair that’s always falling into his eyes to the way he stretches and yawns just before the sun comes up.
David thinks he’ll need it. It’s a bitter thought, and one with claws. It’s already sinking into him, changing and twisting every fibre of David’s being. The light switch clicks, and then Jerry speaks again.
“Alright baby, it’s darker now. Try opening your eyes.”
David bites his lip. Some sort of irrational fear is threatening to swallow him whole. He doesn’t want to open his eyes - he’s been taught his whole life not to look at the sun. Now Jerry’s asking him to, or at least it feels like that.
“It’s alright, Davie,” Jerry coaxes. There’s the rasp of his jeans again, before the bed dips and arms wrap around David, cuddling him to Jerry’s chest. David finds himself amazed by the fact that they’re the same temperature now, as much as the fact that Jerry’s scent isn’t overwhelmingly powerful now, as David expected it would be.
David rests his head in the junction of Jerry’s shoulder, caressing the soft fabric of his teeshirt, investigating the fibres underneath his fingertips. Jerry rumbles out a chuckle and kisses David’s hair.
“C’mon, baby,” Jerry says, “Please?”
David opens his eyes. Slowly, halting, expecting searing agony again. But he’s only met with Jerry’s pale face, features pinched in a pained expression, eyes swimming with sadness and regret.
“Wha’?” David asks.
“Your eyes are black now,” Jerry answers, “You’re hungry.”
David reaches with trembling fingers to massage the space around his eyes, smooth and soft. His gaze flickers around the room, from the sheets to the walls to the window - from the thread count to the pores in the paint to the tiny bubbles of air trapped in the glass as it cooled.
Jerry leans into him, kissing David’s cheek, “You’ll get used to it,” he says, “I promise baby. It gets easier, the sensitivity goes away.”
David closes his eyes again, turning his face so he can press it into Jerry’s throat. His hands shake still, and his brain spins with all this new information.
“I’m scared,” David finally says, admitting the one thing he never has, not since he was a wee tot in Mam’s arms. Jerry kisses him again, forehead resting against David’s crown, “I know. It’s alright. I’m here.”
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Warnings: forced marriage, because Graves is a selkie; and abusive relationship, because Grindelwald is the husband.
Newt thinks it a shame that the man with the dark eyes is so sad. He stands in the dead of night, staring at the horizon, at the reflection of the moon on the distant waves, at the seafoam gathering on the rocks below. Once or twice he looks like he might leap - but then the lamp in the front window of his house lights up, and his eyes close and he shudders, turning away from the water, trudging toward the little cabin he shares with his white-haired husband.
He could be beautiful if he would only smile. His pain holds no attraction for Newt; only the promise of seeing him bloom. When Newt steps beside him, his eyes avert, as though he knows who he is addressing. As though he knows what Newt could do, though no human should.
“I offer my respects to the King of the Summer Court,” he murmurs, his head bowed. His voice would be carried away on the wind if Newt did not command the air to still. “Long may you reign.”
“You are not one of mine,” says Newt, watching him out of the corner of his eye.
“No, Your Majesty,” says the man. “I fear I am ruled by another. Please forgive me, I must go.”
He hurries away, and Newt catches a glimpse of a shadow moving behind the curtains. Next time, he checks the house is empty before he appears. The man startles when Newt offers a carnation, grown in seconds before his eyes.
“I have nothing with which to repay your kindness,” he says. “I cannot accept.”
“Give me a name I may call you,” says Newt. He smiles when his fingers brush Percival’s as the flower passes between them. The conversation flows easier between them after until Percival must leave.
Some weeks go by, and Percival does not appear again by the water. When he does, there is an angry tension to him, and Newt grows him a rose free of thorns, a lovely shade of red to show his intentions.
“Tell me what pains you,” says Newt, and Percival grimaces but complies, his fingers running along the stem and around the outermost petals.
“He is a cruel man and a brute,” says Percival. “But I cannot leave him.”
Newt doesn’t understand, but the ways of men are strange to him. He heals Percival of his bruises, and the matter does not come up again across their strange friendship until the night Percival stumbles out to the waves, his arm bent at an unnatural angle even cradled to his chest. Rage rises in Newt’s chest at the sight of him, and the daffodil he grows drips sap from the cut edge.
“Tell me I can make sure he never touches you again,” he seethes, because it has been a year and Percival has not smiled once. The solstice is approaching, and his power itches to be used under his skin.
“I can’t leave him,” says Percival, even once his arm is fixed.
“He’s going to leave you,” says Newt, and after a long moment, Percival gives a tiny nod and begins to cry.
He doesn’t understand until after the white-haired monster is dead and he sees the fur locked in a clear box, displayed over the fireplace. He wishes he’d taken his time exacting justice. With a thought, he breaks open the lock, and then he returns to the beach below where Percival waits. As soon as he comes into view, Percival curls into himself, stifiling a moan of despair. Newt sinks to his knees beside him.
“Is there any price I could pay to see my skin returned?” Percival asks at last, more resigned than Newt has ever seen him. So close to the object of his deepest desire, and yet unable to take it for himself.
“None,” says Newt, “save the promise that perhaps you might think of me every so often once you have returned to your home.”
He lays the fur in Percival’s lap -
- and Percival smiles.
(Carnations for affection, roses for love, and daffodils because those fuckers will kill every other flower in an arrangement if you don’t get the sap out first.)
Warnings: forced marriage, because Graves is a selkie; and abusive relationship, because Grindelwald is the husband.
Newt thinks it a shame that the man with the dark eyes is so sad. He stands in the dead of night, staring at the horizon, at the reflection of the moon on the distant waves, at the seafoam gathering on the rocks below. Once or twice he looks like he might leap - but then the lamp in the front window of his house lights up, and his eyes close and he shudders, turning away from the water, trudging toward the little cabin he shares with his white-haired husband.
He could be beautiful if he would only smile. His pain holds no attraction for Newt; only the promise of seeing him bloom. When Newt steps beside him, his eyes avert, as though he knows who he is addressing. As though he knows what Newt could do, though no human should.
“I offer my respects to the King of the Summer Court,” he murmurs, his head bowed. His voice would be carried away on the wind if Newt did not command the air to still. “Long may you reign.”
“You are not one of mine,” says Newt, watching him out of the corner of his eye.
“No, Your Majesty,” says the man. “I fear I am ruled by another. Please forgive me, I must go.”
He hurries away, and Newt catches a glimpse of a shadow moving behind the curtains. Next time, he checks the house is empty before he appears. The man startles when Newt offers a carnation, grown in seconds before his eyes.
“I have nothing with which to repay your kindness,” he says. “I cannot accept.”
“Give me a name I may call you,” says Newt. He smiles when his fingers brush Percival’s as the flower passes between them. The conversation flows easier between them after until Percival must leave.
Some weeks go by, and Percival does not appear again by the water. When he does, there is an angry tension to him, and Newt grows him a rose free of thorns, a lovely shade of red to show his intentions.
“Tell me what pains you,” says Newt, and Percival grimaces but complies, his fingers running along the stem and around the outermost petals.
“He is a cruel man and a brute,” says Percival. “But I cannot leave him.”
Newt doesn’t understand, but the ways of men are strange to him. He heals Percival of his bruises, and the matter does not come up again across their strange friendship until the night Percival stumbles out to the waves, his arm bent at an unnatural angle even cradled to his chest. Rage rises in Newt’s chest at the sight of him, and the daffodil he grows drips sap from the cut edge.
“Tell me I can make sure he never touches you again,” he seethes, because it has been a year and Percival has not smiled once. The solstice is approaching, and his power itches to be used under his skin.
“I can’t leave him,” says Percival, even once his arm is fixed.
“He’s going to leave you,” says Newt, and after a long moment, Percival gives a tiny nod and begins to cry.
He doesn’t understand until after the white-haired monster is dead and he sees the fur locked in a clear box, displayed over the fireplace. He wishes he’d taken his time exacting justice. With a thought, he breaks open the lock, and then he returns to the beach below where Percival waits. As soon as he comes into view, Percival curls into himself, stifiling a moan of despair. Newt sinks to his knees beside him.
“Is there any price I could pay to see my skin returned?” Percival asks at last, more resigned than Newt has ever seen him. So close to the object of his deepest desire, and yet unable to take it for himself.
