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kittlesandbugs · 1 month

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FHR: Escapist inklings (Ao3 Link) Characters: Sidestep (Farm, 2nd visit) Warnings: Canon-typical suicidal ideation, implied abuses at the Farm, nothing explicitly shown. Word Count: 735 Summary: Sidestep sits in solitary confinement, pondering possibilities for escape and stumbles onto an idea.

Lying on the mat in your cell, you toss and turn with restless frustration. It's impossible to get comfortable between the fresh bruises of the day and the dampeners weighing down on your mind. They're immutable around you, making the four close closed walls even more claustrophobic. A choke hold on your mind that would be much more merciful if it was clenched tight around your throat.

If only you could be so lucky.

You still on your back, the thin mat doing little to cushion your scrawny atrophied body from the cold concrete floor. Your stomach gnaws at your spine, fed just enough to keep your brain alive and active, because that's all they care about. Not fed enough to be comfortable, to remind you that good dogs get good meals. You ignore these slights against yourself. You're still breathing. Focus on that.

In.

Out.

Slow.

Steady.

Don't think about how you learned this, years ago, a passive puppy learning to self-soothe to serve. They want that good obedient dog back, not the feral stray cat you became once out of their bag. You'll die before becoming that sad browbeaten creature again. And they'll regret the tiger you'll be once you figure your way out of this cage. Once you have your claws on their throats.

How to get out is the only thing stopping you.

Telepathy won't get you out of this, not with the dampeners trapping your reaching prying fingers inside your own skull. You aren't a shape-shifter. You can't dematerialize and pass through walls. You can't pass unseen and unheard through spaces between reality, not like the Void.

Hm. The Void.

You saw the paths she walked once. You made yourself forget them as the green faded from your sight and the burn faded from your veins. Could you make yourself remember them again? Could you walk them again? Pass through the walls of this place like the ghost you are. What's the worst that can happen if you try? You venture too deep into the space between? It crushes you like it crushed the Void? Ends your miserable existence here? You can't see a downside to trying.

You breathe. In. Out. Remember. The acid of her Blood burning deep in your veins. The color of her Sky, deep underground. The paths they opened in the spaces between, seared deep inside of you. Push your fingers through the folds of your mind, peel and pry back the scars chaining the memories so very deep, gouge them out, let them flow fresh and green.

(ignore the screams. yours. ortega's. they're all in the past.)

Your eyes open inside and you see. It's tiny, barely visible, like dust motes in a shaft of light. Small. Mutable. Immaterial. You can't walk this. Your flesh is weak but solid. It binds you to this plane.

But your mind is strong. It doesn't need this flesh. It needs to go free, unfettered, unburdened, unreal. You have to escape the gravity well of mind to body. You have to unmake your self to become.

You need to let it go.

You reach and you drag your self, pulling taut, tauter, tight, tighter, and then finally the invisible cord binding you to you snaps.

You think you scream.

But no one comes in.

Your body breathes on below, but you are weightless above.

Immaterial.

Free.

On the moted path, you wander. Beyond the choke of the dampeners, you fly. Feather light and feather flow, you drift down towards another mind.

A guard. Yours. Seated in a padded chair, viewing screens that capture you and your cell, inside and out from every angle.

You flow into the cracks of his mind, taking a tenuous hold amidst his stream of consciousness. He's bored watching you sleep, especially now that you've settled. He needs to go to the bathroom, but his shift mate has stepped out to smoke. He wonders what will be for dinner when he gets home after third shift is over. He half-hopes you'll start pounding the walls again, just to break up the monotony.

You wonder…

Can you do more than watch…?

Tickle a little nerve.

His hand jerks and he swears as the mug of coffee spills across the desk. In his panic, your tenuous hold snaps like a rubber band.

You lurch upright, you again, you yourself, choking on bitter victorious bile as you laugh.

#kitbug writes things #fhr #sidestep #the farm 2.0 #riley owens #just had a thought about how step might stumble onto body snatching #and ran with it lol

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fourmula1 · 7 months

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Not sure if you're still doing it, but if so, 32, dust motes for maxiel for the micro word challenge pls💖💖💖 love your writing sm!

Flufftober Day 9: Dust Motes

max/daniel. 298 words.

The flight was long, and Max is exhausted and all out of sorts. He feels like it’s bed time but his phone tells him it’s early morning and everything feels upside down.

That’s what he gets for flying back to Europe after Suzuka for some obligations and then all the way to Australia before Qatar. His body doesn’t know what timezone he’s in and he’s fucking tired but he’d rather be here than anywhere.

Max climbs the front porch steps and lets himself into the farm house. It’s quiet, here. No one to disturb them, nothing around for miles. He heads inside and toes his shoes off, sets his backpack down before making his way through the kitchen to the back sun deck, enclosed in glass with a beautiful view of Daniel’s land.

There, he smiles when he spots Daniel curled up on the sunbed, looking peaceful and cozy cuddled in a blanket and scrolling his phone. Max watches the dust motes dance in the beam of morning sunshine coming in and smiles. Daniel hasn’t noticed him yet.

Max lifts his hand and knocks on the glass, tummy swooping when Daniel looks up at him and breaks out into a grin.

“Hi,” Max says as he lets himself out onto the sundeck, comes over to lean down for a hello kiss. Daniel meets him half way, reaches up to cup his jaw with his good hand as he kisses him back.

“How was the flight?” Daniel asks as Max wastes no time in settling down with him, tucking into Daniel’s side. He’s so tired he could die.

“Long. I want to go to bed,” he says through a yawn.

He’s tired and knows he’ll spend probably the whole day crashing but it doesn’t matter. He’s here.

With Daniel.

#flufftober 2023 #maxiel #my ficlet

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wilcze-kudly · 2 months

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do u have more kuvira hcs? i love the way u talk about her 🙏🏻

Ooh, thank you for the ask! I'm flattered. I always worry about how I treat Kuvira as a character since I may be a little mote hostile towarda her than a lot of my mutuals?

She was born in a place that used to be a Fire Nation colony. Due to this, she's very keenly aware of the poverty of the lower class after the 100 year war.

