The morning after her father died, the first thing Laura saw upon waking was Bobby, curled up around his Wolverine doll–the one that he’d carried out of the lab, through a sewer, bundled into the fake bottom of a crate in the back of a truck, up the 5, across the deserts of Utah, the Rockies, and the long flat north that came after. He had carried it through these woods, through this fight and this flight, and there he was sleeping, pudgy hands curled close around it.
Laura had read the comics Gabriela and the other nurses had brought in for them. They had been assigned to learn how to read briefs, maps, instruments, but Gabriela had brought Laura comics about heroes.
In the lab, they had taught Delilah how to drag poison from green veins, how to find the sharpest edge at her beck and call, to strangle. The day before, Delilah had shredded the life out of men with a screaming rain of pine needles. She had wrapped long grasses around Rhodes’s ugly bolo tie and dragged him down and down. But that next day, that dawning day, Laura woke up to see Delilah calling small yellow apples down from a tree blooming out of season.
It had been a story in a comic book, Eden. It had been fiction, a fantasy, a dream, a random set of coordinates. Logan had suspected they would find nothing when they got there. He had been sure.
Sometimes promises are fiction. Sometimes they’re written on the backs of twice-folded photographs. Sometimes the nurse with the steadiest hands whispers to you in the middle of the night come with me child, wake up child, curl up in this duffel bag, stay quiet child, believe me child, we’re going, we’re going, I’ll get you somewhere safe.
Laura had curled up in that fabric-walled darkness, clutching her backpack to her chest. She had her ball, the paperwork that was her life writ out, two battered comic books. A photograph with a list of whispered names. They were not supposed to have names any more than they were supposed to have birthdays or comic books or childhoods.
Kind hands were waiting for them at the end of this journey. There was refuge. There were new names, visas and school where no one should bleed for anything except loose teeth and ignored blisters.
Logan had scoffed, and Laura hadn’t listened. She had said her friends’ names over and over. He had pointed to coordinates in a comic book, and she had said her family’s names over and over. She knew, the way Logan never did, the way Logan never would, that some days stories save you. Sometimes a nurse calls you child instead of by number, and gives you flimsy precious pages to read in the dark.
They knew the comic books were comic books. Laura knew, before she ever met Logan and his smelly, hopeless self, that the X-Men were no gods among men. Flimsy pages—she understood flimsy. She understood the way things tore–pages, clothing, skin and ligaments.
But sometimes you can make the story real. “Eden,” they said. They pressed the coordinates hand to hand, whisper to whisper, and they ran. They promised each other, and they found each other there, at coordinates that had been nothing until they made them a waystation, a place to rest. A watchtower.
Laura had carried so little out of that lab. She had the metal that lined her bones. She had her family’s names. She had a set of coordinates in a battered old comic, and she would carry that forever. It wasn’t real, but she was. It wasn’t real, that Eden, that haven, but she had been there.
She had run shrieking into Rictor’s arms. She had cried on Bobby and danced around the hard cracked dirt with him, each swinging the other in wide circles. Logan had slept safe there for the last time. She would carry it forever. Fading, flimsy pages. A tired man with a funny beard.
They would go next over shallow valleys and dry rocky peaks. Delilah would hunt down a deer in the woods, walking silent on fallen leaves and little sprouts, calling death down green and blooming. Rebecca would cook it up over the fire Bobby raised from sparks, and Laura would lie on her back with her hands on her full rounded belly and pretend she was a lion. When they came down from the mountains, the wide low fields would roll out below them for miles. There would be so much sky.
But for now, in this morning, this dawning day–there was a little boy in a wood, who was the safest he’d ever been. There was a little boy in a wood, with a yellow Wolverine doll held to his chest and Laura sat there in the waking light, watching him breathe.
This is a special thanks to @doctorkhanbomb and their idea of humans carrying too much along with other unsafe practices of Humans
Captain’s Log: Day 73 of 854
Final days of vacation and some of the crew are returning from the city. As they came back, we noticed the humans are quite bizarre with carrying items. We had noticed it at camp but the extremes came from the return. Around camp, they would often gather as many items as the Plickquar with their 4 arms to carry in two. They would do this with everything. They would do this with safe items, such as luggage, with fragile items, like towers of cups, bowls, and plates, and with dangerous items. One human, named Todd, was cooking dinner over a fire, he had a knife between his teeth, flammable liquid he used to cook his food in one hand, and a sharp fork in the other. He would switch an item between his mouth and hand at random. We swore he was either going to injure himself or set himself ablaze. He finally finished cooking when he did another bizarre thing. He immediately began to eat. We knew there was no way his food had cooled but as humans go, we thought he must be one of those humans we had heard about who eat the fire. This was not the case. He huffed and made weird noises and chomped his food down oddly, like when Tiny eats food to large for his mouth. He exclaimed the food was too hot and he burnt his tongue. He then began eating again, repeating the same action again and again until the food was finally cooled enough or his mouth was badly burnt enough, he no longer felt pain.
