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rwprincess · 3 years ago

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Fluff Piece: Part Two (Stranger Things Fred Benson x Fem!Reader)

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Word Count: 4.2K

Synopsis: Part Two to Fluff Piece; you join the Weekly Streak to try to save your failing English grade initially, but wind up falling for staff member Fred Benson. When it seems like the paper is falling apart and Fred might just quit, you write a ‘puff piece’ to express to him how you really feel.

CW: Self-doubt/loathing, concerns about grades, fluffy crush fiction, one swear word

Fred had immediately wished he could have taken back what he said that day, he didn't want to see Y/N go. In yet another idiotic tirade, he let himself lose control and lump everything together. He already felt like he was losing his paper: the one thing that ever truly felt like it was his, that made him feel like he mattered and was worthwhile. Well, the only thing until he met Y/N. The way her eyes landed on him, crinkling at the corners with a genuine, electrifying smile made him feel much the same way: as though he were seen and had some purpose. So, in the moment it stood to reason (at least to him), that if one was being taken away, the other might as well be, too. He was probably kidding himself anyway, seeing something that wasn't there because he was blinded by hope that she could feel the same way, that any girl could, that he wasn't invisible for once. He shook his head as soon as he left, trying to clear another failure from his mind and resist the urge to go back into the office and listen to her. But he was truthfully terrified that she would admit he was right and quit right then and there. Face-to-face, he probably would have crumbled and this stoic facade he was wearing would all be for naught .

Naturally, he was stunned to see her in attendance at their next meeting. He thought for sure he had shut her down and chased her off. He had been quick with his jabs and left her to deal with the blows alone, so he wouldn't have blamed her if she bailed. Maybe he even hoped for that, deep down. But there she was, seated and intently listening as he and his cohorts pitched ideas and spoke about their current works-in-progress. He couldn't gather the gall to actually talk to her, though, and settled for side-glances that he hoped were unnoticed. She was typing quickly on one of the typewriters, words pouring out of her brain, bridged by her fingers. He didn't even realize the side-eye had turned into a full-on stare until one of the junior reporters, Hugo, cleared his throat and Fred had to begrudgingly be pulled back to reality, rather than being dizzyingly lost in the way her beautiful eyes skimmed her hand-written draft and she tucked a strand of hair under her ear and bit her lip before continuing again. She was always such a steadfast worker. He'd had his doubts initially, a drop-dead gorgeous girl admitting that she just wanted to 'try' Newspaper only to concede that it was for a grade. But she refused the easy way out and quickly became one of his best staff, and easily his favorite person to work with.

Fred turned to Hugo, startled but trying to hide it. The younger staff looked to him for guidance; he couldn't let them think their Lead Editor was losing it. Hugo looked from Fred to Y/N and back, a smarmy smile playing at his lips as he said, "You know, boss, I could always come back." That grin was knowing, mocking, and Fred was hasty to shut it down.

He shook his head and sternly replied, "I don't know what you're talking about. But I am busy, so let's have it." Hugo ran through some questions he had to prime one of their interviewees and Fred struggled to pay attention. Not only did it feel like it didn't matter; he was losing control of his vision of what he wanted the paper to be, but he also felt as though he had to focus and not let his eyes wander one centimeter towards Y/N, lest Hugo figure it out. However, that's all he longed to do. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop and for her to quit, so he wanted to let his gaze linger on her just a while longer...in case it was the last time.

At the end of the day, she came by and turned in a draft to his stack. He still didn't speak to her; at this point, he wasn't even sure what to say. So, he just gave her a nod instead as she silently placed the papers face-down in his To Edit pile and left. No kind words, no beautiful smile. He'd really messed this up. He shook his head as he sat in the stillness, the quiet eating up his insides and making his gut churn. Alone. Always alone. It was a fate he had all but resigned himself to. He tapped his pen's end against the table, careful not to spill the red ink. He couldn't take the thought of her overturned papers sitting there anymore, though, and abandoned the half-read draft he had been working on instead. He simply had to know what she had written; it was some tenuous link to her that he wanted to grasp onto. Lord knows he couldn't actually talk to her, like the putz he truly was. He flipped it over and rolled his eyes at the title of the piece, How to Know if She's Really into You.