Kuvira's parents owned a farm and Kuvira worked on it a lot. She was used to waking up super early and going to bed late. I don't think she got a lot of time to be a kid, so getting moved to Zaofu and being expected to just be a child was very hard on her.

The catalyst of Kuvira being sent away from her family was her lashing out at her mother and accidentally breaking a few of her ribs with earthbending. This is what prompted her parents to drop her off at Zaofu.

Kuvira was quite a temperamental and petty child. She would be very bossy with the Beifong babies. I think it usually worked out, since most of the kids were willing to let her choose what games they would play or what they'd do.

However, I think that whenever faced with pushback, she would get into arguments which occasionally turned violent. I think she would've injured the other kids at least a few times.

Due to this, Baatar Sr was unsure about keeping Kuvira around, byt Suyin insisted and eventually Kuvira acclimated and stopped throwing rocks at the other children. I still think there's a healthy distance between her and Baatar Sr, however, since he still remembers having to comfort his kids after they got pushed ot hit (or bitten). Perhaps another reason Kuvira feels not like part of the family. Since 'dad' was always distanced.

Kuvira is a horse girl (ostrich horse girl? 🤔) She definitely dragged Baatar Jr out of the city to ride the horses from the surrounding farms. Baatar... wasn't enthusiastic about this.

She used to be a bit superstitious as a child due to her upbringing.

I think she gets along easiest with the twins. They shared interests in earthbending and sport. I think the twins are the only ones that actually considered Kuvira a sister. And they were most hurt after she left. I don't think their relationship will ever recover, truly bit I think they may be the first people whose forgiveness Kuvira actually tries to get. Whether she fully succeeds, I'm not entirely sure.

She enjoys meditating. And self care, however she rarely pampers herself because whe doesn't think she deserves it/hasn't done anything to earn it.

I think her favourite type of book would be the budding science fiction genre. She gets into big arguments with Baatar Jr over how realistic they actually are.

She's much taller than most of the Beifongs. Big scary amazonian woman. She could lift the twins by the scruffs of their necks like kittens. Opal hates it.

She definitely really admired (and had a crush on) Avatar Kyoshi as a kid. Ahe was actually very excited about meeting Korra but was too chicken to introduce herself in B3, even though the twins tried to convince her to do so.

Thank you for the ask, love! I have a love/hate relationship with Kuvira, but it is fun to speculate on her.

#kuvira #wei beifong #wing beifong #suyin beifong #baatar #baatar jr #baatar sr #legend of korra #avatar #tlok #the legend of korra #avatar the legend of korra #atlok #lok

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teratocrat · 9 months

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A single yellow dwarf, unremarkable, of about 1.0218 solar masses. And in its corona, dancing aurora-dragons, ribbons and feathers of nine-colored light, singing and reciting poetry to each other and hitching freezing rides on the asteroids and comets that swing close enough to the star to leap out onto.

One small, dense planet, frosted over with incandescent stormclouds that snow lead flakes onto the slopes of volcanoes whose calderas are choked with galena coral reefs, the bones of colonies of radiation-tolerant extremophilic microorganisms, and where sulfur-swamps coat the lazy tideless beaches of the planet's only ocean, stirred and tilled by people like lanky bundles of black ironstraw, who heap their storehouses high with xanthous dried fusegrass.

One larger, much cooler planet, the calcite gleam of its moon hidden from the surface much of the time by cloudcover. warm, shallow, mildly acidic seas of lavender mucous, tentative marshes of weeping fuschia ferns, translucent lapine blobs with probing antennae that could be eyes or ears or questing tongues, and in the middle of the deepest ocean, a massive gelatinous thing, a superorganism like a rose with its stem plunging down into the volcanic baths of an oceanic rift, a mind from whom all other minds on this planet came and to which they occasionally return, eager to share their stories.

One rocky planet, bitterly cold and with the merest wisps of atmosphere clinging to it. Lifeless, all its water burned off it by baleful solar glare, the vast horizon-spanning saltpan seafloors bone-bare under the violet sky, and its moon hanging above like a clenched fist of black basalt.

An asteroid belt, scattered diamond motes of ice and stone and clay and metals, with three dwarf planets in its embrace, and the largest of them bearing a banner of silver and midnight, a unicorn guarding some alien tree.

A planet one might almost mistake for Earth, for all its snake-necked tortoise-camels and gold-feathered tigermen, for all its gleaming pentagonal ziggurats of diamond and steel, its three space elevators anchored in the emerald forests that girdle the equator, the capital of an interplanetary empire founded at the mouth of an immense river lazily piling hundreds of tons of silt a year into delta marshes, its vast ports berthing wide, flat-bottomed barges hauling iron and salt and sand and cinnabar, barrels of fish and wine and oil and perfumes, tigerman janissaries and scholars and poets and wizards, all tallied and accounted for in the lightning thoughts of supercomputers domesticated by bureaucracy. spaceplanes like silver songbirds or leaping fish ferrying the nobility (who disdain regular shuttle flights from the tips of the space elevators as base transportation for commoners) from the surface of the planet to its moon above, or to any number of gleaming stations in high orbit.

A gas giant, pale as pearl streaked with delicate pink and green pastels, skirted by dozens of captured child-moons, many of them bearing the same unicorn banner, some of them mined for this or that rare earth element, cities buried under the shielding crust of a scant handful, and two of them habitiformed enough to support imperial hunting grounds - managed grasslands or forests full of imported game - and hunting lodges of squat domes and towering spires, mirrored labyrinthine greenhouse-gardens and treasure-vaults of platinum jewelry set with nebula-gems snatched from their condensation-nests in the gas giant's depths.

Another gas giant, the blues and purples of a ripe plum blushing from clouds of midnight-black marbled with gold, icy rings slicing through swirling lunar orbits, merchants and mercenaries and privateers gliding from port to port in their sapphire-hulled ships, out where the empire scrabbles to find purchase. hollowed-out asteroids house cylindrical farms or monasteries of fatalistic leonine faiths or the huddled bodies of wound-down murine clockwork eunuchs, commissioned to advise and amuse some tiger-empress whose phoenix standard had long since faded into obscurity by the time the founder of the unicorn-banner dynasty first rallied soldiers to his cause.