After finishing eating, he used the same knife he was just using to cook with to clean out dirt collected underneath his nails and then decided to “practice his skills.” Todd again used the very same knife and would throw it at his feet, seeing “how accurate his throws could be.” We now have him under observation but we were told this is his normal behavior. Once finished his test of skills, he sharpened the edge to an extreme that he then used to cut the hair from his face. He did cut his face and throat a few times but assured me it was minor injuries and ‘always happens when he shaves’. We have better technology to shave but he insisted this felt better and that his lady loved it. But the real surprise was again when the human part of the crew returned from the city.
Some carried their own items while others carried for the other crew members. The most impressive was the Head of Security, Alyssa, carried items of 6 other crew members. She had her arms buried in straps and bags. She had some tied to her shoulders, her back, and her hips. When she was weighed before and after the bags, it was found that she was carrying nearly twice her own body weight. There is lore of 1 greater that not only had bags in his hands and back but also had long torches somehow strapped to his back and had more bags on the torches. We also heard tale of one who used his gluteus muscles to carry bags. It is still unknown how he was able to walk with a bag up his bum, but we are both happy to not have witnessed it and sad to have missed the opportunity to see if it is even possible.
We wonder why humans cannot just make multiple trips like most civilized species.
brass buckles polished until they gleam, the warmth of a roast dinner, warm smiles that reach his eyes, hair ruffled from riding in the wind, hugs that feel like home, eyes filled with steely determination, subtle tightening of his shoulders when he’s annoyed, strong hands that hold yours gently but firmly, wearing plain well fitted t shirts on days off, the crunch of leaves under his feet on morning runs, shiny leather boots with dirty soles, always wearing a belt, never wearing a tie
sparkling eyes and cheeky smirks, perfect fingernails, clothes so well fit they look like they were made for him (they probably were), frosted glass on cold winter mornings, warm room with cold tiles, bookshelves that look messy but have their own strange organisation system, cold hands and warm smiles, absentmindedly biting his lip when he’s concentrating, the relief of sinking into an armchair after a long day, perfectly polished shoes that always match his outfit, always being the big spoon, hugs from behind with his arms wrapped around your waist
eyes that catch every movement, muscled back, the cool shade of massive trees on a sunny day, unblinking stare, weapons always within arms reach, watching Aelin when she reads, never letting anyone see him cry but her, the smell of pine trees, the crystal glare of sun on undisturbed snow, old leather bound books, rough calloused hands, the ocean smashing against the rocks during a storm, climbing trees in a matter of seconds
the whine of metal and against metal, loud laughter, running his hands through his hair, trying to cook and it turning out terrible or amazing depending on the day, smiling at kids in the street, nights spent by the campfire telling stories, fiercely loyal, cheeky grins, always covered in scrapes and bruises, tight hugs, honest and open conversations, scuffed boots and polished weapons, cobblestones warmed from the sun, shaking out his wet hair like a dog would
smouldering glances over the dinner table before cracking a smile, warm hands, leather straps holding back his hair, physically feeling his warmth when you stand near him, knowing smiles, ruffling his ruk’s feathers as you would kids hair, kissing the top of your head and stroking your hair, holding one of your hands in both of his, the smell of home cooked meals, inside jokes with his hearth family, accidental hand brushes before he grabs your hand, riding leathers still warm from the sun, the exhilaration of flying fast and high, flushed cheeks after landing, warm soup and toasted rolls in the winter
compliments that could be poetry, black silk floating in the wind, satin lined blazers, perfectly timed puns, spreading his wings just to add drama, sultry looks from under his lashes at feyre (usually at important meetings), surprising everyone with his cooking skills, wandering around the townhouse shirtless, pointed comments about cassian and Nesta always seeming to disappear at the same time, the claw tips of his wings glinting in the sun, laughing and joking with the kids who live in Velaris, lying on the roof staring at the stars with feyre, flying low over the river close enough to touch the water
wearing his worn in leathers everyday, surprise hugs and kisses, thoughtful gifts, joking to lighten the mood, communicating with Azriel with one glance, the roar of a bonfire, eating dinner outside, telling ghost stories but laughing too hard at everyone to finish, stubborn, lying on roof tiles that are warm from the sun, getting drunk on whiskey with the inner circle, begging Rhys to let them get a dog to keep in the townhouse, barbecue dinners cooked over the fire, fireworks, falling asleep on the couch, exhausted but happy