He knew he told her to write about 'whatever,' and that this was probably exactly what their Faculty Advisor had in mind to appeal to the droning, drooling masses. It seemed like it would fit perfectly into some popular tabloid or perhaps, Teen Vogue. He shuddered to think of his publication falling down the rabbit hole and becoming that, but maybe it was inevitable. He sighed, steeling himself to read on. "Number One," he read out loud to himself, "she finds reasons to touch you. This can be anything from a playful slap on the shoulder to a light touch on the arm while she looks at you or talks to you." He paused, thinking about the time, or times rather, she had done just that. The first time, he had been astonished, taken aback. He thought she'd notice how a tomato-red flush crept up his neck or the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, or the fact he was sure to pass out any second, but she had removed her hand just as quickly and looked away. As if it were nothing. For a few days after, he wasn't sure it had even happened, that is until the next time she did it. That confirmed it wasn't just some hare-brained dream. He felt that same heated flush creeping up now at the memory, making his neck unbearably hot as he tugged on his collar to loosen it for relief. He blinked and adjusted his glasses clumsily, trying to move on from the memory and do his job instead. Working on the paper used to bring him solace, a cool calm in an otherwise hectic world. Now, it seemed like a source of constant stress. Before, the chaos was challenging, fun. Now, the fun and life had been sapped from it. Nevertheless, he read on. Number Two: this time he read in his head, in case anyone were lingering or walked back in, She laughs at all of your jokes, even the lame ones, and maybe just a bit too hard.

Another memory flashed in his mind: it had been far too late and they had had too much caffeine and were still struggling to stay awake, to keep it together. He had turned to her and said, "Have you heard the story about the broken pencil? Eh, best if not. It has no point." It was probably the cheesiest, most ridiculous joke (if it could even be called that) in his arsenal, but he was at a rare point of being slap-happy enough to say it. She must have been likewise overworked and over the edge because she sputtered and began laughing heartily. He'd never forget that particular laugh, nor the joy it brought him. Again, he shook it off. It probably didn't mean anything.

She asks for your help with simple tasks

Okay, this one was obviously ambiguous and could be applied, but that didn't mean anything either! Sure, she'd asked him for help at the copier, but she was still new, maybe she didn't remember how to use it, right? Right? She gives you her undivided attention

All right, this one was a little more substantial, Fred thought. Any time they talked, it seemed like the world fell away. He knew that he tuned everything out, focused on the way her lips formed the letters of each word, consonants and vowels rolling gorgeously forth, making even routine sentences sound like poetry. But this was supposed to be about her attention on him. He closed his eyes and tried to recall one of their conversations, picturing her sitting in front of him or beside him, like all the times before when they conversed, and not just about work regarding The Weekly Streak, but anything. The topics varied and so easily flowed between them, an unstoppable river of dialogue. In his memory, or maybe it was just fantasy, he could visualize her, her sparkling eyes concentrated on him, but the stare doesn't feel overpowering or fake, not like she's waiting for him to stop so she could say the next line, but rather that she was intent, listening, long and dark eyelashes skimming across her vision as she locked eyes with him again, hanging on each word. His own eyes now snapped open and he could feel his heart racing. Shit, maybe this was a mistake. He felt like he was only reading every other word now, or re-read the same sentence over and over, these niggling little memories intruding on his brain waves again and again.

She makes arrangements specifically to be with you.

At first, he felt like he could easily skip this one. They didn't really hang out beyond Newspaper. They weren't, like, seeing movies together or anything that normal teenagers who liked each other might do. Nothing romantic. Wait, his soft inner voice popped up, didn't she volunteer to stay late or take on that extra assignment? More than once? He'd chalked it up to a good work ethic, the personality trait that drew him to her in the first place. But now, he had doubts, hopeful second thoughts creeping in instead. There were a handful of times he made special work requests, overtime to meet deadlines, to a group of groaning staff members and her hand would immediately shoot up, committing to another night of just the two of you, to their talks and his corny jokes.

The last one in particular caught his eye: She shows interest in your interests and might try one and even stick it out, hoping to make a connection with you.