An Earth-sized ball of grey-green ice, glassy smooth surfaces broken up by cryovolcanoes pumping volatiles up from a sooty core to rain down again in miserable pattering drizzles of methane through ammonia blizzards.

An ice giant, the immense azure sphere its inward neighbor might have been were it not for the vagaries of fate as involved in early star system formation, accompanied by seventeen bitterly cold moons whose tides have woven something enormous and ponderous of thought out of the inner sea of supercritical fluids.

a dozen or more dwarf planets of packed stone and ice, swinging through the outer black clouds on vastly elliptical orbits, witnesses to tumbling nickel-iron visitors and alien probes relaying streams of blurry photography and other observations back to some unknown homeworld as they fall endlessly through interstellar space.

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rainbowbarnacle · 27 days

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STARDEW TIME

Okay, I think enough time has passed that I can post pictures of my doofy stardew farms with the new update. SPOILERS AHOY.

Here's Audlund! No huge changes except I got to decorate a little bit more, and also I get to have RAINBOW HAIR.

(DON'T EAT THE JUNIMO.)

I also found a mod that lets you put a tiny swimming pool in the greenhouse:

My brand new file for the update is Wych Elm Farm. It's run by Mote, who is a dryad and changes colors with the season.

She likes Emily, for obvious reasons.

They like their home and farm.

Winter kind of sucks, but Mote gets through it.

And if all else fails, there's always Ginger Island if she needs some sun.

#RB plays stardew valley #spoilers

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shivunin · 1 year

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Pour Forth

F!Hawke/Fenris | 3830 Words | M | Cross-posted here on AO3

CW: Injury (broken bones, torn stitches, scarring), pregnancy/childbirth mention

(Expanded from the original prompt here c:)

“Let me pour forth

My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,

For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,

And by this mintage they are something worth,

For thus they be

Pregnant of thee;

Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more,

When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore,

So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore.”

— “A Valediction: Of Weeping” by John Donne

The first time she said it, Fenris had just taken a crushing blow to his leg on the Wounded Coast. He supposed the joke was intended to take his mind off the pain while she healed him—though as far as he could tell, Hawke had never met a bad joke she didn’t love. She was always making them at the most inopportune times, for reasons that remained entirely beyond him.

So, while she watched the bones of his leg knit themselves back together, Hawke had looked sidelong at him and said it:

“It’s alright to cry, you know.”

“What?” Fenris asked through clenched teeth. He could feel sweat beading on his face and arms with the effort of not reacting to the pain just above his ankle. There was little space in his mind left to understand whatever nonsense she was trying to say.

“It’s alright,” she said, “I wouldn’t judge you. This must be painful. Goodness knows I cry over the silliest things all the time. I won’t tell the others, either. Healer’s word.”

“Right,” Fenris replied doubtfully, and she winked at him.

“Your bone density is top notch, you know. I’m sure it all fit together quite nicely before the incident with the warhammer.”

There was a horrible crack from the vicinity of his leg and Fenris gritted his teeth for the wave of pain that was sure to follow—only nothing did. Instead Hawke raised a hand and motes of pale blue spun forth, enveloping the break.

“You’ll be right as rain soon enough,” she said, which might have been reassuring, except she kept talking, “I used to do this for the horses in town, you know. Creatures’ll panic themselves into a heart attack if you aren’t careful.”

“Am I to believe,” Fenris said, wiping away the sweat on his forehead before it could drip into his eyes, “That your primary means of practice was on farm animals?”

“Hmm? Oh, no,” Hawke said, and squinted at something on his leg.

When Fenris moved to sit up, she set her hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back. He didn’t have the strength to argue with the touch; he let her handle him instead, since there was little force behind it and she plainly meant no harm.

“Nothing you’ll want to see,” she said cheerfully, “You know I was a smuggler for a year, yes? Far more broken bones there than back home. I only meant that horse bones are much more delicate than yours and I still got them up and walking again. I’ve healed other bones, too, of course, and all manner of hurts.”

“Of course,” he muttered, and rubbed the shoulder she’d touched to dispel the sensation of her hand.

“Thank you,” he’d added reluctantly as the pain in his leg dulled to a throb.

“Always,” Hawke replied absently, squinting down at his leg again.

As promised, he’d been on his feet moments later and more than capable of trailing along behind the rest of their group. Unlike her magic, the ghost of her touch lingered—though Fenris would not have admitted it for the world.

Of course, that wasn’t the only time; if there was something Hawke loved, it was repeating a foolish joke. So several years later, during an ill-advised visit to some lowbrow theater in Lowtown, she leaned over the armrest between them and repeated it.

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” she whispered directly into his ear.

Fenris resisted the urge to lean into the words and shook his head, as if unaffected by it all.

In truth, the actress wailing over her dead lover’s body onstage was little more than background noise. If asked, Fenris likely couldn’t have explained what the play was even about. He’d been distracted for the duration, because for some reason Hawke had chosen to come to this event in a dress Isabela had chosen for her—which meant it draped low in the front and exposed both of her shoulders to the smoky air of the theater.

Hawke’s arms, Fenris had realized when he’d arrived late to their group’s seats, were covered in freckles.

He couldn’t explain why the sight of them, strewn across her collarbones like a half-finished star map, had struck him most of all.

“I saved you the aisle seat,” she’d whispered as the lights went down, and Fenris hadn’t even thanked her. He’d just sat there, stiff as a statue, and bent every ounce of his focus to not actually turning his head to stare at her.

Fenris’s self control was iron under most circumstances. It ought to be good enough not to gawk at his friend’s decolletage, at least.

But not when she leaned over like that to whisper in his ear and the scent of her wrapped around him like—like it had a mind of its own. So:

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” she whispered as the play reached its climax, “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Hawke,” he managed, his voice thankfully chiding instead of—of—anything else.

She laughed slightly and angled herself closer so he could hear her over the screech of violins. Against his will, his eyes dropped to her bodice.

Fenedhis, he could see all the way past her cleavage to the swell of her stomach beneath.

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut.

“I know,” she said into his ear, “It’s all very touching. I’m genuinely shocked I haven’t heard you laughing at the thing since that awful bit where they drank out of the boot. Shameless.”