“None,” says Newt, “save the promise that perhaps you might think of me every so often once you have returned to your home.”
He lays the fur in Percival’s lap -
- and Percival smiles.
(Carnations for affection, roses for love, and daffodils because those fuckers will kill every other flower in an arrangement if you don’t get the sap out first.)
via http://ift.tt/2xl0bOm:
elenothar:
I keep thinking about how Newt and Theseus were ‘discovered’ to be Eluréd and Elurín.
..for some reason, I typically see the scene set in the Golden Wood, shortly after Newt and Graves’ wedding - which, as we’ve previously worldbuilt, was officiated by Radagast, and attended/witnessed by both Theseus and Arwen. …it was also subject to an orc ambush midway through, with Graves and Newt shouting out their vows mid-battle a la At World’s End. (Theseus bawled as he beheaded a charging orc.)
Newt and Graves (as well as Theseus and Arwen) subsequently traveled to Lothlorien - perhaps because even though there’s a special kind of pleasure in wandering beneath the stars, it’s really very nice to sleep in a proper bed in a lovely place where there is ABSOLUTELY NO CHANCE of being ambushed by Orcs in the middle of the night. (Also, Theseus insisted on toasting his brother and his new brother-in-law.) …which was when the rest of Elrond’s contingent caught up with them.
…apparently, leaving a letter that, paraphrased, stated ‘Newt accepted my proposal of marriage; Arwen agreed to serve as my witness. I am hereby notifying you of the fact that I am taking advantage of several centuries’ worth of accumulated vacation time to get married and go on my honeymoon’ was - not the most suitable way Graves could have employed to notify Lord Elrond of his impending marriage.
The news hit Rivendell - and, subsequently, elvish society at large - like a battering ram. It was the event of the decade; Percival Graves - orNoirëion Laicaethë, to use his ‘proper’ elvish name - got married. To a wood-elf. A Noldor, one of the vanishingly rare survivors of Gondolin, famed warrior, loyal until death and beyond, who had lived through fire, floor, and the War of Wrath - got married. To a wood-elf of no pedigree whatsoever.
It was a scandal. It was news. And some people tried very hard to object.
Not Elrond, or any of the people who really mattered to Newt and Graves - Graves, for one, was getting steadily more irate as various elves he’d never even met before kept harping on about how Graves was better then this, how he wasn’t thinking this through, how - Newt was growing even more and more quiet, practically hiding behind Graves as Theseus bristled and stepped forward to his defense -
Which was when Galadriel stepped in.
Galadriel, and her Mirror. Which, among other properties, can show ’Things that were’.
(When pressed, Galadriel will later state that she felt something, a hidden knowledge that needed to be made plain - a secret, hidden by years, unknown even to those who carried it.)
And the Mirror showed the past.
Specifically, Newt and Theseus’ past.
The accumulated elves flinched in shared memory as the Mirror showed the grim scene of the War of the Last Alliance - and there was Theseus, reckless grin on his face as he fought alongside the rest of the infantry. There was Newt, soothing horses as he joined a cavalry charge.
The Mirror swirls, and another image is shown.
There is Newt, caring for a badger in the middle of a forest. There is Theseus, a song on his lips as he guards a group of travelers making for the Grey Haven.
A ripple of water, and the scene changes.
There is Newt and Theseus - but younger, elves barely into adulthood as they march with one of the refugee bands that traced their way from lost Beleriand during the War of Wrath. And the mirror is going faster now, and Newt feels Theseus’ hand tighten upon his own as they see their own faces as children, and the faces of the elves who adopted them , and then -
Then, the faces of Men. And the encampment which was their earliest memory - and the onlookers can see them now, a pair of thin, dirty elf-children, hungrily gulping down the stew that they were offered.
“They found us in the forest.” Theseus says quietly, eyes fixed on the worn, tired faces of their human foster-parents. “Just a pair of orphans, running from the war. We didn’t remember much - too traumatized, I suppose. We couldn’t even remember even our own names - they fed us and took us in and named us.” Newt nods silently, eyes hungrily drinking down the sight of the long-dead humans who had been the first to love them.
The Mirror is swirling even as they watch, shifting to the sight of two painfully young elves - barely more then toddlers, but still recognizable as Newt and Theseus - making their way through a dark wood. And then it dips and swirls and resolves one last time -
And there is Newt and Theseus, as younglings, barely more then infants, clasped tight and secure in the arms of a pair of elves who must be their birth-parents - the resemblance is all too striking, and Newt and Theseus stare at the unfamiliar faces of their biological parents, trying their best to sear the image into memory. They do not recognize them; their features mean nothing to the twins - but a great susurration erupts from the assembled elves who do know them - and who even now are putting the pieces together.
And Galadriel lets the mirror flicker and fade into nothing, voice and face regal as she draws air to speak.
“Hail!” Cries the Lady of the Wood in a great voice. “Hail Eluréd and Elurín Diorion! Hail to the sons of Dior, son of Beren and Luthien, who return to us now beyond hope, beyond fear, beyond expectation! Hail, princes of lost Doriath, brothers to Elwing, kinsmen to the Star of High Hope! Elen sila lumenn’ omentielvo!”
…and then things get very loud indeed.
elenothar:
I keep thinking about how Newt and Theseus were ‘discovered’ to be Eluréd and Elurín.
..for some reason, I typically see the scene set in the Golden Wood, shortly after Newt and Graves’ wedding - which, as we’ve previously worldbuilt, was officiated by Radagast, and attended/witnessed by both Theseus and Arwen. …it was also subject to an orc ambush midway through, with Graves and Newt shouting out their vows mid-battle a la At World’s End. (Theseus bawled as he beheaded a charging orc.)
Newt and Graves (as well as Theseus and Arwen) subsequently traveled to Lothlorien - perhaps because even though there’s a special kind of pleasure in wandering beneath the stars, it’s really very nice to sleep in a proper bed in a lovely place where there is ABSOLUTELY NO CHANCE of being ambushed by Orcs in the middle of the night. (Also, Theseus insisted on toasting his brother and his new brother-in-law.) …which was when the rest of Elrond’s contingent caught up with them.
…apparently, leaving a letter that, paraphrased, stated ‘Newt accepted my proposal of marriage; Arwen agreed to serve as my witness. I am hereby notifying you of the fact that I am taking advantage of several centuries’ worth of accumulated vacation time to get married and go on my honeymoon’ was - not the most suitable way Graves could have employed to notify Lord Elrond of his impending marriage.
The news hit Rivendell - and, subsequently, elvish society at large - like a battering ram. It was the event of the decade; Percival Graves - orNoirëion Laicaethë, to use his ‘proper’ elvish name - got married. To a wood-elf. A Noldor, one of the vanishingly rare survivors of Gondolin, famed warrior, loyal until death and beyond, who had lived through fire, floor, and the War of Wrath - got married. To a wood-elf of no pedigree whatsoever.
It was a scandal. It was news. And some people tried very hard to object.
Not Elrond, or any of the people who really mattered to Newt and Graves - Graves, for one, was getting steadily more irate as various elves he’d never even met before kept harping on about how Graves was better then this, how he wasn’t thinking this through, how - Newt was growing even more and more quiet, practically hiding behind Graves as Theseus bristled and stepped forward to his defense -
Which was when Galadriel stepped in.
Galadriel, and her Mirror. Which, among other properties, can show ’Things that were’.
(When pressed, Galadriel will later state that she felt something, a hidden knowledge that needed to be made plain - a secret, hidden by years, unknown even to those who carried it.)
And the Mirror showed the past.
Specifically, Newt and Theseus’ past.
The accumulated elves flinched in shared memory as the Mirror showed the grim scene of the War of the Last Alliance - and there was Theseus, reckless grin on his face as he fought alongside the rest of the infantry. There was Newt, soothing horses as he joined a cavalry charge.
The Mirror swirls, and another image is shown.
There is Newt, caring for a badger in the middle of a forest. There is Theseus, a song on his lips as he guards a group of travelers making for the Grey Haven.
A ripple of water, and the scene changes.