While he was certain she hadn't joined the newspaper because of him, unless she was an excellent liar and had been able to keep that from him since day one, the phrasing of this particular line punched him right in the gut. 'even stick it out, hoping to make a connection with you.' Isn't that what she did the first day and what she was doing now, even after he tried to push her away and offered her an out? Stick with it? Below this point, she detailed in her paragraph, 'whether you are the initial cause for her to attempt that activity or hobby matters not; The key is that she keeps coming back and engaging you in it. She started here for the grade, as a 'favor’ to Mrs. Callahan, but now, was it possible that she remained…for him? Maybe not solely, she seemed to enjoy different facets of working here, but this article seemed to point to the possibility that she was, as the title so commonly put it, was ‘into him.’ He gaped at the article for a moment, mouth moving silently as though he were gasping for air. Maybe he should have been; rereading it and falling into the possibility of this being a message to him, a sign, took his breath away. Even if this were the case, though, where did he go from here? He didn't know how to talk to her about this. And what if he was wrong? Oh God, what if he was wrong?! That would definitely be the end of all of this. He wouldn't be able to show his face around her again. Could one die from embarrassment? He was pretty sure he could, no, would if that were the case. Now the choice weighed heftily on him, but how to proceed? He frowned; it was going to be a long night.

Fred still hadn't said anything to you and it had been days. Your fall from his grace was increasingly wracking your nerves. He didn't hand back your daring 'fluff piece,' either, as he was passing back others' works. A sickening heat radiated in your stomach and you weren't sure what to do. Your instincts wanted you to bolt, but you tried to stay firm and not let your emotions get the best of you. You blinked back the stinging tears of anxiety as they sprouted and tried to pay attention to the briefing, but struggled to no avail.

At the end of the briefing, as other reporters filed out, Fred stopped you from packing your bag and asked you to stay behind. When the last of the staff left, the final one gave you a look as though he pitied the fate you were about to meet. Truth be told, so did you. Fred steepled his long fingers as he sat across from you and you inhaled sharply, fearful of what was to come. Then, you started rambling, "Look, Fred, I know you don't like 'fluff pieces' but I figured this one might speak to its reader," you tried to emphasize the last part of your sentence as a hint, a last Hail Mary to try to save yourself.

"No, it's not that. Actually, I agree with you and think this is something that people would want to see. I…I liked how it was written, I just have some notes." He drummed his fingers on the desk, fidgeting, stalling.

"Oh, thank God!" You sighed in relief, "I thought it wasn't going to be up to standards and you'd be mad, or you wouldn't get it-" you stopped yourself short, realizing he hadn't confirmed whether he knew it was aimed at him or whether he reciprocated. You fell harshly silent as he quirked an eyebrow at you. When you didn't continue, he cleared his throat.

"Yes, well, I believe I understood it. I'm not that much of a lost cause, you know."

"Oh God, no, I didn't mean to imply --" you scrambled, trying to find your verbal footing, then realized he was smiling, "oh, you're joking."

"Yes," he nodded, smile growing wider.

"You scared me half to death. I thought I insulted you or, or offended you and that's the last thing I want to do, really." You unconsciously reached across the desk and placed your hand on his, only to realize what you were doing and jerked it back. Crap, he definitely noticed this time. You needed to calm down, stop acting so weird, so…obvious. But that was the point, wasn't it? To tell him how you felt about him? Get it out in the open?

"No, no worries," he said, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses, slowly sliding your copy towards you. "Like I said, I have some notes. And, uh, an addition here that I think could be the start of a follow-up, or a sort of…companion piece." He leaned back and the papers sat between you, a ticking time bomb. You gingerly picked it up, as though it really would explode. Your eyes traveled cautiously downward, from Fred to your article. As you began to scan it, Fred shuffled in his seat, wrapping his fingers around themselves before scooting back in his chair, your head shooting up. "I'll just, uh…be over there, by the copier doing some stuff. You can let me know when you're done or want to discuss it." He rigidly stalked off, which wasn't wholly out of the norm for him, but raised your suspicions nonetheless.