“Shameless,” Fenris repeated, his voice rough even to his own ears, “I couldn’t agree more.”

But—time passed, and things between them changed. He grew closer to her, then too close, botched things horribly, and for a long time kept a very, very careful distance between them.

A distance he could not hold when she’d been near-gutted at the Arishok’s hands.

Fenris had seen her, briefly, dead in her bed at the manor; he had seen her brought back by Anders’ hands and luck alone. He wondered often now if he would ever forget watching her face go lax and bloodless, the way her chest had refused to rise with breath, in the very bed where they’d lain together. There was nothing he could do—he was not a healer—but he could be there when she finally sat up under her own power, when she could at last be helped from the bed to take a turn about the room.

When, not two weeks later, she’d insisted on strapping herself into this ridiculous dress and dragging herself to some absurd gala at the Viscount’s Keep.

“Stop being so grumpy,” Hawke panted now, one arm slung over his shoulder, “It could have happened to anyone.”

Fenris clenched his jaw until he felt the muscle jump, shooting her a scathing look. Her dress was too red to see how bad the bleeding was. Still, he knew it must be bad; he’d felt the tacky blood seeping through the structured bodice when he’d picked her up. He was certain the wound had not improved while he hurried back across Hightown to the manor.

“Oh,” Maria—no, Hawke, he would call her Hawke—said, chagrin coloring her tone, “I understand.”

“Do you?” Fenris said through his teeth. She hadn’t understood when they’d taken turns convincing her not to go to this party in the first place. He’d be surprised if she understood now, even after she’d ripped her stitches open dancing; she was stubborn like that.

They rounded the corner at a jog, the lantern beside her door coming into view at long last. The walk was not long, but he felt as if he’d been walking for hours. It bothered him beyond words to know that his speed might determine how well she came out of this absurd situation.

“Yes,” she said, and Fenris kicked the door twice instead of knocking.

“It’s alright,” she said, hissing between her teeth when he kicked the door again and jostled her, “I can have the dress cleaned. It’ll be good as new.”

Fenris, who’d been listening for footsteps on the other side of the door, stared down at her incredulously. Hawke blinked up at him, her eyes guileless.

“But,” she said, “It’s okay to cry, really. I won’t tell anyone. It is a really, really good dress.”

He would gladly throw it in the fire if it would keep her from doing something this foolish again. Fenris wisely chose to ignore her and kicked the door again just as it opened, connecting with Anders’ shin instead of wood.

“Ow! Watch it,” the mage said, scowling, but immediately refocused his attention on Hawke.

“What is it?” he said, “Bring her in, quickly.”

“Anders!” Hawke said, but there was an awful thickness to her voice that belied the cheer in it, “You know, I was thinking this thing wasn’t quite red enough, so I thought I ought to add a bit more dye. You know—ah!—for…aesthetic’s sake.”

Fenris carried her up the stairs, abruptly grateful for the amount of time that he spent hauling a greatsword around and wielding it in combat. Such things had given him arms strong enough to carry her home, had allowed him to ensure she was not stranded amongst strangers in her moment of weakness. She had not even asked him to do this; she’d only told him to go fetch Anders for her. What might have become of her if he’d left her behind, wounded or incapacitated in that den of wolves?

He lay her down on her bed now, careful not to drop her too suddenly. Hawke grimaced anyway, then propped herself on one elbow.

“Take it off, please; cut the strings if you must, but leave the thing intact. It did cost a fortune, it’d be a waste to ruin it now.”

Fenris reached for her, then drew back, casting an agonized look at the mage. Anders rolled his eyes and pulled a small knife from his pocket.

“I’ve got it,” he said, “You and your vanity, Hawke.”

“Yes,” she said, her face tightening sharply when Anders tugged on the ties at her back, “V-vanity.”

There was little Fenris could do here but get in the way; it would go faster if he left them to it. He took a step back, abruptly aware of her blood on his hands, but he paused when Maria reached for him.

“Wait,” she said, panting, “Wait. Stay.”

Anders made an indeterminate noise at her back, not quite an objection, and Fenris narrowed his eyes. Her hand still hung in the air between them, beseeching.

It was a lost cause; they both knew that. Even so, he could not leave her, for it felt worse to leave than it did to linger. Fenris inclined his head to her, then settled against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. Hawke glanced at him periodically, as if unsure he was still there, and he met her eyes steadily every time.

A lost cause; but he stayed with her that day, and the days that followed, until years had gone by and a peace settled into the hole they’d left between them.

Hawke, as he knew all too well, could never abandon a lost cause. Fenris should have known that this applied to the two of them, as well.

So: here she was now, years later, drifting in and out of sleep in his bed, with not a stitch of clothing to cover her. Fenris traced the scar over her abdomen, faded to silvery-brown, raised from the surface of her skin. The mark was nearly straight, though jagged along the edges where the Arishok’s weapon had ripped back out of her.

“Hmm,” she said, snuggling more firmly against his side, “See something you like?”

“No,” Fenris said without thinking, then grimaced, “I mean—”

She dragged one eye open and glanced down, taking in his hand against the swell of her belly.

“Ah,” she said, adopting the theatrical tone she took sometimes when she was about to make one of her dramatic speeches, “Fair. It is impossible to ignore, isn’t it? Alas, it was once flawless, but its beauty is marred forever by circumstances beyond its control.”

“Hawke—” Fenris began, frowning, but she was still talking.

“It’s alright to cry about it, you know,” she said, and he groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillow, “I won’t tell anyone. I am certain you must grieve the memory of how it used to—”

Fenris took the fastest road to ending this conversation and darted forward, catching her lips mid-word and cutting off the end of the sentence. He’d already heard enough, anyway; sometimes her joking danced far too close to her true thoughts for his comfort, and this was certainly one of those times. If he didn’t stop her now, she could go on for half an hour, and he’d far better ideas about how he’d like to spend that time.

“Nothing is marred,” he said firmly when their lips parted at last, “I thought only of how I might have made myself more useful to you, then. I do not doubt that keeping my distance made things more difficult for you.”

“Oh,” Hawke said more quietly, searching his eyes, “It’s alright. Really. And—thank you.”