silent smirks, dark circles and red eyes when he hasn’t slept well, silently drawing his weapons, watching Elain and garden and he can’t help but smile to himself, he reluctantly lets her put a flower behind his ear, gentle caresses, using his shadows to sneak up on cassian and scare him, deep late night talks with rhys, secretly he loves to read poetry, showing Elain Velaris from the sky, flying surrounded in his shadows when he needs space to think, always barefoot inside the house even though his feet are freezing, his bed is always made, black and white photos on his walls
UPDATE: Please help! We got as much as we could from our Two Spirit Nation camp to set up a temporary shelter for our remaining Two Spirit Water Protectors. It’s snowing and cold! We made trips non stop for the last three days, with one day being blocked out from camp because there was a direct action and we couldn’t get back into camp until after midnight. We are at a temporary camp on the bank of the Missouri River. We are exhausted and traumatized, with a couple sick folks and now I am running a fever. We need hotel rooms for the next few nights if possible. Chase IronEyes just paid for one room for the night for us because they are all booked at the Casino and we only have one truck for the 12 of us so we aren’t driving too far. Also, folks are still being harassed on the roads. We have two army tents and my tipi, but honestly…our folks are beyond exhaustion and just need time to heal and sleep before we can set camp back up and winterize.
It has been heartbreaking, heart aching & psychologically wounding to see how Oćeti Śakowin ended and to watch our camp go up into flames. Also, we had to leave our kitchen behind and will only be cooking over an open fire. These water protectors need support and prayers! We completed our commitment to stay till then end, we represented as Two Spirit Warriors, reclaimed our sacred places, carried the ceremonies and remained in prayer!
Please donate to this link or pay for a room at the Prairie Knights Casino Hotel under my name. Wopila Tanka❤️
The above is copied directly from the linked FB post. My lovelies, please share this far and wide. Now is the time for solidarity.
A short sci-fi story written for @caffeinewitchcraft’s Caffeine Challenge #12. My brain took the prompts and veered off a bit, but this was fun to write! The title means “The stars incline us, but do not bind us.”
I was born on the
Saratoga, a class 2 transport
running supplies between the consolidated colonies of the outer ring
in the records as the middle day of seven in a Night cycle as we
drifted between suns, all lights
on emergency use only until
we could make it in range of
the next system to recharge the auxiliary
batteries. Mom always said
that Night stretched so long because I was hoarding all the light for
myself, so I could burst to life as five pounds six ounces of
screaming starfire. She said
she knew I’d be fine out here in the black, that she knew I could
make my life here and be happy without a sun and a planet because
even from that very first moment she could see the light in my eyes;
a true spacer, whose inner fire keeps them warm even in the darkest
never had the heart to tell her she was wrong.
like this: I was seven sol-years
old and setting foot on a planet for the first time. Gravity dragged
at me. My feet and hands felt heavy, my head hurt. The floor seemed
to roll out in front of me, curving and bucking when I tried to walk.
I fell more than a few times,
and my mother tried to get me to go back to the shuttle, but I
refused. Everyone else in my class had been planetside, even Monica
and Neil, both two years younger than me, and I was determined to
have my turn.
of the station attendants gave me a pair of crutches and I gritted my
teeth and kept going, one shaky step at a time, until I was through
the doors and really, really
in-atmosphere for the first time in my life.
heat of the sun felt like a caress over my hair. The breeze tugging
at my shipsuit was a revelation. There were sounds I’d never heard
before, smells I’d never dreamt of, more colors than I’d ever
thought possible. Actual living animals
flew above me. Vibrant green plants pushed between cracks in the
stone path, utterly
It was too much. I
cried. I screamed. I curled in a ball on the ground—real, solid
ground!–and bawled my tiny heart out while the sun beat on my neck,
and I refused to move no matter how my shipmates coaxed and pulled
and scolded. Mom always said after it was some kind of sign, that it
was proof I knew I belonged in space, even that young. The rest of
the adults laughed about it for years. They’d muss my hair
affectionately whenever it came up at a party, or a holiday, or a
community hearing, or a graduation ceremony, and say things like
That’s our Astra, and A
born shiprat, you are.