You cast your eyes back down at the papers, reading through the usual marks. An added word here or a 'go into more detail' note there. Nothing out of the ordinary. So, when you came to the end, you became massively curious about this start to a 'companion piece,' when he hadn't given you too much to go on with your draft. You cautiously flipped the page and found the title,

Signs That He Likes You

You felt a panicky sweat start along your brow, heart racing. Was this a sign that he 'got it,' and knew your piece was about him, and that he was responding in kind? Or was it really just a 'follow up', as he said; something to appease the reader and a sort of olive branch towards you and your fluff pieces? Despite the deafening roar of your heartbeat in your ears, blood pulsing hard enough to disconnect you from your surroundings, you read on.

He asks you a lot of questions: he initiates conversation and asks you questions about your life and interests. Additionally, he'll ask follow-up questions and dig deeper into who you are, what you're about. Honestly, this one encompassed Fred's entire personality anyway. He often rebutted inquiries to why he was 'so nosy,' with the trademark defense that it was his 'duty as a reporter' or his 'journalistic instinct.' Out of context, this gave you next to nothing. It could be aimed at anyone he ever interacted with, really. The same could be said for his next point, too.

He listens to you: he shows he truly listens to you because he remembers the small things. Fred constantly took notes and had a good memory as it was, and would be call back to previous conversations, sometimes verbatim. While you knew he remembered the things you told him and sometimes he would ask about topics you brought up earlier, you felt that that could be applied to any staff member here, or even some of the interviewees! As you read on, you started to feel deflated. Maybe this was just a generic response to the article you had written, it didn't mean anything. Even though you had a pit tensing and aching in your stomach, you convinced yourself to carry on. Surely, Fred would be looking for a response, even if his intent wasn't what you had hoped.

He seems to be drawn to you in a full room: he could be addressing a large group of people, giving orders and organization, but his eyes will still gravitate to you, often. Instantly, a flood of interactions hit you: so many meetings and briefings where Fred commanded the whole staff, but he would look directly at you. It didn't matter if the assignment was for Hugo or Samantha or was for an article you hadn't touched or even read, he would scan the crowd and land on you with those light blue eyes. Sometimes, it seemed like it was for reassurance because you always offered up a comforting smile and would nod at him, encouraging him to go on when he was faltering. However, there were other times where he seemed focused and steady, and then those oceanic eyes would find yours and he'd stumble over the words, forgetting his train of thought almost completely. Amongst the murmurs and snickers from the rest of the staff, though, you always tried to be steadfast with that comforting smile and encouraging nod and he'd blink harshly, look away, and gain his footing again, even if he was still a little flustered. At the time, it seemed like it was out of convenience or happenstance, but now, you wondered if it was, as he stated further under this point, he couldn't help but to look toward you, 'to find you among the throng of students at Hawkins High,' as he editorially described it.

He opens up to you: he lets his guard down around you and allows conversations just between the two of you. You may even be privy to his deepest, darkest secrets or fears. This one hit you hard and felt like a step towards confirmation. You talked to Fred constantly, and while he had asked about you and your personal life, like one of the points above, you'd also asked about his. For a while, he brushed your questions off, hurling his own in return, but one day he had expressed his worry that he wasn't 'good enough.'

"You're not the only one who worries about your grades, you know." He revealed, when you were on the topic of how your work at The Streak was improving your English grade.

"I know, but…wait, do you mean you? But, but you're…brilliant!" You said, aghast. Fred had always seemed so well put-together, at the very least, academically.

"Thank you, for saying that, but I have to work at it, too." He titled his head towards you and lowered his voice conspiratorially, afraid that anyone else might overhear, "sometimes….sometimes I think that's all I'm good for, ya know? The good grades, the work here on the paper. That's all I've got going for me, really. So, I just…throw myself into that work. Hide inadequacies that way."

"No, no I'm sure there's other things. Don't sell yourself short," you tried to cheer him up.