There is Newt and Theseus - but younger, elves barely into adulthood as they march with one of the refugee bands that traced their way from lost Beleriand during the War of Wrath. And the mirror is going faster now, and Newt feels Theseus’ hand tighten upon his own as they see their own faces as children, and the faces of the elves who adopted them , and then -
Then, the faces of Men. And the encampment which was their earliest memory - and the onlookers can see them now, a pair of thin, dirty elf-children, hungrily gulping down the stew that they were offered.
“They found us in the forest.” Theseus says quietly, eyes fixed on the worn, tired faces of their human foster-parents. “Just a pair of orphans, running from the war. We didn’t remember much - too traumatized, I suppose. We couldn’t even remember even our own names - they fed us and took us in and named us.” Newt nods silently, eyes hungrily drinking down the sight of the long-dead humans who had been the first to love them.
The Mirror is swirling even as they watch, shifting to the sight of two painfully young elves - barely more then toddlers, but still recognizable as Newt and Theseus - making their way through a dark wood. And then it dips and swirls and resolves one last time -
And there is Newt and Theseus, as younglings, barely more then infants, clasped tight and secure in the arms of a pair of elves who must be their birth-parents - the resemblance is all too striking, and Newt and Theseus stare at the unfamiliar faces of their biological parents, trying their best to sear the image into memory. They do not recognize them; their features mean nothing to the twins - but a great susurration erupts from the assembled elves who do know them - and who even now are putting the pieces together.
And Galadriel lets the mirror flicker and fade into nothing, voice and face regal as she draws air to speak.
“Hail!” Cries the Lady of the Wood in a great voice. “Hail Eluréd and Elurín Diorion! Hail to the sons of Dior, son of Beren and Luthien, who return to us now beyond hope, beyond fear, beyond expectation! Hail, princes of lost Doriath, brothers to Elwing, kinsmen to the Star of High Hope! Elen sila lumenn’ omentielvo!”
…and then things get very loud indeed.
via http://ift.tt/2vwZJeS:
“How much farther?” Fingon called into the wind. “How much farther can you bear us?”
The eagle’s cruel, hooked beak did not move, but his great voice echoed in the minds of those that huddled upon his back.
“I am Thorondor, Lord of Eagles. My wing beats are the crack of mountain thunder and when I stoop to kill it is the strike of lightning. My wings span thirty fathoms and my strength is the strength of the rising storm. I can carry you as far as is needful.”
“Thirty fathoms exactly?” said Fingon. “And how much do you weigh?”
Thorondor blinked his golden eyes. “What?”
“We’ve been doing some calculations back here,” Fingon said, oblivious to his confusion. “The average harpy eagle has a wingspan of about a fathom and can carry its own body weight - say twenty pounds - for short distances. If we were to extrapolate your weight and scale linearly, you’d be able to carry our combined weight with ease.”
“But the matter is vastly more complicated than linear scaling,” croaked his cousin. “Based on wingspan and weight, an unladen eagle would induce a velocity change on air of almost eight miles an hour - forgive the approximation, I don’t have parchment or sufficient blood - and would require a tremendous amount of energy.”
“Factoring in the additional weight of two adult Eldar-“
“-plus armour but sans several litres of blood-”
“-the energy requirements would be ludicrous. And that’s without getting into the tensile strength of muscle, bone, etcetera.”
“You understand,” said Thorondor slowly, “That I am a maia of Manwë, cloaked only in the seeming of an eagle?” He was remembering again why, Oaths and murders aside, he found the Noldor such a thoroughly disagreeable people.
“Well yes,” said Fingon the Valiant. “But that’s no excuse for the crafting of a shoddy fana.”
“O Heirs of Finwë,” said Thorondor. “Behold! For we have found precisely how far I can carry you and it has nothing at all to do with the power of my wings and everything to do with the limits of my patience.” He folded his wings and dived towards the mushroom patch of tents that marked the Noldor’s camps upon Lake Mithrim’s shore, his passengers clutching tightly at his feathers and at each other.
They landed in a hurricane rush of wind that tore several tents from their moorings, and the raking of great claws that tore great furrows in the brown earth of the lake’s shore.
”Right,” said the Lord of Eagles, turning his head to peer at the elves upon his back. “Fuck off.”
“How much farther?” Fingon called into the wind. “How much farther can you bear us?”
The eagle’s cruel, hooked beak did not move, but his great voice echoed in the minds of those that huddled upon his back.
“I am Thorondor, Lord of Eagles. My wing beats are the crack of mountain thunder and when I stoop to kill it is the strike of lightning. My wings span thirty fathoms and my strength is the strength of the rising storm. I can carry you as far as is needful.”
“Thirty fathoms exactly?” said Fingon. “And how much do you weigh?”
Thorondor blinked his golden eyes. “What?”
“We’ve been doing some calculations back here,” Fingon said, oblivious to his confusion. “The average harpy eagle has a wingspan of about a fathom and can carry its own body weight - say twenty pounds - for short distances. If we were to extrapolate your weight and scale linearly, you’d be able to carry our combined weight with ease.”
“But the matter is vastly more complicated than linear scaling,” croaked his cousin. “Based on wingspan and weight, an unladen eagle would induce a velocity change on air of almost eight miles an hour - forgive the approximation, I don’t have parchment or sufficient blood - and would require a tremendous amount of energy.”
“Factoring in the additional weight of two adult Eldar-“
“-plus armour but sans several litres of blood-”
“-the energy requirements would be ludicrous. And that’s without getting into the tensile strength of muscle, bone, etcetera.”
“You understand,” said Thorondor slowly, “That I am a maia of Manwë, cloaked only in the seeming of an eagle?” He was remembering again why, Oaths and murders aside, he found the Noldor such a thoroughly disagreeable people.
“Well yes,” said Fingon the Valiant. “But that’s no excuse for the crafting of a shoddy fana.”
“O Heirs of Finwë,” said Thorondor. “Behold! For we have found precisely how far I can carry you and it has nothing at all to do with the power of my wings and everything to do with the limits of my patience.” He folded his wings and dived towards the mushroom patch of tents that marked the Noldor’s camps upon Lake Mithrim’s shore, his passengers clutching tightly at his feathers and at each other.
They landed in a hurricane rush of wind that tore several tents from their moorings, and the raking of great claws that tore great furrows in the brown earth of the lake’s shore.
”Right,” said the Lord of Eagles, turning his head to peer at the elves upon his back. “Fuck off.”
via http://hamelin-born.tumblr.com/post/163202051202:Baba - Chapter 1 - Crownofpins - Castlevania (Cartoon) [Archive of Our Own]:
Author: Crownofpins
Summary: Deep in the wilds, mysterious things wander through the lands on mysterious trails. Dracula isn’t the only legend that walks their earth.
Trevor darns clothing, Sypha sews some pants, and Alucard spends a lot of time thinking about plumbing. And, through it all, they bond… hopefully. If they don’t kill each other first.
And if they don’t get eaten first. That’s important too.
Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceAlucard/Trevor Belmont Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades Sypha Belnades/AlucardAlucard (Castlevania) Trevor Belmont Sypha BelnadesFriendship Pre-OT3 OT3 magic is menacing men darning socks Domestic sinister toilets Fairy Tale Elements drinking alone in the dark never ends well
This is an exquisitely beautiful story that I highly recommend to one and all.
@elenothar @lectorel @esamastation @blackkatmagic @sanjuno @greenekangaroo @funkzpiel
Author: Crownofpins
Summary: Deep in the wilds, mysterious things wander through the lands on mysterious trails. Dracula isn’t the only legend that walks their earth.
Trevor darns clothing, Sypha sews some pants, and Alucard spends a lot of time thinking about plumbing. And, through it all, they bond… hopefully. If they don’t kill each other first.
And if they don’t get eaten first. That’s important too.
Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceAlucard/Trevor Belmont Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades Sypha Belnades/AlucardAlucard (Castlevania) Trevor Belmont Sypha BelnadesFriendship Pre-OT3 OT3 magic is menacing men darning socks Domestic sinister toilets Fairy Tale Elements drinking alone in the dark never ends well
This is an exquisitely beautiful story that I highly recommend to one and all.
@elenothar @lectorel @esamastation @blackkatmagic @sanjuno @greenekangaroo @funkzpiel
via http://ift.tt/2sktifn:
funkzpiel:
hamelin-born:
@hamelin-born asked: I feel like worldbuilding - would you be interested in giving me a gramander prompt to expand on?