“Do not speak of it,” Fenris told her, leaning his forehead against hers and adjusting himself until they were pressed too closely together to see either of their scars at all, “And—for my sake, please—find another joke to make.”

“Oh,” she said earnestly, “I’ll try my best, but no promises. I only know three jokes, you see, and it’s ever so hard to think of others.”

Fenris sighed and might have said more, but she kissed him again, half laughing against his lips. Suddenly, there were far better things to do than try to pry her from her mischief.

And—here they were at last, the many years tucked neatly in their wake, fighting side by side on the Wounded Coast again. Time had altered both of them almost beyond recognition; he could not have known in those early days that six years later they may yet return to this place as lovers rather than the reluctant allies they’d once been.

He could not have predicted that watching her fall in battle would hurt him far more than the broken leg once had.

“I will not allow it,” Fenris growled, and raised the blade she’d given him for a blow that would have felled a dragon. The battle had been fairly routine for them until that moment, but now he threw himself into it with renewed ferocity. These bandits had been an obstacle before, a task they’d needed to complete, but now they had hurt his Hawke. More, they were keeping him from her side when she needed him; that, too, was something Fenris would not allow.

When at last their foes had fallen and the others began to pick through their pockets, Fenris strode back to Maria and tucked his hand beneath her neck.

“Hawke,” he said roughly, smoothing her black curls away from her forehead.

Blood had stuck them to her skin; it would be a task to get it all out later. He knew now exactly how onerous that could be; though he would never have told anyone else, he took great pleasure in the quiet intimacy of bathing together. There was a simplicity and serenity to going to her home together, making sure both of them were well and whole, and cleaning the day off before they read or ate or lay together.

These days, Fenris was often the one who would rinse her curls, comb out anything tangled there, and ensure that she went to bed clean and safe and well. Maria could do these things for herself; he knew that well. But it was a pleasure and a privilege to do them for her instead, after so many years of denying both of them even the smallest of touches.

Not that any of that mattered when she was lying so still in his arms.

Maria was not even unconscious; just dazed, blinking up at the dull sky. He didn’t like the way her eyes looked, the unfocused way they wandered past his face to the clouds. After a moment, she took a sharp breath and parted her lips.

“Fenris?” she said.

He frowned and leaned closer. Was she injured more gravely than he’d thought? Did she need—

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” she said, her voice piteous, her eyes round and entreating, “I won’t tell anyone if you do.”

“Hawke,” he said roughly, and dipped his head to kiss her forehead over and over, speaking in between each touch, “You utter fool.”

“No,” she said.

Fenris didn’t much care that he was getting her blood on his mouth—only that she was well enough to make her awful jokes again. His heart, which had been hammering uselessly against his ribs, began to settle down at last.

“I’m your fool,” Maria finished triumphantly. Fenris huffed.

“As you say,” he murmured, and sat back to offer her a potion from his belt, “Drink this and stop your joking.”

“Never,” she said with a smile, and drank it down.

Fenris held her until she could rise on her own. Even then, the touch lingered, their fingers brushing but not quite tangled together.

“You are certain you’re well?” he said, frowning when she shifted and winced.

“Oh, of course,” she said, “You worry too much. I’m not all that delicate, you know.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes at her, eyeing the healing wound on her shoulder.

“Let’s go,” Hawke laughed, “I’ll let you check me over when we get home. We should move on.”

She was right; they would be easy prey from some other group of bandits if they lingered too long. Even so, he kept pace with her until they reached the other two, their fingers linked as long as possible.

Neither of them really wanted to let go.

Slaves learned early to keep their emotions contained.

That was what Fenris had told her, if not in so many words. Maria had grown to be good at listening to what he didn’t say as much as what he told her. Fenris never lied to her, but he often chose to omit particulars. What he left out, she guessed for herself, and it painted a bleak picture—not that she’d ever supposed otherwise. The brutality of his early life was beyond her understanding. The gentleness he showed her despite it all was not.

A slave did not weep where others could see; a slave did not have a family—not one they would be allowed to keep, at least.

But Fenris was not a slave.

The past few days had been long and she was still exhausted, but Maria had enough presence of mind to watch him at the bedside now. This was—this was something she would engrave in stone if she could, something she wished she could save forever.

Her love sat in the wooden rocking chair to her right, his bare feet braced on the matching foot rest. Their son was cradled in his lap, and the hand he’d tucked behind the infant’s head for support looked huge in comparison. His lovely green eyes were fixed on the babe now, a quiet smile curling the corner of his mouth, and his left forefinger was clasped firmly by much smaller hand.

Impossible as she may have once thought it, tears streaked down Fenris’s cheeks. They fell in unchecked droplets to darken his soft linen shirt, as if he didn’t notice that he was crying at all.

Hawke had seen infants before—she’d been old enough when the twins were born to recall what it was like—but she’d forgotten the indeterminate vagueness babies had, as if they could be anything at all, as if nothing was decided for them yet. What a thing to think about—that they had made the little fellow together, woven of love and time, and now he could be just about anything. The whole world lay before him still, and the two of them would guard this little corner of it for him until he was ready to set out for himself.

There would be no child safer or more loved in all of Thedas than their son. Watching Fenris with him now, she’d never been more certain of anything in her life.

It’s alright to cry, she thought, watching them, but she held the words on her tongue instead of speaking them aloud. Fenris did not need her to lighten this moment for him, for whatever pain he might feel at the newness of this was surely outweighed by the joy she saw in his eyes.

“Fenris?” she said instead, and he slowly dragged his eyes from their child to look at her.

“Yes? Do you need something?”

His voice was uncharacteristically thick with emotion, but he watched her with that same focus he’d always had. It would be silly to tell him all of it in a rush now: that she was endlessly grateful he’d found her, that he was free and here, still at her side, that he already loved their child with all of his heart, or that she thought he was even more handsome with a babe in his arms. It would be too much right now—and didn’t get the heart of things at all, did it? No. She would keep it simple instead.

“Thank you,” Hawke said, smiling at him and shifting more comfortably into her pile of pillows.

His forehead creased in confusion, but his eyes held hers. His hair was mussed, and there were deep circles under his eyes. The birth had been long, and he’d been by her side for all of it. He must be exhausted. Even so, Maria thought he’d never looked more lovely to her than he did just then, cradling their son with the utmost delicacy and care, tears streaking down his cheeks and catching the sunlight through the open window.