"Face it, Y/N, it really is. I'm not swimming in extracurriculars, no sports teams are going to go out of their way to recruit me, I don't really have any friends, this is it. I just act like I'm too busy with The Streak and homework so I don't feel like I'm missing out on the other stuff and I'm just hoping that it's enough to get my foot in the door for college, really." You were stunned by his confession, he had always seemed so confident and more-or-less normal. Obviously, he was categorized as a geek in Hawkins' tight cliques, but you never got the impression that that bothered him before. You didn't know what to say, or how to improve the situation, really. You were sure it was the truth and didn't want to dismiss him. Right now, you couldn't remember if you'd even said anything. If you replied with an 'I'm sorry,' 'that sucks,' or changed the subject entirely. Looking back on it now, whatever it was, hadn't been enough. He was, as this bullet point indicated, opening up to you about something personal and hefty, and you'd let him down in responding to it. You swallowed hard at the memory, driving it down so you could push your way through the final bullet point:

He expresses how he feels: some guys can be oblivious and not know what they're doing. He won't pick up on your signals, but he can tell you how he feels. Or rather, write it.

You paused, eyebrows raising and pulse quickening, 'write it'?

The best way to know that he's 'into you,' or however the masses like to categorize it, is that he can tell you outright. He can fabricate a whole hated fluff-piece to tell you so. Although, he'd have to admit that when reading it from you, or writing it to you, it doesn't seem like dreck after all. I'm going out on a limb and hoping that all the signs in your article meant what I thought they meant, and that I can use this platform to tell you, Y/N, that I like you, too.

You blinked at the paper, your mind racing to process what you had read, skimming back to see if it were truly real. But sure enough, your name was printed there with black ink, clearly addressed to you. You all but launched yourself up to find Fred.

His back was turned as he stood over the copier, even though it sat lifeless and it was clear he hadn't used it, that he was just killing time and waiting for you. He didn't seem to hear you approach from behind, either, as he didn't react, but that didn't matter to you at the moment. You were compelled from within, a semi-conscious desire that you had no control of, as you wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek against his back as he stiffened in surprise.

"Am I to understand you finished my piece?" He asked, shakily, hands still gripping the edge of the copier as he didn't know what to do with them. You nodded, your face brushing against the wooly maroon sweater vest on his back.

"Yes," you verbalized as you realized he couldn't see the nod and released him. He turned around to face you, cheeks tinted pink with embarrassment or excitement, you weren't really sure. "And I can see you really understood my article," you grinned at him.

"Uh, yes, well," he fiddled with his glasses, not knowing how to deal with your proximity or his aired confession, "Actually, if I'm honest, I was just hoping to God I was right and wasn't being delusional," he let out a nervous laugh and you joined him. Then, he opened his arms, asking for permission to actually hug you, to hold you. And you fell into them, fitting like it's where you always belonged.

#stranger things 4 #stranger things #stranger things fred benson #fred benson x fem!reader #fred benson x reader #stranger things fred fanfic #80s

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graceverse · 4 years ago

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An Unexpected Invitation: Epilogue / Prologue

Please note that this is post "The Final" movie. This happened around 2 months after Kenshin and Enishi's fight.

He hated paper works with a force of a thousand burning suns. That he had to deal with so much seemed like an unreasonable punishment for allowing himself to work for these Meiji scums. Not everyone in the government were tyrannical usurpers, true but a good number of them were despicably dishonest, using their position to amass wealth. Everyone was trying to line their pocket with money, from the smallest official to the highest-ranking member of the Cabinet. It was despicable. The bureaucracy had allowed them to steal in new and complicated ways.

There were two ways to go about punishing the corrupt. Swift death is the easiest and one that he wished he was able to employ. Reliable as this maybe, it wasn’t always the most effective. Killing is, alas temporary. Someone new will take the vacated position and it with Japan’s luck, it will either be some young idiot appointed by virtue of his father knowing someone in the Ministry or the usual unscrupulous, greedy politician.

Politicians are the absolute worst. Disgusting thieves, all of them. Espousing modernization, liberal-democratic rule, under which they could control things, with – the fucking irony – more paper works.

What was it that he had heard just the other day? It isn’t the severity of the punishment but the certainty of it. Justice under the Rule of Law and not by the sword. And yes, this was the second way to punish the corrupt. Mountains of documents and evidence, investigative work that requires time and resources that of course, were never given to them.