@funkzpiel: YES. Hmmmmmm… Newt is actually a Changling that copied Child!Newt’s form
when said child died from becoming an Obscurial. Percy ends up in
Wonderland and Newt is part of Wonderland in some way. Royalty AU where
Character A is King to Be, but taken away/kidnapped/etc etc and
Character B is either charged with retrieving them (or stumbles
accidentally upon them). ASSASSINS AU. Oh Oh OH Angel AU. Ghost AU. Spy
AU. (THROWS AUs AT YOU)
I didn’t expect such an enthusiastic response! But - well. The thing about angel AUs?
“Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.“ - Macbeth, William Shakespeare.
(Also, to anyone reading this, please don’t kill me for what’s
probably going to be an extremely fictionalized interpretation of
Christian Mythology. Warnings for - I dunno, blasphemy? Maybe torture?)
Keep reading
It…this..how the hell do you breathe such life into an AU so quickly, woman! HOLY SHIZ-NIZ.
There’s such a thing as possession, but there’s also such a thing as becoming - and what use do they have, really, for wings that burn like firestorms whenever they take flight?
I think my favorite thing, my absolute favorite thing, is how both angels cope with their past differently.
Newt devotes his life to healing in a an effort to curtail any living beings pain as quickly as possible. He is the help in the aftermath, the gentle hands in the waning light, the patient presence at the bedside - bringing pained souls home.
Percival is the shield. He is the flood gates. An endless basin, ready to take as much pain in and onto himself as needed if it means another soul never feels it. He is the front lines, the brave shot in the dark, the folded flag on a soldier’s casket - large hands that gently cover society’s eyes, lest they know the bitter truth of the world and wilt quicker for it.
But both of them have one thing in common - selflessness.
“She’s a Taker. You need a Giver.”
@funkzpiel I reiterate what I expressed in the tags to the original post: You had better be prepared to live with the consequences if you suggest Angel AUs to someone who has read Milton, Marlowe, and Goethe. Also, considering that I’m a hardcore fan of Good Omens, I devoured Neil Gaimen’s The Sandman (and also, to a lesser extent, the side-story/sequel of Lucifer) and was a fan of Supernatural for a while (before it ended, that is, and they started filming fanfiction on the air instead)… Well. You accidentally stumbled on just the right combination of things to set me off like a firecracker.
Also, here! Have a youtube link to a performance that I must admit was quite present in my mind while writing.
Thank you for all the lovely words! One of the things I enjoyed writing in there was how Newt and Graves’ respective habits are not entirely a reaction to coping with their shared past. It’s selflessness on both their parts, yes, but it’s also a choice - a choice that after living in pain and darkness unimaginable, they can be something different. The entity that was once compared to a burning hearthfire had been a soldier, the terror of the battlefield, for literal lifetimes of the earth, and now Newt can be gentle. The being that wore the memory of the night sky used to interrogate the beings unlucky enough to be captured alive, and now Graves can protect people, can make sure it never happens again.
They were literal demons, but when given the opportunity - this is what they chose.
funkzpiel:
hamelin-born:
@hamelin-born asked: I feel like worldbuilding - would you be interested in giving me a gramander prompt to expand on?
@funkzpiel: YES. Hmmmmmm… Newt is actually a Changling that copied Child!Newt’s form
when said child died from becoming an Obscurial. Percy ends up in
Wonderland and Newt is part of Wonderland in some way. Royalty AU where
Character A is King to Be, but taken away/kidnapped/etc etc and
Character B is either charged with retrieving them (or stumbles
accidentally upon them). ASSASSINS AU. Oh Oh OH Angel AU. Ghost AU. Spy
AU. (THROWS AUs AT YOU)
I didn’t expect such an enthusiastic response! But - well. The thing about angel AUs?
“Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.“ - Macbeth, William Shakespeare.
(Also, to anyone reading this, please don’t kill me for what’s
probably going to be an extremely fictionalized interpretation of
Christian Mythology. Warnings for - I dunno, blasphemy? Maybe torture?)
Keep reading
It…this..how the hell do you breathe such life into an AU so quickly, woman! HOLY SHIZ-NIZ.
There’s such a thing as possession, but there’s also such a thing as becoming - and what use do they have, really, for wings that burn like firestorms whenever they take flight?
I think my favorite thing, my absolute favorite thing, is how both angels cope with their past differently.
Newt devotes his life to healing in a an effort to curtail any living beings pain as quickly as possible. He is the help in the aftermath, the gentle hands in the waning light, the patient presence at the bedside - bringing pained souls home.
Percival is the shield. He is the flood gates. An endless basin, ready to take as much pain in and onto himself as needed if it means another soul never feels it. He is the front lines, the brave shot in the dark, the folded flag on a soldier’s casket - large hands that gently cover society’s eyes, lest they know the bitter truth of the world and wilt quicker for it.
But both of them have one thing in common - selflessness.
“She’s a Taker. You need a Giver.”
@funkzpiel I reiterate what I expressed in the tags to the original post: You had better be prepared to live with the consequences if you suggest Angel AUs to someone who has read Milton, Marlowe, and Goethe. Also, considering that I’m a hardcore fan of Good Omens, I devoured Neil Gaimen’s The Sandman (and also, to a lesser extent, the side-story/sequel of Lucifer) and was a fan of Supernatural for a while (before it ended, that is, and they started filming fanfiction on the air instead)… Well. You accidentally stumbled on just the right combination of things to set me off like a firecracker.
Also, here! Have a youtube link to a performance that I must admit was quite present in my mind while writing.
Thank you for all the lovely words! One of the things I enjoyed writing in there was how Newt and Graves’ respective habits are not entirely a reaction to coping with their shared past. It’s selflessness on both their parts, yes, but it’s also a choice - a choice that after living in pain and darkness unimaginable, they can be something different. The entity that was once compared to a burning hearthfire had been a soldier, the terror of the battlefield, for literal lifetimes of the earth, and now Newt can be gentle. The being that wore the memory of the night sky used to interrogate the beings unlucky enough to be captured alive, and now Graves can protect people, can make sure it never happens again.
They were literal demons, but when given the opportunity - this is what they chose.
gods of wood and stone
May. 27th, 2017 03:59 amvia http://ift.tt/2qlhsFl:
blackkatmagic:
(this may or may not ever turn into something, so I thought I’d leave it here as the product of my procrastination.)
Obito gets lost on the way back to the afterlife.
It sounds like the start of the worst joke ever, like something Kakashi would mock him for forever after finding out about it, but it is, Obito admits to himself with great reluctance, actually true. This is definitely not the Pure Land, Rin is definitely not waiting for him, and he is definitely alive, because apparently using Kamui to skip out on your path to the afterlife leaves you alive even when you don’t want to be.
The worst part is, Obito can’t even regret it. He’d make the same decision again, because Kakashi needed his eyes so he wouldn’t just stand on the sidelines like a useless lump or throw his life away trying to take a hit. With Kamui, Kakashi has a chance at getting them a victory against Kaguya. Without it—
Without it he’s dead, and Obito doesn’t need the blood of any more teammates on his hands.
Cursing quietly, Obito pushes through a particularly tight net of tree branches, trying to figure out where he is. Another dimension, he can tell that much—Kamui gives him a good sense of such things—but unless he wants to kill himself with chakra exhaustion he can’t teleport back out of it. He could try it to get back to the afterlife that way, or just use a kunai, but—
Obito is a stubborn bastard. He was fine dying to save his friend, because there was no other choice and he was dead at the end of the war anyway, but if he’s alive? Yeah, fuck that, Obito is going to survive. It’s what he’s always done, and even if it’s against the world’s best interests, Obito is going to keep it that way. He’s alive, and no one can take that away from him.
The forest thins out up ahead, the spaces between the tree trunks widening as the ground grows rocky, and Obito makes for it, hoping to find some higher ground so he can at least get a look at his surroundings. The earth is covered with old leaf-litter, soft and silent underfoot, and Obito feels like he should know it, like this whole area is familiar, but he can’t quite place it.