It’s alright to cry. I won’t tell anyone.

She didn’t need to tell him; he already knew his secrets were safe with her.

Fenris didn’t ask her what her thanks was for, nor what thoughts had led her to speak. Instead, he said simply:

“Always.”

Always—yes, she thought as she began to drift off to sleep, still smiling, I like the sound of always.

#maria hawke #f!hawke #hawke #fenris #fenris dragon age #fenhawke #fenris x hawke #da2 #da fanfic #my writing #needlessly dramatic poem in the opener? check!#but it's poetry month and i enjoyed it c:#hawke has the worst sense of humor lol everyone groans when she tells jokes over cards #i like to think 'it's okay to cry' was something malcolm used to tell her when he'd bandage her knees #but i couldn't work it into the fic #consider this a secret little headcanon instead #maria tearing her stitches and needing to be carried home: :D #fenris who tried to convince her not to go in the first place but can't give in to the urge to shake her until she sees sense: >:|#shivunin scrivening

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slcwshow · 1 month

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the gentle warmth of the rising sun. love in the form of a home-cooked meal. meeting people where they are. motes of dust in a beam of light. the comforting presence of an animal companion. deep-set laughter lines. taking your time. the smell of fresh hay. the velvet hide of a newborn calf. offering someone a taste of whatever you’re cooking. keeping the door open and leaving the light on. coming when you’re called. the unshakeable belief that people will always deserve another chance.

statistics.

full name: joshua alain bennett nickname(s)/alias(es): josh, jay name meaning: god is deliverance age: thirty-six date of birth: october 16th star sign: libra place of birth: pelican town, stardew valley current location: pelican town, stardew valley gender: cis-male pronouns: he/him sexual orientation: bisexual occupation: rancher family: thomas bennett (father), dominique bennett (mother, née alain), lisette alain (maternal grandmother), katherine ‘katie’ bennett (wife, deceased) education level: high school graduate living arrangements: lives by himself at sweet pea ranch loved gifts: hashbrowns, apples, honey hated gifts: rabbit foot, parsnips, ginger

biography. (death of a spouse tw)

Joshua was born in Stardew Valley, and had no intention of ever leaving it.

He’s a farm boy through and through - Sweet Pea Ranch is his family home, and he’s worked there since he was old enough to toddle around on his own. One of his earliest memories is of a calf being born.

Even as his childhood friends grew up and moved away, Joshua was content to keep treading water, going through the motions of small town life as naturally as breathing.

Things changed when he met Katie. She blew into town for the Stardew Valley Fair, and he was smitten with her right away.

Katie was only supposed to stay in town for a week, but a week quickly became a month, and months became a year, until it was as if she’d always been there.

After three years of dating, Joshua finally asked Katie to marry him. The ceremony was held in the Pelican Town Square, and you couldn’t’ve asked for a happier couple.

A year after Joshua and Katie got married, the couple relocated to the suburbs of Zuzu City, to be closer to Katie’s parents.

For five years, everything seemed certain. Life wasn’t easy, but it didn’t matter because they were happy - they were together. And then, with one telephone call, everything fell apart. Katie had been hit by a car as she cycled into the office she worked at, and died of her injuries en route to the hospital. Joshua didn’t get to say goodbye to her.

After Katie died, Joshua went home to his family in the Valley. He didn’t recognise himself, couldn’t make sense of his life in the city without his wife, and he couldn’t think of anything to do except go back to what he knew.

It took a long time to get back to himself, but Joshua threw himself into his work at the ranch, and as the hurt grew less, made increasing efforts to engage with the community that had always taken such good care of him.

Four years ago, Joshua’s parents left the Valley and moved south to care for his grandmother, Lisette, in her old age. He runs Sweet Pea Ranch by himself now, and he is happy… but sometimes the old farm house feels a little big for just him and his dog.

other things.

Joshua only stopped wearing his wedding ring in the last year.

He’s a big gridball guy, and proudly supports the Zuzu City Tunnellers. He was there with his dad when they won the league a few years back.

Never let this man think you’re going hungry - he will turn up on your doorstep with a bag of groceries and half a dozen foil-covered dishes, no questions asked.

All of Joshua’s cows have southern belle names (Adelaide, Beatrice, Clementine, Delia…), and his bull is called Bruce.

Work permitting, Joshua tries to speak on the phone with his family at least once a week. He also writes them frequently, and mails photos of how things are going at the ranch.

He rescued his dog, Cricket, three years ago. She’s the ranch’s only other full time employee.

#joshua: about #death tw #death of a spouse tw #dew.intro

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streaminn · 11 months

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I'm really glad you're liking my thoughts on the Eldritch farm AU, because they're taking off like a runaway train without me.

Anyway, what if Yoko and Enid getting brought back by their wives is how they become a vampire/werewolf respectively?

Like, when Enid comes back (why would she come back? what would she come back from?) wakes up a few days later, she notices the hair on her arms is growing fast, too fast, way too fast. Her teeth are cutting the inside of her mouth, she can smell the pigs and cows from across the property. The silver silverware, the only nice thing that came with the farm when she bought it, bites into her skin no matter how delicately she holds it.

And Yoko swears swEaRs SWEARS that she remembers getting her arm caught and crushed in the grape press, laying on the floor bleeding out, yet here she is sitting drinking some of her own wine with her wife. But it's not as satisfying as it was, is supposed to be. She knows this batch is perfect like all of them, but to her it's so dry, too dry. The deep red color of it is enticing though, almost...almost... The shades she used to wear for fashion are now a necessity, as the sun always seems too bright in her eyes. She stays up later and later into the night, counting bottles in the cellar and nails in the wall and motes of dust in the air.

And of course, their wives are there to support them through it all.

They meet in the afternoons now and they stare.

"you look like shit," yoko blurts out and Enid scrunches her nose at that as they both sit down in their usual spots.

"you're the one dressed like a cripple! With those glasses of yours."

Yoko gasps affronted and Enid blinks at the bit too long canines. Wow alright.

"now that's just rude, Enid."

yoko taps at the table and there's a silence as the two squinted at each other.