Fujita Gorō, follow this Minister, suspicious activities, provide paper trail, eyewitnesses, a crime scene.

But the moment he’d ask for budget, backing and support, he’d be brushed aside, told to wait for the approval of the officials: write off a request, fill up a form. It was endless, the things he had to when he could so easily just wait in the darkness and kill evil instantly.

Saitou could feel the mild pressure of a headache starting just at the base of his skull as he narrowed his eyes at the towering stack of paper that had accumulated on top of his table.

It’s a fire hazard, he thinks, uncaringly lighting another cigarette, shaking the match to extinguish the flame. He flicked it right on the of the pile that he was supposed to be working on. He watched as part of the cover page turned dark, about to catch fire – but the flame sputtered and died before it could spread and engulf his entire desk.

Saitou briefly wondered how well that excuse will fly with his superiors when they ask him, yet again, for the report on whatever it was that they fancied. He grimaced. It was getting late. He should probably head home or swing by at an izakaya, grab something to eat. He wasn’t much of a drinker but perhaps a cup of cool sake would help with this abominable weather.

He slowly rotated his neck, fingers deftly getting rid of the knots in his muscles. Already making up his mind, he abruptly stood up, surveying the almost empty office for the investigators of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. The Ministry of Interior had been kind enough to give them a little corner where desks were shared by three, sometimes even four, investigators.

Technically, they weren’t directly reporting to him. After all he was part of the Department of Internal Affairs, but they were currently (always) short staffed and so he had been allowed to engage the police force. Saitou wouldn’t be allowed to take any one of them to China, of course – not that he meant to anyway, they didn’t have the experience or the skill required for such a delicate and dangerous assignment. He would, as always, do everything himself as soon as he steps foot in that godforsaken country.

And this only reminded him of the numerous forms he has to accomplish for that foreign trip under the guise of some diplomatic exchange of goodwill – he hasn’t read the official excuse they will be using to entrap those damnable Chinese criminals and the Japanese (shame on those bastards!) smugglers.

He had taken a great risk getting that demented Yukishiro out of prison. He was their only link with the Chinese Mafia (alive and coherent, at least) and in the brief moment that he’d spent trying to get any information from him, Saitou had already figured out the perfect way to manipulate the boy into giving him everything he needed.

Like a petulant child out for revenge, Saitou hadn’t been at all surprised when Battousa’s brother-in-law had taken the bait, crazed eyes glinting with no doubt, his own plans of sticking it to the clueless Himura. Trying to kill his giri no ani hadn’t worked (not yet, anyway) but here was an opportunity to make his life miserable. At least for a few weeks, until he could come up with a more permanent way to ruin him.

This was all so easily read from the way Yukishiro had readily agreed to the plan, no further questions asked.

I will annoy my murdering brother-in-law? What do I need to do?!

How boringly predictable. Of course, Saitou would have to expect the unexpected from Yukishiro. He would have to be very cautious and keep an eye on him. The boy didn’t crawl up to the top of the criminal underworld and gained the trust of the Chinese mafia if he hadn’t been wily. Yukishiro can be cunning, yes. Saitou was aware of that but he was also still young; ruled, just like his abhorred brother-in-law, by emotions and twisted ideals of revenge and redemption.

Proof of Yukishiro’s volatility: on the very day of his release, the idiot had burned the warehouse the government had confiscated. And for such obvious reasons, too. Saitou had wanted to strangle him for wasting the time and effort of Tokyo’s police force and the fire department something so unnecessary. He had managed to calm himself down when he saw Himura and the kid watching the fire, wide-eyed and suspicious of everyone.

Remember, this could also be fun. He had reminded himself as he left the minor chaos that Yukishiro had unleashed. Kami knows he hadn’t been able to have any sort enjoyment ever since he had started working for the government. And if it was at the expense of an old enemy, then he might as well grab the opportunity. He would have to talk to Yukishiro about subtlety. But then maybe that wasn’t something he was capable of, evident of the hot air balloon and the bombing of Tokyo for a personal grudge. Saitou could overlook that too. Since Yukishiro had gotten rid of Chou and for that, he was actually thankful.