He rounds a thick stand of trees, pushes through a thicket of brambles that curl away from the touch of his Mokuton, and hears—
War. War like the one he just left, the one he started, but without the monstrous roar of the bijuu or the overwhelming lash of chakra from shinobi with no concept of human limits. The earth trembles beneath his feet, the air rings with shouts, and there’s a clang and crack of weapons meeting. Fire roars, the smell of scorched cloth and flesh rising in its wake, and there’s a loud cry.
A familiar cry.
Obito reacts without even thinking. He dodges around the last copse of trees, chakra already surging within him, and bursts out onto the battlefield just as there’s a flash of yellow light.
Years of learning how to craft a plan, how to alter it on the fly, how to act and react and take advantage of every skill he’s managed to cultivate—that’s enough to let him take in the fight in one swift glance, ignoring that fact that it should be impossible. Senju on one side, heavily armored and fighting desperately; Uchiha on the other, backs bared because their stupid pride won’t let them wear armor, but pushing the Senju back. Two sources of chakra brighter than the rest—one on the far right, two heads with long black hair, a dragon made of wood, a familiar gunbai and a curl of scorching flame. The other is at the far end, almost dead-center. A fading glow of gold, black hair, Uchiha symbol, and he’s turning but it won’t be fast enough.
But Obito has faced a man who’s even faster, and he can make it in time.
It’s nothing conscious that drives him—the connections are simpler than that. Half a moment to judge, another bare fraction of a heartbeat to let Kamui whirl to life, and there’s a beat in Obito’s blood that sounds like the cause the cause the cause. Nothing solid, nothing certain, but trained instinct and denial working in tandem as he whirls off the battlefield. A portal into the Kamui dimension, and almost before he fully materializes he has another forming, leading right back out, and he snatches up a staff from a pile of stored weapons and is gone. As soon as he’s through he shifts his body sideways, back into the other dimension as he phases through the man—no armor, just robes, and fuck but Obito can’t believe he’s part of a clan filled with such arrogant assholes, thinking they’re too good to wear armor in a fight—and brings the shakujo around.
A sword collides with it in a flash of yellow light, and red eyes framed by white hair go wide.
Obito snarls, in no mood to call for a truce here and now, and plants the butt of the shakujo in the ground. He leaps, using it as a pivot, and slams a foot into Tobirama’s armored chest with all the force of his chakra behind it. The future Nidaime goes flying, and Obito lands lightly, yanking the staff up as he turns.
Uchiha Izuna rounds on him with a victorious laugh, red-and-black eyes bright with triumph, and opens his mouth.
Obito sweeps his feet out from under him, dumps him on his ass, and buries him in grasping roots that drag him to the ground and pin him there. “When the hell is it ever going to be enough for you bastards?” he snarls right in the man’s dumbfounded face. “How many innocent people need to die in this stupid fucking war before you finally decide that you’ve had enough revenge?!”
There’s no answer, only blank gaping, and Obito growls, pivoting on his heel. Several knots of fighting shinobi are watching him with one eye, clearly wary, but not enough to stop their own battles. It’s not going to be enough to save them, because in a split second Obito has made up his mind. It’s a stupid decision, probably the worst he could come up with, but if there’s a chance in hell of stopping all of this before it starts, Obito will take it.
“Stay there,” he growls at Izuna, leveling his shakujo at him, and then turns. A burst of speed sends him hurtling right at a Senju kunoichi with her hair in a topknot and the ponytailed Uchiha she’s fighting, and he shoves right behind them, knocking the woman into the man and pinning them both with Mokuton. The Senju lets out a startled cry, but Obito is still moving. Branches and roots erupt around him, grabbing for shinobi without discrimination.
Those in Obito’s path don’t have nearly as much of a chance to fight back; Kamui makes him a ghost, and even when he’s tangible his speed leaves him all but untouchable. He plows through the ranks separating him from the other fighting pair, drives forward with a wave of Mokuton subsuming everything behind him. There’s a snarled knot of fury growing larger and larger in his chest, a twist of something that’s very close to grief, and he’s had enough.
With a shout, Madara shoves Hashirama away, then whirls in, sword sweeping down. Hashirama catches it on a thick burst of wood, shoving him back, and in the same moment Madara’s eyes flicker up above Hashirama’s shoulder, taking in the rest of the battlefield in an automatic sweep.
Obito, barely three yards away with his shakujo already swinging, catches his eye and bares his teeth in a wolf’s grin.
Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.
Hashirama must see something in Madara’s face—either that or his instincts give him warning, but Obito likes the idea that Madara’s dumbfounded expression serves as warning enough. The man ducks, rolling to the side, and the ring of the shakujo sweeps across the space he just occupied. It just misses Madara as he leaps backwards, a fireball bursting from his lips, but Obito phases right through it, landing lightly and spinning the staff through his fingers.
Madara feints left, but this is man who trained Obito to begin with, almost a century younger and far less skilled, and Obito easily spots the misdirection. He lunges the opposite way, catches Madara’s sword when he reverses directions, then twists past the blow, drives an elbow into Madara’s gut, grabs him by his long, thick hair, and uses it as a handhold as he spins, knocks Madara’s feet out from under him, and drags him down to the ground.
From above and behind him, there’s a cry, and Obito wrenches the sword from Madara’s hand, keeping the other man pinned with the shakujo against his throat, and half-turns to level the blade at Hashirama. It taps the Senju’s chest as he pulls up short, eyes wide, and Obito snorts.
“One move and I’ll happily put another hole in this waste of space,” he growls, seeing the way Hashirama’s eyes flicker from him to Madara and back.
Hashirama stares at him for a long moment, then nods and takes a careful step in retreat. One half-glance around them and he says very quietly, “You have Mokuton.”
Madara makes a sound like a pissy cat dropped into a pond. “You have the Sharingan,” he spits, as though this personally offends him. “You’re an Uchiha.”
“And that fact has been responsible for pretty much all of the misery in my life,” Obito retorts, and for a breathless, terrible moment he’s back in that clearing under the full moon, a handful of seconds too late to save Rin from Madara’s manipulations. One blow and he can stop all of that here and now, can prevent so much of the pain that might come.
Hashirama must see something of that in his eyes, because he takes a quick stride forward, only to pull up short when Obito snarls and levels the blade at his throat again. “Please, don’t!” he insists.
“Get lost, Senju!” Madara snaps at the same time. “This is an Uchiha matter, I will handle—”
“Clearly it is a Senju matter as well,” Tobirama says coldly, coming to a halt a short distance away, but his eyes are on Obito’s sword where it touches his brother’s collarbone.
“I don’t think so,” Izuna counters, equally chilly and just as biting as he edges closer, Sharingan eyes narrowed and wary. “Just because some Senju bastard couldn’t take no for an answer when it was coming from an Uchiha kunoichi—”
Instantly Tobirama whips around, offended rage written clearly across his face, and he grabs for his sword, only to be pulled up short when Hashirama reaches back and grabs his wrist.
“But—” Tobirama starts to protest.
“Izuna,” Hashirama says, carefully even, and he doesn’t look away from Obito but there’s a spark of tightly contained fury in his dark eyes. “Mind. Your. Tongue.”
Izuna flicks a glance between Hashirama and Tobirama, swallows, and takes half a step away from them. “Brother,” he complains.
Madara gives Obito a dark look, but he doesn’t try to move. “You wouldn’t stand for such an insult to our clan, Izuna,” he huffs. “Don’t expect the Senju to have any less pride.”
Narrowing his eyes, Obito presses the shakujo in a little more firmly. “Don’t bother taking that high and mighty tone, Madara,” he bites out. “You’re the one I hold responsible for all of this, and I’m going to fucking take it out of you hide.”
Red-and-black eyes go wide, and Madara almost flinches away from him, hands rising in something like surrender.
Obito doesn’t want surrender, though. He wants to rip into Madara the way he wasn’t able to before, wants to get a hand in his chest and tear the heart right out of him, pay back every bit of pain that Madara inflicted on the world, through Obito and through Zetsu and by his own hand as well. Wants to rip and slash and hack away until this monster is nothing but a pile of bloody flesh, unable to hurt anyone ever again. It overwhelms him for the space of a breath, white-hot rage the only thing inside of him, and before he can think to stop himself he tightens his grip on his shakujo and—
Big hands grab him, one arm around his waist and the other around his chest, and with a jerk he’s hauled right up off of Madara, dragged back against a broad chest as dark hair tumbles around him. “No,” Hashirama says, halfway to a plea, and his grip tightens enough to force the air out of Obito’s lungs.
