#zero's writing

[zeroideaman]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapter Summary

In which a party is held, information is stolen, and shots are fired.

Chapters: 4/???

Warnings: Graphic Descriptions of Violence

Rating: T

Words: 5,468

[mythiczer0]

{ Tears } . - °

Twisted wonderland fanfic. Ft. Riddle rosehearts 🌹

"I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO LIKE ME! I never broke the rules.."

{ 🚫 . . ▪︎ • ° ` }

Riddles room

A crimson prince weeps by himself. The despair in his body never leaves . His eyes are red. The tissues have filled. Nothing has calmed the boy. His crown remain sharp enough to plunge deep into his flesh to rip out all the sadness inside. But he weeps forever more. Nobody bothers to check because he's their leader. He shouldn't be looking to any . Not many he's close to , not many appreciate his rule. Thou queen of hearts is weeping. Tears are seeping. His state is weakening. Thy boy questions himself "Why don't they care" he wonders so much with no answer . Make sure you do this, that, hes had enough. But the main assumption is. "I brought this on myself" Thy queen of hearts. Sobs and sobs.. will someone ever look into him. Will someone ever love him?

From now until dawn. The tears run on and on. And all happiness of the queen. Will forever be gone

. 🥀 . ~ ☆

Notes

Riddle my baby i love you so fucking much im sorry . I will beat up your mom and give you freedom okay♡♡♡

[zeroideaman]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

totally didn't forget today was monday, nope

Chapter Summary

The Senator and Jedi arrive, and discussions of peace are made.

Chapters: 3/???

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Rating: T

Words: 3,573

[zeroideaman]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

One-Shot Summary

Ecorridor is offered another life from Pentar, but his own heart is too rotten to be something of use. At least to him.

Rating: T

Words: 1,137

CW: Talks of Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Past Violence and Blood, Blood and Gore

[arb0k]

prowler’s pointe gothic

You stumble through the desert, exhausted, striving desperately for the lights on the edge of the horizon. They say no self-respecting sort would be caught dead there, but without it you’re dead anyway, so perhaps it’s a moot point. The neon signs blur together in your vision. Saloon and Inn. Blacksmithy. Body Disposal. Herbal Teas. You stagger for the Inn.

When it storms they all stay inside to dance, playing music fit to shake the earth, while their Queen holds court from the sidelines. Her gaze makes your hair stand on end, like static washing over your skin.

You’re getting ready to set out again. The bartender has kindly sold you a map, and is trying to sell you a small fortune’s worth of portable water. “You won’t find more til the Vents,” he warns. You look at the blue line marked Thunderbrook, not far from here. You look at the overpriced canteens.Typical tourist trap garbage, you think, selling useless things. You leave the city lights behind. The desert is silent.

The walls rumble and groan. “Hmm? Naww, that’s just Andy, our old climate-control unit. He’s real ornery in the winter. Gets boring down there with nothin’ to do, huh, big guy?” The pipes are a distant roar.

According to your map, the Thunderbrook should be just over the next hill. You grin, triumphant, and chug the remnants of your single canteen, letting it splash to the dusty earth. The desert is silent. You crest the hill, and find a deep canyon, dry as the bones littering its basin. Oh, you think. You’d turn back, but you don’t think you could look the bartender in the eye. Might as well rest here for the day, then press on in the evening. You take shelter in the canyon’s welcome shade, and drift into fitful sleep. The desert is silent.

I’m on the run, you explain. The man at the bar nods sagely. For necromancy- He shushes you immediately, and you frown. You were so certain it wasn’t illegal. “The Queen don’t care,” he says, “but Obie does.” You ask him why this matters, and his gaze slips away. “The Queen don’t care about much.”

You’ve been trying not to stare, but it’s been several songs since you’ve felt her gaze against the back of your neck. The music is loud. The storm is loud. If you hear something high pitched and dissonant in the lull between songs, your hearing is probably damaged, is all. The static feeling returns shortly, and you busy yourself getting lost in the crowd.

The desert rumbles. You wake to dark skies and cool rain on your face. It’s pleasant, you could almost get used to this. The sky does not flash. The desert rumbles. You’re beginning to nod off again. You jerk awake at a shrill animal scream, and look up in time to see an Ampelope enveloped by a wall of blue and white. Oh, you think. The desert rumbles.

But what are the laws exactly? you ask. The man laughs and laughs. “Ain’t no laws around here, ‘cept the one.”

[arb0k]

67. “If it wasn’t illegal, I would totally murder your ass.”

A massive hand hits him in the small of the back, and Woodson is shoved gracelessly off of his perch. He sticks the landing, thank the gods, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. He straightens and pulls his hood up over his head as two more thunks sound off beside him, barely heard over the clatter of the rails.

“You know,” he muses, “if it wasn’t illegal, I would totally murder your ass.”

Kadara’s screeching laughter is expected, and subsequently ignored. It’s Carver’s reaction that he watches for, though he’s sure he makes quite the sight staring her down- even her sword is taller than him, for Stormcatcher’s sake. 