Saitou picked up the jacket he had carefully draped over his chair. He should have kept Yukishiro locked up for another day as he called for the Kamiya girl to his office. There would be much protest from her, the kid, the Rooster, The Fox – why Battousai’s woman would want to turn her dojo into a proverbial zoo was beyond him – but they wouldn’t have any choice. He had, truth be told, wanted to look at the Kamiya girl in the eye as he proposed (ha!) the pretend marriage between her and Yukishiro.

It would probably end with a broken table and damn if that will be taken out of his already meagre salary. Speaking of which, he will be asking for a raise after this undertaking and more importantly, he will be getting it.

Saitou had started buttoning up his immaculately pressed jacket when it hit him. He clenched his teeth, hissing as he felt it slam into him. There was no holding back when that ki was released. It was a message specifically for him but it was uncontrolled enough to make some of the remaining lower ranking police officers squirm in their seats, nervously glancing around at what had caused that feeling of having their insides pinched with some inexplicable energy.

He smirked, pulling at his cuff before taking a long drag on his cigarette, narrowing his eyes as over the hazy smoke, he watched Battousai wordlessly step inside his office, stopping only when he had reached the edge of the worn-out, second-hand table (more budget constraints) that was now separating them. Saito exhaled slowly, noting the way Battousai’s eyes glittered dangerously amber. Ah, well this was at least a familiar sight. Kishikan. He couldn’t help the satisfied smile that stretched his lips.

“Saitou.” No formal, polite greeting. Even the voice was different, lowered into an almost growl.

Good. Saitou had no patience in dealing with the pretentious affectations of the ruruoni. It was always tedious dealing with all that de gozarus and senseless oro-ing. It was a shameful, cowardly act that no former hitokiri should ever indulge in and yet, here we are.

It did, however galled him that the rurouni had the audacity to march into his office so late at night, like he had some power over him. Like he had expected Saitou to just be here, waiting for him. This was also exactly why he had greatly opposed letting Himura and his merry-band of delinquents become part of official police work. Officers and investigators have inevitably become all too familiar and friendly towards, what they now fondly refer to as, The Kenshin-gumi. Kami help him.

“Yoshino!” He barked, his voice loud enough to make everyone else inside the office start grabbing random papers off of their desks, suddenly pretending to be busy. Yoshino Kentaro was the youngest officer at the headquarter and had the unfortunate appearance of having a permanently frightened wide-eyed look of a boy. His name did not help him. Neither did his chubby, child-like face. As was often the case, he was bullied by the sophomore and junior officers precisely because he looked like that. Saitou had little sympathy, but that boy was rather good in organizing files which was why he had made him his unofficial secretary.

Yoshino shuffled into the doorway, bowing and then straightening up, huge rounded eyes looking almost tearful. “Sir?”

“What did I tell you about letting people come into my office?”

The boy gulped. “To always ask if they have an appointment with you,” his eyes flitted towards Himura, who would normally be making excuses for such a slip up, but clearly Battousai was not in a very charitable mood. He remained silent as a stone, fist clenched hanging useless at this sides. “It’s already late, captain --- I had assumed that --- at this time, you wouldn’t have any appointments….” He stammered until at the very end of the sentence, Yoshino’s voice had entirely disappeared, and it was just his mouth opening and closing but no sound was coming out of it.

Saitou rolled his eyes. “Ahou! Get out, now.”

With what sounded like a faint squeak, Yoshino scampered out of sight. Hopefully now the boy will remember his rule about unexpected visitors. Especially one who looked as dangerous as Battousai. The baffled look on Yoshino’s face was exactly what Saitou had felt when he had first chanced upon the rurouni almost a year ago. That he had been dealing with Himura for so long without having any possibility of finally ending their unfinished fight, grated on his nerves.

Although Saitou had to concede that lately, he had been seeing glimpses of the hitokiri. Perhaps an opportunity will finally arrive. But to be sure, the peace-loving rurouni was still very much present and in control, given the fact that Himura hadn’t thought to ambush him on the darkened empty streets of Tokyo or to wait like a dark shadow inside his home. That he had chosen to confront him at the relatively safer police station wasn’t lost on him. Even though it really didn’t matter where they were. It wasn’t as though the combined forces of the junsa and junsa-chō could stop Battousai if he wanted to draw blood. And with the glare Himura was giving him, Saitou wouldn’t be surprised if swords would be drawn. His eyes glanced over to where his katana was resting against the wall at the other side of the room. He saw Battousai’s eyes following his gaze.