I am a Norse polytheist who is from the US. Although sometimes I don't like it, I know that I'm a product of this 'new' world, colonial culture. As such, I feel like an outsider in my religion because I do not view Scandinavia as some kind of spiritual homeland and see the gods most strongly in America. How would you approach this feeling of alienation?
First things first anon, I’m going to get a little sweary here - not at you though:
The idea of Scandinavia as some Holy Land in Asatru/Heathenry is bollocks. It is, quite frankly, a steaming pile of bullshit imported from some remnants of a Christian millenialist second-coming theology.
I mean no offense to my Scandinavian followers who are lovely people, or to any of you American folks by saying this. It’s one thing to visit the lands where Heathenry originated to soak up the landscapes spoken of in the Eddas, to visit, say, the actual places where the sagas and poems are set.
But to view them as any more holy than the lands which we inhabit now? Utter rubbish. Which isn’t to say that we can’t make journeys to where our literal ancestors came from, to learn about ourselves, but to lend those lands some kind of mystic importance is, well, a bit odd to me. I get that it arises from a desire to connect, to feel rooted, particularly in a ‘colonial’ culture, I really do.
Here’s the thing though - though I would dearly love to visit Iceland one day, I don’t need to. I don’t need to because I’m lucky to live in Britain, in the midst of the Danelaw. People who honoured my gods walked the same paths I walked, breathed the same water, felt the same earth beneath their feet. Round here, there’s Norse placenames everywhere. Less than eight miles away from me, they discovered the Silverdale Hoard in 2011.
I’m not pointing this out to lord my “my land is more Heathen than yours” status, but to illustrate a point. See, the Norse folk came here, and yes they raided, but they also settled. They intermixed with the local populace - they themselves were 'colonial’! Those Norse placenames I mentioned? They probably had Anglo-Saxon and British names before the colonists came, but the Norse ones have stuck, some thousand years later.
Those colonists named places for their gods, for words and concepts in their own language. They folded this new land into their worldview. To be sure, some of the Deep Cultural similarities between Norse and Anglo Saxon cultures would have helped, but the fact remains that Thor met Thunor here, Odin met Woden.
You anon, live far to the West, and there is mounting evidence that those plucky explorers got that far, as I’m sure you know. Maybe they survived and intermixed in ways archaeology has yet to show, or maybe they all died. It doesn’t matter, not really - because while they lived, they no doubt did the same as those folk who came here, to this small island.
They named places in their native tongues, and probably learnt some Native American names too, just as your countrymen still, in some areas live in places bearing original indigenous names.
I’ve said before that Heathenry is local. Sure, the gods are honoured and worshipped by those who feel the need. Sure, one honours one’s ancestors. But one also needs, if one is serious about attempting to achieve a modern version of the Heathen worldview, learn to connect with the environment in which we live.
Now, when I say local, I don’t mean you should practice American Heathenry™. I don’t know where you live in the States anon, but I’m pretty sure it’s a place with its own moods and rhythms. From my memory of trips to the US, Maryland is different to Key West is different to the Everglades is different to Miami.
Scale down your consciousness in a sense. Practice the customs and traditions of your town, your house, your garden. There’s maybe twenty Heathens in my town that I know of, and of those, they form two distinct populations. Which is perfectly fine. For all I know you’re the only Norse Polytheist in the area or choose not to associate with others for political or personal reasons or because they’re the kind of silly numpties who believe in white supremacy or some sort of bollocks like that.
That’s fine, and it’s fine because ultimately, only you can forge the connections needed. Only you can open yourself up to the world in which you live and call the gods to aid you in becoming aware of the threads which bind all wights together.
Only you can make the decision to live in a rooted way, to take your nourishment and strength from the land in which you live. How to do that though? From a non woo perspective, seek out local food and produce if you can - and it doesn’t have to be all the time - and make a deliberate attempt to be aware that you are eating the fruits of this land.
If you can’t find, or can’t afford local produce, do the same with a glass of tap water. Even if the source is far away, it has still flowed through this land into your dwelling. Research the history of where you live - if there are any local founders or luminaries, pour them out an offering to say thank you for giving you a place to live. Obviously, in the US, this is fraught with implications regarding the displacement and maltreatment of Native Americans, but in my limited experience of such things, asking the gods to help bridge the gap in honouring all those who came before you, to this place is usually a good step.