Obito freezes, stiff and stunned at the touch of another human. Years, it’s been, since anyone touched him to do anything but inflict pain, and his muscles go tense and tight in anticipation of a blow.
There isn’t one, though. No hit, no pain, no kunai slid into his kidneys to gut him and leave him for dead.
No pain, just—
A trickle, wet and hot, against the back of his tattered robe. Blood, by the smell, and since Obito doesn’t bleed anymore it has to be Hashirama’s, has to be from when he knocked the sword aside to save the man who will eventually kill him.
It’s too much. The thought of it, the reality of standing here over Madara, able to end everything before it begins, and Hashirama is the one to save him—
What Obito did, the people he killed—that’s on his head. But it’s on Madara’s too, on Zetsu’s, on Kaguya’s. Uchiha Obito should have died in a cave-in when he was thirteen, but he didn’t, and the reason for that is right in front of him. The reason he didn’t carved a seal into his heart, killed his best friend, and gave him a twisted, broken vision of the world as an illusion, and then set him to unmake it.
Obito is responsible for his own actions, and he knows it all too well. But Madara was the trigger. If Obito was the sword then Madara was the hand that forged and wielded him, and that has to mean he bears at least a part of the blame from the hell of the past few years.
“No,” he snarls, and though he shoves backwards to loosen Hashirama’s grip and get away he doesn’t reach for Kamui, doesn’t try to hurt the man (again, again, something in him whispers, hurt him again you mean). “Let go of me! He deserves whatever I do to him!”
Hashirama’s grip isn’t harsh, but it is immovable, and he’s as solid as an oak as he drags Obito back another step. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “This isn’t the way.”
Naruto, Obito thinks, guilt and grief and regret and anger all wound up and tangled together. He curls his fingers into fists, takes a breath that vibrates with anger, and does the hardest thing he’s ever managed in his life.
He opens his hand and lets the weapon go.
This is fantastic and beautiful and just guhh. Obito going for Madara, and almost incidentally saving Izuna along the way - Izuna, who was the trigger that was almost single-handedly responsible for Madara’s later actions. Obito, who doesn’t give a damn about who’s Uchiha or Senju and is almost casually curb-stomping them both equally as he lunges for Madara’s throat - *sniffs happily*. This is lovely.
I especially love all the speculation about Obito’s background! This must be the darkest fears (or the secret hopes) of both sides; an individual wielding both the sharingan AND motokun. Who does not hesitate to bitch both sides out (though I think he hates the Uchiha a lot more then he does the Senju - eh. Apples and oranges). The speculation that he’s a child of rape, that’s - well, completely plausible within the clan’s working framework of the situation. Add in the way that he went straight for Madara - the obvious conclusion is that he’s perhaps taking out a very personal grudge on Madara in his capacity as head of the Uchiha clan, and thus nominally responsible for his entire clan and their actions. (…the age difference isn’t plausible for the other reason a Senju/Uchiha hybrid might be going for an Uchiha).
…all I can think of is that one story of yours where Obito was the child of a Senju and Uchiha marriage. I can just see him going “It was my father who was the Uchiha, actually. And my mother was the Senju.” And just as both clans start drawing some horrifying conclusions, he casually adds - “Also, they were married.” (THAT would set the cat among the pigeons)
blackkatmagic:
(this may or may not ever turn into something, so I thought I’d leave it here as the product of my procrastination.)
Obito gets lost on the way back to the afterlife.
It sounds like the start of the worst joke ever, like something Kakashi would mock him for forever after finding out about it, but it is, Obito admits to himself with great reluctance, actually true. This is definitely not the Pure Land, Rin is definitely not waiting for him, and he is definitely alive, because apparently using Kamui to skip out on your path to the afterlife leaves you alive even when you don’t want to be.
The worst part is, Obito can’t even regret it. He’d make the same decision again, because Kakashi needed his eyes so he wouldn’t just stand on the sidelines like a useless lump or throw his life away trying to take a hit. With Kamui, Kakashi has a chance at getting them a victory against Kaguya. Without it—
Without it he’s dead, and Obito doesn’t need the blood of any more teammates on his hands.
Cursing quietly, Obito pushes through a particularly tight net of tree branches, trying to figure out where he is. Another dimension, he can tell that much—Kamui gives him a good sense of such things—but unless he wants to kill himself with chakra exhaustion he can’t teleport back out of it. He could try it to get back to the afterlife that way, or just use a kunai, but—
Obito is a stubborn bastard. He was fine dying to save his friend, because there was no other choice and he was dead at the end of the war anyway, but if he’s alive? Yeah, fuck that, Obito is going to survive. It’s what he’s always done, and even if it’s against the world’s best interests, Obito is going to keep it that way. He’s alive, and no one can take that away from him.
The forest thins out up ahead, the spaces between the tree trunks widening as the ground grows rocky, and Obito makes for it, hoping to find some higher ground so he can at least get a look at his surroundings. The earth is covered with old leaf-litter, soft and silent underfoot, and Obito feels like he should know it, like this whole area is familiar, but he can’t quite place it.
He rounds a thick stand of trees, pushes through a thicket of brambles that curl away from the touch of his Mokuton, and hears—
War. War like the one he just left, the one he started, but without the monstrous roar of the bijuu or the overwhelming lash of chakra from shinobi with no concept of human limits. The earth trembles beneath his feet, the air rings with shouts, and there’s a clang and crack of weapons meeting. Fire roars, the smell of scorched cloth and flesh rising in its wake, and there’s a loud cry.
A familiar cry.
Obito reacts without even thinking. He dodges around the last copse of trees, chakra already surging within him, and bursts out onto the battlefield just as there’s a flash of yellow light.
Years of learning how to craft a plan, how to alter it on the fly, how to act and react and take advantage of every skill he’s managed to cultivate—that’s enough to let him take in the fight in one swift glance, ignoring that fact that it should be impossible. Senju on one side, heavily armored and fighting desperately; Uchiha on the other, backs bared because their stupid pride won’t let them wear armor, but pushing the Senju back. Two sources of chakra brighter than the rest—one on the far right, two heads with long black hair, a dragon made of wood, a familiar gunbai and a curl of scorching flame. The other is at the far end, almost dead-center. A fading glow of gold, black hair, Uchiha symbol, and he’s turning but it won’t be fast enough.
But Obito has faced a man who’s even faster, and he can make it in time.
It’s nothing conscious that drives him—the connections are simpler than that. Half a moment to judge, another bare fraction of a heartbeat to let Kamui whirl to life, and there’s a beat in Obito’s blood that sounds like the cause the cause the cause. Nothing solid, nothing certain, but trained instinct and denial working in tandem as he whirls off the battlefield. A portal into the Kamui dimension, and almost before he fully materializes he has another forming, leading right back out, and he snatches up a staff from a pile of stored weapons and is gone. As soon as he’s through he shifts his body sideways, back into the other dimension as he phases through the man—no armor, just robes, and fuck but Obito can’t believe he’s part of a clan filled with such arrogant assholes, thinking they’re too good to wear armor in a fight—and brings the shakujo around.
A sword collides with it in a flash of yellow light, and red eyes framed by white hair go wide.
Obito snarls, in no mood to call for a truce here and now, and plants the butt of the shakujo in the ground. He leaps, using it as a pivot, and slams a foot into Tobirama’s armored chest with all the force of his chakra behind it. The future Nidaime goes flying, and Obito lands lightly, yanking the staff up as he turns.
Uchiha Izuna rounds on him with a victorious laugh, red-and-black eyes bright with triumph, and opens his mouth.
Obito sweeps his feet out from under him, dumps him on his ass, and buries him in grasping roots that drag him to the ground and pin him there. “When the hell is it ever going to be enough for you bastards?” he snarls right in the man’s dumbfounded face. “How many innocent people need to die in this stupid fucking war before you finally decide that you’ve had enough revenge?!”