"we're different," Enid notes as she reaches over to give a squeeze on her best friend's cold cold hands

Yoko laughs, a wet one, one of someone lowkey in denial. "I know but atleast I'm not the only one."

Enid follows along, shaking her head as her hands go around Yoko's shoulder to pull her into a side hug. "hey atleast you don't feel like chasing everything in sight."

"you sure you changed? Because that sounds like regular behavior to me-"

Yoko gets shoved and her laugh turns a bit more real, a lil more genuine.

"o fuck off!" Enid roars before pulling her friend back into a hug. "atleast I don't feel like a talking ice cube!"

Yoko lays her head and the unknown werewolf didn't need to see to know she was rolling her eyes. "yeah and you feel like a damn furnace"

Enid pouts. "you complain now but just you wait until winter comes, I'll watch as you take those back!"

"tartarus no!" yoko yells, shoving Enid away as she stands up. "get your grubby paws away from me, don't you dare insinuate getting between me and my divine's time."

Enid pauses from her spot on the floor. "divine?" she teases and Yoko freezes.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

A crow flaps it's wings over head before settling by a nearby roof. It watches, silent as a buzz of another bird comes close. A hummingbird titters nearby.

"you call her divine!?" Enid guwaffs.

Yoko stands her ground. "your wife is literally named after a day in the week, you can't say shit-"

Anyways, they may be losing their mind but they're losing their mind together and with a wife so clearly everything is okay

Ty again insomination, I do very much love these asks

#Eldritch farm au

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noirrelite · 9 months

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huh.mp4 apparently there's separate mastery items for mote and I started to get mastery for the Mote Amp after I gilded it, but it only got to rank 25 despite me having leveled it to 30 while farming wisp prime

#warframe

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ahungeringknife · 7 months

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365: May 27

This is when my YW fucking loses it. Okay time to be a fucking murder machine no more Nice Guardian. It's just Killing Time :))))

------

Her eyes snapped open out of a dead sleep and Wolf sat up. Around her the refugees from the City were still curled up in sleeping bags in the middle of the night. But she got to her feet and carefully stepped around them.

A few Hunters were still awake, perched around the edge of the Farm like vigilant hawks. Hawthorne was awake too. Wolf knew they were similar by now in that both rarely slept. Or if they did it wasn't long. "Hey there, hero, what are you up for?"

Wolf stared at the shard of the Traveler in the distance. She didn't answer her at first. Next to her Ghost hung low against her shoulder. He was also disconnected from the Light and weakened. "Do you hear that?" she asked Hawthorne.

"What am I hearing?" Hawthorne asked, about to slide off the fence she was on.

"Before you found me I had a dream. It was like it was calling you and Luis to me. In my dream the Traveler sang," as it had before until it was caged. Until Gaul had taken what didn't belong to him.

"Well I don't hear any singing," Hawthorne said. "You hear it? From out there?" she nodded to the great shard in the distance. Wolf nodded slowly, not looking away from the shard in the distance. Hawthorne said nothing for a minute before going, "So do you want to go to it?"

"It's accessible?" Ghost asked, surprised.

"Through the dark forest but yes," Hawthorne said. "Most folks don't go out there. Taken hang around the forest."

"We're not worried about Taken," Ghost said firmly.

"I can drop you off if you want?"

"Yes," Wolf said, tearing her eyes from the shard and looking at Hawthorne. "Please," she added. "Now."

"Sure thing," and she slid off the fence. Wolf followed her to her ship. She didn't speak on the short flight, just had her eyes closed listening to the dirge of the shard of the Traveler. When they landed she waved to Hawthorne. "Should I wait?" Hawthorne asked.

"If we come back we'll do so on our own," Ghost said.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Hawthorne looked troubled but did pick the ship up and fly away.

Wolf looked at the forest. She was without any weapons. She didn't even have a helmet. It was like she was a New Light again and her hood was barely more than a scarf but at least she could hide in it. She'd come out here utterly defenseless. But still the shard called to her.

She walked into the forest.

She came across no Taken. Instead she found a pool of water deep in the forest in the shadow of the shard. A piece of it had broken off and was stuck in the pool. The singing was louder in the clearing around the pond. She approached the shard slowly. The water barely covered her boots but her feet were soaked instantly. She barely noticed.

"Wolf?" Ghost asked as she approached it. "Is this safe?" He couldn't hear the singing. He'd never been able to. He'd always wondered what it sounded like but the Traveler was silent for him as it was to everyone else. She ignored his concern and stood before the sliver looking up at it.

The sliver beckoned her. Trust. Trust.

She reached out and touched the sliver and nearly burst into tears as Light flooded her body. Even as her hand came free the Light poured into her, making her shining and radiant in pure white Light that lifted her off her feet. She gasped almost in pain as it flooded her entire body like a heavy tide and filled every pore and empty space of her.

As the Light held her her mind was filled with visions. The destruction of Gaul. The view of Solar Light burning their enemies to a crisp. The unmaking of a Valus in Void Light, drifting away in purple motes. The aftershocks of Arc Light and the shadows and smears of Cabal left in its wake. The sounds of the Light super empowering Guardians filled her ears and she couldn't hear Ghost's frantic worry. A thousand displays of vengeance and violence filled her mind from the sliver. It was not the Traveler. It was connected to it but after centuries left in this darkened place it had become tainted around the edges. The song she now heard as a war drum and it beat at the same rhythm as her heart.

Then it released her and she dropped down to her knees, splashing in the water before the sliver. The sliver was silent. No longer shining. No longer singing. "Wolf! How did you- what happened- we have the Light," and Ghost was shining so brightly.

Wolf looked up at the sliver with tears pouring down her cheeks.

Was that it? Was that all she could be? A length of violence in the cosmos? The point of the spear? Not even the swordsman herself but the sword with the finest edge to be used by another?

Was that all she was?

She wept before the sliver, hanging her head.

After everything she'd done. After all the nightmares she'd suffered thus far there was only more ahead of her. The nightmares were never ending. The violence would continue. And she was the perfect, finely tuned, instrument.