And then, well, there’s trees. As a Norse Polytheist/Heathen, I bloody love trees. Not only can they connect you to Yggdrasil, the World Tree, in meditation, but if you’ll recall the Edda, humans came from driftwood enlivened by the gifts of the gods, so in a mythopoetic sense, trees are our kin, and we can learn much from them.
Think about the way they work; they emerge from a seed, sending root-tendrils out for water and nutrients, sprouting and reaching up, turning their leaves to the sun. If you’ve ever looked at trees along a street, you’ll probably notice that those tree roots will have cracked their way throug concrete - their vitality, their urge to seek out what nourishes them within the land in which they are embedded is such that it can break buildings and stone if need be!
This is something to contemplate in today’s increasingly urban society - that even despite the veneer of glass and steel and concrete, seeds still sprout, trees still grow, in defiance of so called 'civilisation’. And once you begin to notice this - really notice, you might begin to see the pulses and flows of that vitality, ancient, unstoppable, and all around us. You might contemplate that trees give us the fuel for our fires, light for our houses - what’s coal after all, but compressed vegetative matter, laid down long ago and burned to create steam which turns turbines producing electricity.
They take in carbon dioxide, give us the oxygen so we can breathe, their green chloroplasts capturing the sunlight, the source of all life on this planet, and their roots keep the topsoil in place so we can farm and consume that which we farm, whether animal or vegetable. Each of them is unique, and some of them are older than we will ever be.
You might begin to consider how the oxygen they excrete mixes with the atmosphere, is stirred by the heat rising from the warmed earth to give us the winds which blow through their branches, setting their leaves to whisper with a language that birds learnt and passed to Odin and Sigurd both.
You might contemplate Nidhogg, down there gnawing at the roots of Yggdrasil, that old wyrm who steams in the cold by the kettle of roaring white-water. And you might consider Sigurd once again, slaying the wyrm and eating its heart as it cooks over a fire.
You might begin to breathe, to remember how your blood feels, there in your veins, right now, flowing, moving, giving you life, hue and goodly shape, all without you even trying. Might begin to feel something stir in your soul, as if a door opens, and suddenly, your ordinary world becomes infused with living beings. Might feel words on a screen suddenly reaching out, calling in old song.
Might iit be possible, for a moment, to recall the excitement of rediscovering something you had thought you had lost? Something you had thought you might never see again?
To entertain the notion that, if only for a while, there are places and times where the thousands of years and miles matter not a jot, because the gods and the ancestors and wights exist, right Here, right Now - maybe even as you read these words? All about you, just waiting, patiently, for you to notice the faintest traces of their presence. All you have to do is take a leap for a moment, a split second.
To allow yourself to be connected. Because you already are, friend. Trust me. Feel free to let me know how it goes, anon.
the closest experience i have to being on cutthroat kitchen is the time we moved into our house in texas and i had to cut bell peppers and sausage with a plastic knife and cook dinner over a fire in our pit in the backyard so am i qualified? yes
A/N: This wasn’t requested at all, but I just had a sudden inspiration to write a platonic Tom/Harry/Harrison/Reader fic?? It’s 2500+ words long? Basically this is just Haz’s livestream but with the reader there too. There’s a lot of dialogue, which I apologize in advance for. Hopefully you guys like this, because it’s the first fic I’ve written about real people (I usually just write for fictional characters). I can also do a part two if you guys request it?? Um, that’s about it, really. So here’s the fic. Also I’m gonna tag @hufflepuffholland (I hope that’s okay with you, Charissa).
It was a pleasant evening, the sun just beginning to set and the air not yet cold, and you were feeling rather relaxed. You were lounging in a chair on the patio, your eyes shut as you listened to the crackling of the fire and idle chatter of your friends.
“You know what we ought to do?” Harry said, prodding one of the slabs of steak that was cooking over the fire with a stick.
“What?” Harrison glanced up from his phone, where he was absentmindedly scrolling through his Instagram feed. Upon seeing Harry poking the steak, he scolded, “Stop that, mate, you’ll knock it in.”
Harry ignored Harrison’s warning and continued to jab at the meat. “You ought to go live,” he said.
“No,” you spoke up without opening your eyes, “That’s a shit idea. You definitely should not go live.”
“Why not?” Harry asked defensively.