There’s no answer, only blank gaping, and Obito growls, pivoting on his heel. Several knots of fighting shinobi are watching him with one eye, clearly wary, but not enough to stop their own battles. It’s not going to be enough to save them, because in a split second Obito has made up his mind. It’s a stupid decision, probably the worst he could come up with, but if there’s a chance in hell of stopping all of this before it starts, Obito will take it.
“Stay there,” he growls at Izuna, leveling his shakujo at him, and then turns. A burst of speed sends him hurtling right at a Senju kunoichi with her hair in a topknot and the ponytailed Uchiha she’s fighting, and he shoves right behind them, knocking the woman into the man and pinning them both with Mokuton. The Senju lets out a startled cry, but Obito is still moving. Branches and roots erupt around him, grabbing for shinobi without discrimination.
Those in Obito’s path don’t have nearly as much of a chance to fight back; Kamui makes him a ghost, and even when he’s tangible his speed leaves him all but untouchable. He plows through the ranks separating him from the other fighting pair, drives forward with a wave of Mokuton subsuming everything behind him. There’s a snarled knot of fury growing larger and larger in his chest, a twist of something that’s very close to grief, and he’s had enough.
With a shout, Madara shoves Hashirama away, then whirls in, sword sweeping down. Hashirama catches it on a thick burst of wood, shoving him back, and in the same moment Madara’s eyes flicker up above Hashirama’s shoulder, taking in the rest of the battlefield in an automatic sweep.
Obito, barely three yards away with his shakujo already swinging, catches his eye and bares his teeth in a wolf’s grin.
Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.
Hashirama must see something in Madara’s face—either that or his instincts give him warning, but Obito likes the idea that Madara’s dumbfounded expression serves as warning enough. The man ducks, rolling to the side, and the ring of the shakujo sweeps across the space he just occupied. It just misses Madara as he leaps backwards, a fireball bursting from his lips, but Obito phases right through it, landing lightly and spinning the staff through his fingers.
Madara feints left, but this is man who trained Obito to begin with, almost a century younger and far less skilled, and Obito easily spots the misdirection. He lunges the opposite way, catches Madara’s sword when he reverses directions, then twists past the blow, drives an elbow into Madara’s gut, grabs him by his long, thick hair, and uses it as a handhold as he spins, knocks Madara’s feet out from under him, and drags him down to the ground.
From above and behind him, there’s a cry, and Obito wrenches the sword from Madara’s hand, keeping the other man pinned with the shakujo against his throat, and half-turns to level the blade at Hashirama. It taps the Senju’s chest as he pulls up short, eyes wide, and Obito snorts.
“One move and I’ll happily put another hole in this waste of space,” he growls, seeing the way Hashirama’s eyes flicker from him to Madara and back.
Hashirama stares at him for a long moment, then nods and takes a careful step in retreat. One half-glance around them and he says very quietly, “You have Mokuton.”
Madara makes a sound like a pissy cat dropped into a pond. “You have the Sharingan,” he spits, as though this personally offends him. “You’re an Uchiha.”
“And that fact has been responsible for pretty much all of the misery in my life,” Obito retorts, and for a breathless, terrible moment he’s back in that clearing under the full moon, a handful of seconds too late to save Rin from Madara’s manipulations. One blow and he can stop all of that here and now, can prevent so much of the pain that might come.
Hashirama must see something of that in his eyes, because he takes a quick stride forward, only to pull up short when Obito snarls and levels the blade at his throat again. “Please, don’t!” he insists.
“Get lost, Senju!” Madara snaps at the same time. “This is an Uchiha matter, I will handle—”
“Clearly it is a Senju matter as well,” Tobirama says coldly, coming to a halt a short distance away, but his eyes are on Obito’s sword where it touches his brother’s collarbone.
“I don’t think so,” Izuna counters, equally chilly and just as biting as he edges closer, Sharingan eyes narrowed and wary. “Just because some Senju bastard couldn’t take no for an answer when it was coming from an Uchiha kunoichi—”
Instantly Tobirama whips around, offended rage written clearly across his face, and he grabs for his sword, only to be pulled up short when Hashirama reaches back and grabs his wrist.
“But—” Tobirama starts to protest.
“Izuna,” Hashirama says, carefully even, and he doesn’t look away from Obito but there’s a spark of tightly contained fury in his dark eyes. “Mind. Your. Tongue.”
Izuna flicks a glance between Hashirama and Tobirama, swallows, and takes half a step away from them. “Brother,” he complains.
Madara gives Obito a dark look, but he doesn’t try to move. “You wouldn’t stand for such an insult to our clan, Izuna,” he huffs. “Don’t expect the Senju to have any less pride.”
Narrowing his eyes, Obito presses the shakujo in a little more firmly. “Don’t bother taking that high and mighty tone, Madara,” he bites out. “You’re the one I hold responsible for all of this, and I’m going to fucking take it out of you hide.”
Red-and-black eyes go wide, and Madara almost flinches away from him, hands rising in something like surrender.
Obito doesn’t want surrender, though. He wants to rip into Madara the way he wasn’t able to before, wants to get a hand in his chest and tear the heart right out of him, pay back every bit of pain that Madara inflicted on the world, through Obito and through Zetsu and by his own hand as well. Wants to rip and slash and hack away until this monster is nothing but a pile of bloody flesh, unable to hurt anyone ever again. It overwhelms him for the space of a breath, white-hot rage the only thing inside of him, and before he can think to stop himself he tightens his grip on his shakujo and—
Big hands grab him, one arm around his waist and the other around his chest, and with a jerk he’s hauled right up off of Madara, dragged back against a broad chest as dark hair tumbles around him. “No,” Hashirama says, halfway to a plea, and his grip tightens enough to force the air out of Obito’s lungs.
Obito freezes, stiff and stunned at the touch of another human. Years, it’s been, since anyone touched him to do anything but inflict pain, and his muscles go tense and tight in anticipation of a blow.
There isn’t one, though. No hit, no pain, no kunai slid into his kidneys to gut him and leave him for dead.
No pain, just—
A trickle, wet and hot, against the back of his tattered robe. Blood, by the smell, and since Obito doesn’t bleed anymore it has to be Hashirama’s, has to be from when he knocked the sword aside to save the man who will eventually kill him.
It’s too much. The thought of it, the reality of standing here over Madara, able to end everything before it begins, and Hashirama is the one to save him—
What Obito did, the people he killed—that’s on his head. But it’s on Madara’s too, on Zetsu’s, on Kaguya’s. Uchiha Obito should have died in a cave-in when he was thirteen, but he didn’t, and the reason for that is right in front of him. The reason he didn’t carved a seal into his heart, killed his best friend, and gave him a twisted, broken vision of the world as an illusion, and then set him to unmake it.
Obito is responsible for his own actions, and he knows it all too well. But Madara was the trigger. If Obito was the sword then Madara was the hand that forged and wielded him, and that has to mean he bears at least a part of the blame from the hell of the past few years.
“No,” he snarls, and though he shoves backwards to loosen Hashirama’s grip and get away he doesn’t reach for Kamui, doesn’t try to hurt the man (again, again, something in him whispers, hurt him again you mean). “Let go of me! He deserves whatever I do to him!”
Hashirama’s grip isn’t harsh, but it is immovable, and he’s as solid as an oak as he drags Obito back another step. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “This isn’t the way.”
Naruto, Obito thinks, guilt and grief and regret and anger all wound up and tangled together. He curls his fingers into fists, takes a breath that vibrates with anger, and does the hardest thing he’s ever managed in his life.
He opens his hand and lets the weapon go.
This is fantastic and beautiful and just guhh. Obito going for Madara, and almost incidentally saving Izuna along the way - Izuna, who was the trigger that was almost single-handedly responsible for Madara’s later actions. Obito, who doesn’t give a damn about who’s Uchiha or Senju and is almost casually curb-stomping them both equally as he lunges for Madara’s throat - *sniffs happily*. This is lovely.
I especially love all the speculation about Obito’s background! This must be the darkest fears (or the secret hopes) of both sides; an individual wielding both the sharingan AND motokun. Who does not hesitate to bitch both sides out (though I think he hates the Uchiha a lot more then he does the Senju - eh. Apples and oranges). The speculation that he’s a child of rape, that’s - well, completely plausible within the clan’s working framework of the situation. Add in the way that he went straight for Madara - the obvious conclusion is that he’s perhaps taking out a very personal grudge on Madara in his capacity as head of the Uchiha clan, and thus nominally responsible for his entire clan and their actions. (…the age difference isn’t plausible for the other reason a Senju/Uchiha hybrid might be going for an Uchiha).