It would not end. It would never end. Not until every fragment of the Dark had been burned away. And in doing so she might burn herself out like a cosmic nova and never even get to see that peace she'd battled for. But what was peace to a weapon? It was nothing. Peace had no use for a weapon of such a perfect cutting edge that only begot violence.

Ghost was still talking but she couldn't hear him. She just bent over her knees and sobbed. She'd never really cried before. Even watching the City in flames she'd just watched numbly. But here in this moment realizing she could never escape this, could never escape who or what she was. She would always be death. So many more would find their end at her hands. Death would follow her and catch at her heels as a river of blood and all she could do was try to outrun it.

But there was no outrunning destiny; her Destiny.

The water slowly chilled her to the bone and she didn't even want to touch the Light to warm herself such was her grief. She could never be normal. Would never be normal. These things she'd done weren't flukes. The Traveler had a plan for her and that plan was to destroy all enemies of the Light with such proficiency they'd sing her accomplishments until the heat death of the universe. Until there was no more wickedness in the cosmos her work would never be done.

"Wolf- Wolf- WOLF," Ghost shouted, pulling her out of her grief. She looked up at him, eyes caked in tears and red. "Oh-- Wolf. I'm sorry but the Taken are coming," he said apologetically. She wondered if he knew why she mourned? Maybe she'd tell him. Could he still interpret her thoughts or was this a severing? Did he know?

She pushed herself to her feet and her legs screamed in pain from being in that position for for long in the cold water. She looked at the sliver and wiped her face with damp gloves.

Now she heard the Taken. The sound of them in opposition to the gentle sound of the Light. Crackling and frantic like static.

She took a deep breath.

Fine.

If all she was was violence she would show the universe her violence. She would rip Gaul's ship out of the sky and show him what it meant to have no fear. That he was nothing but a whimpering white worm under her boot.

The air sizzled as a Golden Gun appeared in her hand. There was no crack of Light. No sonic boom as the Light clapped and screamed into being. It was just there. A measure of violence at her fingertips, always. She'd come in here without weapons but of course she hadn't. She was the weapon. She never felt fear because there was nothing to fear. These Taken weren't a danger to her. She was a danger to them.

When the first Taken thrall showed itself screaming her eyes hardened. The violence began again anew.

#365 #writeblr #writblr #fanfiction #destiny #destiny 2 #destiny the game #the young wolf #young wolf #Suraya Hawthorne #Hawthorne #the traveler

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slippinmickeys · 1 year

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Such a fun writers workshop tonight! Thank you @audiofanficpod! Missing @frangipanidownunder and all other participants of the past. Hope to see you at the next one. Posting my response to prompts tonight, in hopes of maintaining momentum.

The first:

“Pick a key,” Mulder said, setting two keys of similar profiles in front of her.

They were thick and ancient, with a patina that had probably been earned. They looked so old – practically antediluvian – that she thought briefly that if the locks they unbolted survived, the doors they had protected probably had not. Nevertheless, she placed a finger lightly on the more aged of the two, sliding the old passe-partout away from her and towards her partner. The metal was cold on her skin, dense and dinged up; it looked like he’d pulled it out of the mote of an old castle, or unearthed it from an Ionian’s grave.

“I don’t think I want to know what this is to,” she said, flitting her eyes quickly to his.

“If I said ‘my heart’ would it engender affection or rage?”

“Vexation, probably.” She rolled the tip of her tongue over the inside of her cheek.

“Okay, then. I’ll just stick with my original plan.” He pocketed the other key, and then slid the one she’d chosen into the pocket at the front of her shirt. It didn’t fit in all the way, and pulled at the loose material, the metal heavy and thick.

“Which is?”

“Get in the car and find out.”

“Is this because I got you a book?” She watched as his nostrils flared in irritation. It was always kind of fun to rile him.

“Get in the car, Scully.”

She obeyed obediently, and soon they were out of the city, sloshing down the parkway which was choked with gray slush and into farm country past McLean, where the snow was laid out in fields of unending white.

Mulder pulled into a driveway that ended at a big red barn, and he killed the ignition once they reached its zenith. He pointed to a small door tucked into one corner.

“You’re going to need your key,” he said.

“This is my Christmas present?” she asked, and his only answer was to once again point to where she needed to go, silent as Scrooge’s third ghost.

Outside the car, the air seemed thin, cold. Her breath in front of her like steam; reedy and short. She pulled the key out skeptically, though the door’s lock seemed a perfect, hoary match. She inserted the key, wiggled it around. The mechanisms inside, probably numbering two total, clicked into place with only a minimal effort.

The door creaked open into the dark cold of the barn, the heady smell of hay laying low in the winter air. Mulder found a light switch just inside and a single bulb shone down like a spotlight on an old flywheeler that squatted on a packed dirt floor, a workshop bench crowded with greenish jars filled with nails and screws. There were the dulled farming implements of a bygone era; a scythe, a broadfork, a hand plow. There was vintage tack hanging from hooks on the wall; the bits turned black, the leather wearing away.

“Come on,” he said quietly, pulling at her sleeve. There was light coming from the space on the other end of the barn, past shelving units and pony walls. It wasn’t exactly quiet either, not like Scully expected it to be. There was something up ahead. A presence. If it was a ghost, she’d wring Mulder’s damn neck.

They shuffled through the space on silent feet, the dirt floor packed and dry, a little uneven. Only when they got a bit closer to the light did she pick up on quiet, horsey sounds; the stamp of a hoof on straw, a soft nicker. Her hand reached out of its own accord and grabbed Mulder’s.

And then there it was: the snowiest, whitest horse she had ever seen in her life. Its coat was as pure as a snow drift, muscles rippling over its substantial frame. It turned to them when they walked into the small area outside its stall, its head bobbing up, sniffing the air, probably hoping they had brought it an apple, a carrot. It blinked at them slowly with the longest, whitest eyelashes Scully had ever beheld.

She gave a sharp intake of breath. “Oh…”

The moment held a quiet, magical quality, as if all the angels had stopped to listen, had turned their eyes toward Mulder and Scully and this pure white horse.

“This,” Mulder said, his voice low, “is Sailor. And if you’re game, he’s going to take us on a sleigh ride.”

#just fic already #fanfic #my fic #the x-files #msr #AFP #prompts

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