“What if someone finds out where the house is? We can’t have a repeat of what happened in Georgia,” you pointed out. There was a pause, and although you couldn’t see them you assumed the boys were exchanging eyerolls. “Plus I look like shit, so. I don’t want to be on camera.”
But Harrison clearly didn’t share your concerns. “You look fine, Y/N,” he dismissed, “I’m going live.”
Your eyelids popped open and you gave the blond boy a hateful glare. “Harrison, you prick, don’t –”
Tapping something on his phone, Harrison shot you a shit-eating grin. “Too late.”
rowaelin- at least breathe between your bites, maybe? thank you x
Thanks for sending me a rowaelin prompt, tbh I really should write them more often!
Summary: Rowan cares for Aelin and gives her her first meal after she escapes from Maeve.
AO3 : (tags) referenced torture, angst, hurt/comfort, meat on a stick
Leaving Blood Behind
When Aelin stumbles into their camp just before dawn, Rowan knows she has only begun to be rescued.
He is woken by the sound of leaves under foot, breaking branches. He
jumps up, immediately alert, though the irregular footfalls confuse him.
Who would be sneaking up on their camp so noisily, and be so clumsy
When Rowan sees her, his is afraid that he is still asleep. But then she whispers his name.
Her clothing is in tatters, her feet bare and bloody, her hair hanging
in dirty, sweaty strands. Rowan has just enough time to catch her before
she falls. The relief apparent on her face is all he sees before her
knees give out. When he catches her he is surprised by the lightness,
the faint impression that her body leaves on his arms. His muscles are
barely strained as he carries her to his tent, lays her on his Spartan
bedding. Surveying her, he reassures himself that she is alive, that she
will survive the injuries she has been dealt, and he goes to work.
Yay! A little bit of happiness in this chapter, albeit after a lot of pain. So I mentioned in a previous fic a group called Voctave, who do incredible acapella work (They seriously sound like angels.) One of their songs really sums up Loki’s mindset for this fic but it’s not out on YouTube. If you’re interested in hearing it, check them out on Spotify; the song is called ‘Being Alive’ and it’s great. Anyway, enjoy!
Prompt[s]: You cruel, cruel author….
That was brutal. I mean, f**k you Loki, grow the f*** up…
Many a week had passed since the day you’d left The Tower
behind you. Many a lonely night in a bed that now felt foreign and strange.
Many a day spent in the company of those who you had no vested interest in.
Jarle was unsurprisingly glad to hear that your adventures
were over. He called for you almost every day, insisting that you get out of
the house when you’d have much preferred to stew in front of the fire.
“There are plenty of adventures to be had here,” he assured you as you walked
hand in hand around the marketplace. Everything felt a little… numb, to be
honest. You had no gifts to search for, no food to collect, and no clothes to
sew. What was the point of the marketplace again?
“I’ve finally got a hold of a sizeable pile of blueprinting
paper for you,” Jarle said as he perused the jewellery stand. You weren’t
paying attention, much more dedicated to moping around. How had Loki – a man so
cruel and petty and unkind – gotten this much of a hold on you? After all, the
mystery had been solved. You knew who he was, why he’d been imprisoned (to some
degree), and why he felt such bitter resentment towards the outside world.
Jarle paid for his purchase and returned to your side. He
noticed your daydreaming and sighed.
“I… I don’t know what happened,” he said calmly, “nor why your little escapades
have so abruptly ended, but if it is something upsetting and you should wish to
discuss it, I will gladly listen. You can say as much or as little as you
You turned to Jarle and flashed him an appreciative smile.
“Thank you, Jarle, but it is best that I simply try to forget.”
“Perhaps busying one’s mind will assist with that.”
hello! I really enjoy your blog & your writing & ur different opinions about things! I was wondering, if it's not that much of a bother if you could write a platonic!shadamy u know them being rlly close pals with a bit of sonamy on the side! Have a great day 💖
Aww, thank you so much! I love discussions and just sharing in our love for the same things~ Anytime my friend! :Db
Now precious anon, for your viewing pleasure, I give to you..
“Ow! Err… twigs!” Amy tried to make her way through the brush, trying to keep up with tracking down Sonic and the team before she spotted a familiar looking silhouette in the distance.
She gasped, excited as ever as her quills went slightly up in her moment of stressful release. “I did it! Oh, finally! Son-!”
She took off after the image before finally seeing the figure move into the light.
She blinked her eyes, studying the black and red before it clicked in her mind.
“…dow?” she stepped back, unsure at first if she should make her presence known. She withdrew her arms back to herself and put them together up by the collar of her dress, turning slightly as if to leave the setting should he spot her presence there.