…all I can think of is that one story of yours where Obito was the child of a Senju and Uchiha marriage. I can just see him going “It was my father who was the Uchiha, actually. And my mother was the Senju.” And just as both clans start drawing some horrifying conclusions, he casually adds - “Also, they were married.” (THAT would set the cat among the pigeons)
via http://ift.tt/2rWqe9E:
tsume-yuki:
The HP/OP crossover that no one asked for. (Otherwise known as I’m clearing out my notes so have some pre-written stuff to read while I’m on break)
“You want to make a deal?”
Harry stares at this strange man, the first to ever find his island, the first capable of reaching the shores of his home.
The man who is slowly making his way into the clutches of Harry’s dear friend, his servant and companion.
“If I come three years early, give me three minutes in the future!”
“Only three minutes? Whatever for?”
He’s interesting, this man. He’s got a kind of charisma that showcases nothing but open honesty.
He’s the kind of man Harry might have willingly followed in his mortal life.
“Well…”
There’s no impact.
Ace is braced for it, he’s looking his startled little brother in the eye.
Keep reading
tsume-yuki:
The HP/OP crossover that no one asked for. (Otherwise known as I’m clearing out my notes so have some pre-written stuff to read while I’m on break)
“You want to make a deal?”
Harry stares at this strange man, the first to ever find his island, the first capable of reaching the shores of his home.
The man who is slowly making his way into the clutches of Harry’s dear friend, his servant and companion.
“If I come three years early, give me three minutes in the future!”
“Only three minutes? Whatever for?”
He’s interesting, this man. He’s got a kind of charisma that showcases nothing but open honesty.
He’s the kind of man Harry might have willingly followed in his mortal life.
“Well…”
There’s no impact.
Ace is braced for it, he’s looking his startled little brother in the eye.
Keep reading
via http://ift.tt/2nxhunK:
OH GOOD LORD, SOMEONE WRITE THIS. Secretly Married Obi-Wan is killing me. Like, Obi-Wan keeps meaning to say something, keeps meaning to resign from the order so that he can go BE WITH HIS WIFE but…he doesn’t want to set a bad example or anything and this KID is here now and…well, he’ll figure it out later. Attachments are forbidden, Anakin! Hang on, I have to go…to Mandalore…for reasons. I’ll be right back! Politicians are not to be trusted byeeeeee!
Satine is going to be so epically annoyed with him for dragging his feet on this. ARE YOU ASHAMED OF ME, OBI-WAN KENOBI?! WELL THEN MAYBE YOU’LL ENJOY SLEEPING ON THE COUCH. *throws a martini into the wall*
Can you even IMAGINE Anakin’s face when he learns this Important Information? Oh my God.
OH GOOD LORD, SOMEONE WRITE THIS. Secretly Married Obi-Wan is killing me. Like, Obi-Wan keeps meaning to say something, keeps meaning to resign from the order so that he can go BE WITH HIS WIFE but…he doesn’t want to set a bad example or anything and this KID is here now and…well, he’ll figure it out later. Attachments are forbidden, Anakin! Hang on, I have to go…to Mandalore…for reasons. I’ll be right back! Politicians are not to be trusted byeeeeee!
Satine is going to be so epically annoyed with him for dragging his feet on this. ARE YOU ASHAMED OF ME, OBI-WAN KENOBI?! WELL THEN MAYBE YOU’LL ENJOY SLEEPING ON THE COUCH. *throws a martini into the wall*
Can you even IMAGINE Anakin’s face when he learns this Important Information? Oh my God.
via http://ift.tt/2kiXV0k:
johanirae:
caffeinewitchcraft:
writing-prompt-s:
You are an anonymous professional assassin with a perfect reputation. You lead an ordinary life outside of your work. You’ve just been hired to kill yourself.
My first thought is that the middle man I use–calls himself ‘Leader’, real name Brett Thompson, 46, balding, lives in PA–has uncovered my identity. Why else would I be staring down at a picture of my own face? I think it’s a warning, that he knows about the Sanchez job, and I nearly reach for my go bag.
Then I see the client’s name.
Vi Larson, the file tells me, male, 32, computer analyst.
I close the manila folder, tossing it away from me. The whiskey sour’s gone warm in my hand, but I drink it down anyway, eyes distant. I don’t need to read any more of the file. I can fill in the gaps well enough.
Funnily enough, this betrayal is just as sharp and unpleasant as the first one, the one that got me into this business in the first place.
“You at least owe me a crime of passion, you bastard,” I mutter into my drink. I close my eyes and sigh, willing away the stinging in my heart. I knew that my relationship was in trouble, but this is just cold.
In a way, I can’t believe it. Is a divorce really that hard? But, no, I know Vi. He’s methodical, analytical, and competent. If anything, hiring an assassin with a reputation like mine is right in line with his personality. Nothing but the best, even in the murder game.
I should be flattered, really. My rates aren’t cheap. Whatever I did to make him send this in–and he did, there’s his social security, his fingerprint, everything–it must have been killer.
I set my glass down on the counter and tuck the folder under my arm. I need to think and I do my best thinking in the tub. Vi won’t be back from his “business” trip for another three days, during which I’m supposed to kill myself.
As I head up the stairs, I can’t help but laugh. Finally, after three years of marriage, my husband does something interesting. And it breaks my fucking heart.
——————————————
He wants me to make it painless but horrific. There’s a script in the document, something that’s more common than people think, and it’s hard to read it, even surrounded by bubbles and soothing music.
“Your husband sent me. Said he needed to shed some dead weight.” I snort at the pun and close my eyes, resting the file against my face so it doesn’t get wet. Unfortunately, the tears do that anyway.
“Fuck,” I say. “You bastard.”
Keep reading
That story is awesome and I want a summer blockbuster filmed with it starring Idris Elba and Riz Ahmed
johanirae:
caffeinewitchcraft:
writing-prompt-s:
You are an anonymous professional assassin with a perfect reputation. You lead an ordinary life outside of your work. You’ve just been hired to kill yourself.
My first thought is that the middle man I use–calls himself ‘Leader’, real name Brett Thompson, 46, balding, lives in PA–has uncovered my identity. Why else would I be staring down at a picture of my own face? I think it’s a warning, that he knows about the Sanchez job, and I nearly reach for my go bag.
Then I see the client’s name.
Vi Larson, the file tells me, male, 32, computer analyst.
I close the manila folder, tossing it away from me. The whiskey sour’s gone warm in my hand, but I drink it down anyway, eyes distant. I don’t need to read any more of the file. I can fill in the gaps well enough.
Funnily enough, this betrayal is just as sharp and unpleasant as the first one, the one that got me into this business in the first place.
“You at least owe me a crime of passion, you bastard,” I mutter into my drink. I close my eyes and sigh, willing away the stinging in my heart. I knew that my relationship was in trouble, but this is just cold.
In a way, I can’t believe it. Is a divorce really that hard? But, no, I know Vi. He’s methodical, analytical, and competent. If anything, hiring an assassin with a reputation like mine is right in line with his personality. Nothing but the best, even in the murder game.
I should be flattered, really. My rates aren’t cheap. Whatever I did to make him send this in–and he did, there’s his social security, his fingerprint, everything–it must have been killer.
I set my glass down on the counter and tuck the folder under my arm. I need to think and I do my best thinking in the tub. Vi won’t be back from his “business” trip for another three days, during which I’m supposed to kill myself.
As I head up the stairs, I can’t help but laugh. Finally, after three years of marriage, my husband does something interesting. And it breaks my fucking heart.
——————————————
He wants me to make it painless but horrific. There’s a script in the document, something that’s more common than people think, and it’s hard to read it, even surrounded by bubbles and soothing music.
“Your husband sent me. Said he needed to shed some dead weight.” I snort at the pun and close my eyes, resting the file against my face so it doesn’t get wet. Unfortunately, the tears do that anyway.
“Fuck,” I say. “You bastard.”
Keep reading
That story is awesome and I want a summer blockbuster filmed with it starring Idris Elba and Riz Ahmed