Luckily she cracks a grin instead of taking offense. “Worried you’ll arrest yourself, eh, Sheriff?”

He sticks his tongue out at her for good measure, before sealing his mask over his face. It’s as good a signal as any, and no more is said as the three of them get to work.

They have to work their way backwards a few cars, thanks to his… premature landing, but they locate the target easily enough. Kadara lays her palms flat against the car’s metal roof; smoke begins to rise as the material gives way to her bubbling acid. In less than a minute there’s a hole big enough to drop through, with instructions for their only non-Plague member to watch his skin. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Woodson mutters, before taking the plunge (under his own power, thank you very much). Unfortunately, either their targeting was off or their info was bad, because this car is definitely full of civilians. Ah well. “Your money or your life! And so on, y’all know the drill.”

[arb0k]

In which the one who is not yet called Knox searches for sanctuary from his pursuers, and does not quite find it.

@fr-dew @lumoselm @arctic-rising @yuushanoah-fr

He hesitates too long on the threshold, and the door swings back to smack him solidly on the chest.

The ambient chatter trails off as one-by-one the patrons turn to stare; he stares back, and nearly turns on his heel and walks right back out. But someone says “C’mon in, man, you’re cool,” and though it’s accompanied by several snickers (he’s never been so keenly aware of the pallor of his eyes), well, he can’t just refuse.

He slinks his way over to the bar, or at least he tries. The massive Imperial has never been much good at sneaking, and instead he just looks hunched and awkward and miserable. There’s a glass in his hand almost before he sits down. He opens his mouth to say- something, he’s not sure what, maybe offer to pay- but the bartender cuts him off. “You need it more than I do, buddy.”

The man he was a month ago would have bristled at the show of pity; this man melts against the counter and gapes with wide-eyed helplessness. He’s gently encouraged to drink, and it’s a testament to his weary state that he doesn’t even hesitate. The liquid is cool on his tongue, water with just a hint of something other. It tastes almost like home.

He hadn’t realized how faint he’d been feeling until the world stops spinning around him. “Yeah, it’s hot out there, ain’t it?” He blinks back at the bartender dumbly. The man waits a moment, sighs, and tries again. “We don’t get too many of your folk out here.”

The man seems to expect some response from him, but he hasn’t the vaguest idea what it could be. The longer his silence stretches, the more restless the rest of the patrons grow. He’d find it comforting, that things seem to be going back to normal, if he wasn’t so sure they were all talking about him. He slouches further into his seat.

The bartender squints at him, a look of intense concentration on his face, and his hands start to move. After a brief moment of confusion, he realizes that it must be some sort of sign language, though not in any dialect he recognizes. It occurs to him, distantly, that the man is probably troubled by his non-responsiveness. Right. Talking. He can… do that. “That’s not… I can… Hello.”

The Bogsneak barks out a laugh, sounding relieved. “He speaks! Okay, let’s try that again. Name’s Wyatt, and you are….?”

“Here on business.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out so sharp and cold; he regrets it a little when Wyatt’s face falls, and regrets it a lot when the background conversations grow into a dull roar.

“He’s one o’ them bounty hunters!” Someone shouts from the back, and it’s chaos as people start leaping to their feet. For a moment he’s sure that this is where it ends, torn apart by the ruffians he’d once considered prey-

Then the flat of Wyatt’s hand comes down hard on the bar, and he throws his head back and bellows, “SIT DOWN.” And, miracle of miracles, the crowd does.

“First off: so are you, moron, don’t think I don’t see you eyeing those posters back there.” The crowd does not like this. They hiss and jeer, insist but that’s different, we’re different. Wyatt talks right over them. “Second, if he starts trouble, I’ll deal with it. All I know is he’s weak as a kitten, and the only ones startin’ shit in my bar are you.”

The loudest of the mercenaries comes stalking toward them, radiating fury, but all he does is spit in their general direction and storm out the door. Wyatt snorts inelegantly. “That’s what I thought.” He continues to mutter darkly as he wanders off to refill the glass, which the Imperial hadn’t realized was empty. Without it his hands open and close listlessly, grasping at nothing.

A hand taps at his shoulder, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. A small Spiral girl smiles at him apologetically. “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart. Had some trouble with the Fortress of Ends recently, folks ain’t usually this jumpy.” She hops up on the stool next to him, though her arm remains outstretched, her fingers toying with the fine fabric of his collar. “You need anything, big guy? You look like a nice dark room would do you good. Our innkeeper’s… out, right now, but I’m happy to help.” He finds the sharpness of her gaze unsettling, despite her kind words. He can’t find his voice.

“Cal, give the poor thing a break, won’t you? Here, darlin’. You like chocolate?” A second Spiral, remarkably similar to the first, appears at his other side. She slides a plate in front of him, and while he can't identify the pastry it holds, he's certain it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He falls upon it without thinking.

When he finishes (seconds later? minutes? he can't say), he looks back up at her with dismay. “I can't pay you.”

The girl giggles. “We'll work something out, I'm sure.” She flicks a crumb off of him with one long fingernail, but like her companion before her, her hand lingers. He stares at it, slow to put the pieces together. She picks at a loose thread, fine and golden, and… ah. Beneath the layer of grime, his attire is clearly military, and well-made at that.