“But…” she re-positioned herself towards him, lowering an arm down to peek out and spy on him a moment. “What would he be doing way out here?”
After seeing something flash in the sky, a few fumes of flaming jetpack engines landing next to Shadow, she realized he may be working with Eggman; she noticed the robot’s familiar appearance too.
“Metal!” she placed her hands over her mouth, listening…
After misinterpreting the one-way conversation, Amy jumped out, determined to accuse Shadow of foul play, before Metal used her distraction to attack him.
Seeing Shadow not able to put up much of a struggle, different to how she usually viewed him, she suddenly realized something was horrible wrong with Shadow, and immediately jumped into the fray.
“Hyah!” She slammed her hammer against his metallic skull as Metal was about to pierce a powerful claw down on Shadow.
He stumbled up to his knee, having been knocked down on his back, eye squinted shut and arm limp as he held it to it’s side.
“Why… are you helping me?”
Amy stood, protectively, in front of Shadow as Metal Sonic shook his head, looking like he meant business and even ticked that she interfered.
“Because. Something’s wrong. You were getting beaten up out there.” Amy stated her observations, but didn’t look back at him.
Metal, in his rage, shook his metallic fingers around in front of him, threatening her to make a move as she held her hammer back, as if a baseball player ready for the ball…
“I was wrong about you, Shadow. And this is me admitting my faults and trying to make up for it!”
Metal came bursting out towards her.
That’s when she saw it.
Her eyes widened as she noticed Metal Sonic having a strange yellow glowing aura she hadn’t seen before, something so faint, you had to be close up to see.
As she lowered her hammer a moment, she saw his engine carrying Shadow’s limiters.
She deduced then that some sort of theft must have happened, and Metal Sonic was being powered by the limiters, meaning that Shadow must have used up all his ‘ultimate power’ and couldn’t recharge at his usual fast rate of recovery without storing some of his power back first.
She lowered her head down with a quick glare.
“That’s not fair!” She cried out, and dodged the claw strike, as she raised her hammer again.
“No one likes playing dirty!”
She slammed her hammer into his back, then continued to wham Metal Sonic down as he flinched on the ground, his body being impaled into the rocks below him, before they shattered under the raw power of her slamming Piko Piko Hammer.
Shadow rose up, as Amy suddenly snapped out of her ‘destroy the annoyingly stupid robot that vaguely reminded her of Sonic and past traumas’ before looking up curiously at Shadow.
He walked over, kneeling down, he threw his hand back.
“Wait… you’re not gonna-” Amy held out a hand, before screeching as she saw his hand dive into the spiraling engine of Metal Sonic.
Metal Sonic whirled in a frenzy of sounds and noises, while Shadow’s eyebrows twitched vigorously at the pain of his hand being shredded before grabbing his limiters, and yanking it out.
His teeth were so gritted together that he felt a hardness in his jaw ache at just moving them apart to breathe aloud.
He put the limiters on, his chest moving up and down at the amount of effort and pain endured, before looking down at Metal Sonic.
“I appreciate the concern…” he then turned to Amy, seeing she really did a number on Metal Sonic for him.
“But I have business elsewhere.” he turned away from her, walking off…
Before he collapsed, a slight and fainted cry of exhaustion catching upon the wind that made Amy race towards him.
As he went down, he heard her voice in the background, before feeling a strong but almost … gentle pair of arms hoist him up.
He opened his eyes into a squint, looking over and seeing Amy having wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and her other arm carried him by the waist.
“What… do you think… erk… you’re doing?” Shadow spoke through the pain and exhaustion.
“I’m helping a friend, don’t you have one of those?” she squinted an eye down, realizing he wasn’t as light as she hoped for, and continued to move on, smiling. “Heh, if Sonic was here, he would do the same!”
Shadow wondered about that, examining her expression and realizing it was the same as that annoying blue hedgehogs.
He turned away, dipping his head down and trying his best to alleviate some of the weight.
When Shadow awoke, he smelled a delicious odor of sorts that had stirred him alive.
With his limiters now prohibiting some of his power from being exposed, it was able to be converted and used for healing instead of mass destruction.
He felt his hand, and noticed as he brought it up in surprise that it had been bandaged, and was nicely and neatly taken care of.
He looked over to see that he was lying on a bed of leaves, and to his left- Amy was cooking over a fire she had constructed.
She heard something rustling and turned, smiling kindly to Shadow.
“Oh, good! You’re up and alive!”
He groaned, leaning up before reaching to his stomach.
Another moment of surprise that made him blink twice.
He looked down at his stomach, “I.. Feel little to no pain…”
He saw that his stomach was full of smashed up, gooey substance covered with leaves… and squished a little between his fingers, looking at it closely.
“Hand-made ointment. I’m pretty good with mixing things together.” she winked, “Good cooks make good nurses too!” she chimed, before bringing him over something in a bowl. “Here. It’s good for survival after a fierce pummeling like that… ah! I mean-! Y-you totally could have taken him under the right circumstances!” She took one hand and waved it rapidly, trying to erase from the very air around her the moment of her slip up, not wanting to offend him.
He simply reached over and grabbed the bowl from her, ignoring her words and taking a sip of the soup.
“Ah.” he moved away, his tongue being slightly burnt.
“Careful!” Amy moved forward, crawling a bit to be at eye-level before happily blowing on the bowl.
He watched her enact the kind gesture with a sense of gentle elegance before opening her eyes and smiling back at him. “You don’t eat a lot of hot foods, do you Shadow?”
He frowned deeply, before testing the smell over his nose, feeling the steam had died down a bit and then took another sip.
Just the right temperature.
“What are you doing all the way out here, anyway?” Amy leaned back, but smiled as she saw him taking his time to slurp the nutritious meal.
He pulled the bowl away and looked down, “Metal Sonic had stolen my limiters… I was simply retrieving what was mine.” He then side-glanced to her, still keeping a rather cold demeanor, but to Amy, he seemed to be showing a much more softer side.
“And you? What would Sonic be doing here. Looking for Eggman, I presume?”
“Emhmm! Guess you got me there! I’m tracking Sonic and the others down. But I’ve…” she looked around where they were, before looking a bit embarrassed as she returned to addressing Shadow. “I may have lost a step or two…”
She sweat dropped, closing her eyes and smiling sheepishly.
He ‘hmph’d, as if expecting half as much from her, making her pout as he closed his eyes and continued this meal.
“I never asked for your conveniences.”
“You never ask for anything.” Amy pouted, before smiling warmly to him again. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t help out a friend in need.”
He looked up at her as she rose to her feet. “Friend?”
She reached down and took his bowl with both hands, before turning to him with a beautiful smile of mercy, “Everyone deserves one.” she winked, and then took the bowl, walking off.
He watched her go, suddenly dipping his head and giving a concealed closed-eyed smile, before returning to a neutral frown as he arose.
Amy turned then, “Where are you going now?”
“Your blue hero is probably worried about you.” he folded his arms, giving her a look before closing his eyes again, avoiding her gaze by dipping his head and then looking behind him.
“I suppose it’s only fair to return such kindnesses with one of my own.”
“Shadow? Being kind?” Amy sarcastically put a finger to her cheek, looking up at the sky as if she spoke that in complete innocent.
He twitched with an anger mark.
“I could leave you to struggle with the night-life horrors of this foreign land.” he glared up at her, almost threatening her to stop making fun of him.
“Woah, woah, hey now! Take a joke with a sense of humor, why don’t ya…” she patted the air to try and calm him down, but he noticed too much of Sonic in her, and resented it.
At least she was more tolerable… however…
He held up a hand to his bandaged one, looking down at it’s orderly fashion, done with much care and diligence.
“I’ll happily take your offer, Shadow.”
He looked up then, almost as if being pleasantly surprised she would.
But why wouldn’t she? It was logical to take the advantage of his request.
She put out the fire, dancing a moment as the flame caught to her boot she was using to stomp it out. After watching her flail a moment and then scratch the back of her head, being clumsy, he immediately wondered how she could make it on her own.
‘Now I see…’ Shadow thought, stretching his mouth to the side of his muzzle to frown, observing her as she came closer. ‘This is why Sonic continues to keep her close by… easier to protect that way. She seems to need a lot of care at times… though,-’
He offered her his arms, and she positioned herself so he could lift her up, bridal style.
‘I suppose it makes up for itself… when she returns such kindnesses.’
He looked forward, and skated off like a jet!
(No real ‘direct sonamy’ but I hope it was enough to keep you smiling how Shadow can have a soft spot for a kind gesture xD)
*’No wonder Sonic keeps you close by.’ He relaxed his eyes, seeming annoyed as he kept his arms folded. ‘You’re high maintenance.’ XDDDD LOLOLOLOL