“Whoever you think I am,” he says slowly, uncertain, “I assure you I am not.”

“Bit presumptuous of you, don't you think? You some kind of mind reader?” It seems more teasing than offended, but her wide grin does nothing to ease his nerves.

“We're not runnin’ a charity, here,” the first interjects, “but it really is alright if you don't have cash. Plenty of honest work to be done.” That seems pointed. Also a bit unfair, considering the locale. His ego throbs like some phantom limb, but his bones ache with weariness and he can't be bothered to protest.

“Y'all can talk terms in the morning, let the man rest.” Wyatt returns, pressing a new glass into his hands. He seems in a slightly better mood, now that the mob has dispersed, but he's still subdued. The Imperial feels strangely guilty about that.

“It was not my intention to cause you trouble,” he says meekly. The bartender stares him down, and he has to fight the urge to squirm.

“Some folks are magnets for it, intentions be damned.” He clears his throat. “Appreciate the thought, though. Now shoo, go on.”

With the twin Spirals hovering at his sides, he rises. His knees tremble, but hold, and soon they're staggering toward the back hallway.

The room they lead him to is shockingly bare, little more than a hollowed-out cave. But it has a ceiling and a bed, which puts it well above many of the places he's slept in this past month. The one called Cal fusses over a pitcher, apparently struggling with the plain nightstand; he can’t get a good look at what she’s doing, as the other one is busy bullying him into bed. “Dinner’s in a few hours, please do drop by if you’re up for it.”

“We can worry about money in a bit,” says the first, which earns her a dirty look from her friend. Not that their guest is awake to take offense- he’s unconscious the moment he hits the mattress.

[arb0k]

wild and fragile, prologue

In which Zero and Woodson return two weeks late from their trip (and only half of this statement is a lie).

@fr-dew

<-- prev ---  read all  ---  next -->

Zero has long stopped expecting any sort of welcome home. He’s in and out too often, they’d all get sick of the parties, and he doesn’t like people tracking his whereabouts, anyway. Still, it feels anticlimactic to slip into the Rattler’s Rest to find Wyatt and three teenagers chasing frogs across the countertop.

He picks a barstool a bit apart from the kids and pretends not to feel Wyatt’s stare. One minute is all he needs, one minute to just breathe... He gathers his wits and drawls, “People eat there, you know.”

“These guys are perfectly clean, how dare you.” The Bogsneak doesn’t sound the slightest bit offended, only entertained. “Y’all’re late, we were starting to worry. How’s the wedding? How’s-?”

“The wedding was delightful. Lots of crying. Angelica is fine, Jeanne is fine, they’re all fine. They send their regards.” 

Wyatt at least has the grace to look chastised. “Right, yeah. Just wish I coulda gone, is all.”

“There’s always next time,” he replies, not unkindly. He’s watching the kids, waiting; it takes a few moments, but one by one they turn to him and blink. 

Mini is the first to move. Her face lights up, and she tucks her head and lurches forward in her customary headbutt- he raises a hand to cut her off and she taps her horns against it lightly, laughing and looking not at all apologetic. 

"You’re back! Hi! Did you say hi to my dad?”

“Of course, kid. The man practically tackled me, as usual.” Mini giggles at this as if it’s some sort of joke, despite the utter lack of amusement in the Skydancer’s voice. “Lady Sylvia sends her well wishes, and all the, er, birds, as well. Cain, I picked up a set of blueprints in Emberglow I’d like you to look at, if you have the time, and-”

“Sorry to interrupt, but uh, do you have Woodson?” The young Guardian seems hesitant; he keeps playing with the bangles on his wrists, fidgeting relentlessly. “It’s just, we were working on a project together, and it refuses to work without him. Did he stop by his room first? I can visit later if he needs a nap, I understand...”

Zero goes very, very still. “Rheinier, was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He... I sent him ahead.” Silence. “I got sidetracked, but he should have arrived on time.” 

Wyatt exhales. 

The moment stretches.

A frog makes a wild leap for freedom, flinging itself off the bar. Mini catches it with a sound suspiciously like a sob, and it stirs Zero back into motion. “Go fetch Meilin for me, will you, sweetheart?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” She sniffles and flees, with all her usual (lack of) grace.

“The rest of you, get out.” Cain protests, loudly and immediately, but Zero’s all too happy to stare him down. Rheinier escorts the kid out, with some gentle words and a steely grip on the back of his neck. The Guardian throws once last look back over his shoulder, but Zero can’t quite meet his gaze.

He takes off his hat, just for a moment, and lets his forehead hit the bar. His gem clacks loudly against the wood, and he feels... tired. And old.

A frog bumps against his cheek. Wyatt scoops it up with an embarrassed not-quite-laugh, hesitates, then ruffles his hair. The Skydancer squawks indignantly, swatting his hands away, and the moment passes.

“I can clear out if you need, I get it. But if there’s anything I can get you-”

“Strongest shit you’ve got, please. Windsinger’s sake...”