Saitou would have to flip and kick his table to distract Battousai and grab his sword, but it could be done. He’d have the satisfaction of watching all of his paper works explode into disorder. The distance wasn’t so great. Battousai seemed to be thinking of the same thing, but he didn’t make any movement to indicate that he was bothered by it. “What is so important that you couldn’t wait until tomorrow, Himura?” He asked with a drawl, refusing to sit down, forcing the hitokiri to remain standing as well.

“Kaoru-dono.” Was the curt answer, an indication that there would no waste of words and phrases tonight, which he actually appreciated.

Saitou let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “If you’re here to ask for love advice you slow--” he began, but was immediately cut off when Himura leaned forward, hands placed flat on the table, eyes burning.

“This stops now.” Himura barely even moved his mouth with the way he was clenching his teeth.

Saitou was completely unimpressed. The simmering anger was there, probably barely held in check but it wasn’t even for him. He wondered if Himura even realize that. Probably not. The idiot. The reason for this particular rage was also so disappointingly predictable. He was even more sure now that the only reason Himura survived being a hitokiri was based solely on his speed. And yes, fighting skills. But he would not have lasted a day if he had to rely on his mental agility. Which would explain how, at such a young age, he had ended up with the Ishin Shishi. So easily manipulated by his own emotions. Then and still, now.

He flicked his wrist, the ashes from his lighted cigarette scattering and settling on top of the papers on his desk, the perfect addition to that burn mark he had inflicted earlier. “Had a visit from your brother-in-law, then?” There was an even more significant spike of ki. He twisted his lips, smirking. “One thing I’ve got to say about that crazy son of a bitch, he doesn’t waste time.”

Himura audibly growled. “You want someone to make sure Enishi will do as he’s told, use me. I will go with him to Shanghai. But leave Kaoru-dono out of this.”

The vehemence in Himura’s voice wasn’t at all surprising. There was hardly anything complicated about Himura. He was easily read and therefore, easily controlled. Battousai’s weakness wasn’t the people around him that he was desperate to protect, it was his inability to take a hold of his emotions. Constantly letting his feelings interfere with what needed to be done. What does guilt have to do with trying to catch a criminal? What does compassion have to do with punishing those found guilty of their crimes? What dose love have to do with trying to build a country that the gods would favor and be proud of? Duty first, always.

“Do you see these?” He asked, indicating the pile of paper on his table. He tapped the smallest pile with his finger, “These are all of Yukishiro’s official files. Signed witnesses accounts, all the meager documents the best investigators of this country was able to gather. This is enough to throw him in jail and he will never see the light of day ever again but everyone else he had worked with, goes away free.”

Himura’s eyes squinted disinterestedly. Saito then moved his hand to sweep across the tallest pile of paperwork that hardly spruced up his deck. “Unofficial. We can’t release them. We can’t use them. Half of them mentions you, Hitokiri Battousai. His sister and the bloody mess that you created in Kyoto ten years ago.”

The eyes that slid over to him glowed golden and threatening. And Saitou had to roll his eyes. “I have no plans of babysitting the two of you on a ship to Shanghai. I have better things to do. You understand the importance of getting those documents. You of all people should know what another war would do to this country.”

Himura was shaking his head. “You don’t get to use that excuse, Saitou. We both know what the government will do with those weapons. If a war is coming, it will come, nothing we do will stop it. You and I both know that.”

Saitou narrowed his eyes at him. Not so naïve, after all. But was Battousai even aware of the dissonance of his own beliefs? Or perhaps that was just human nature? After all, didn’t he fought against the founding of this very government and now here he was, working for it? “And Shishio Makoto? Was that just your pride?”

Himura’s face contorted in anger. “Pride?! No. That was my mistake. I had a hand in creating Shishio.”

“The size of your ego is astounding, especially for your size.” He snorted, looking down at Himura who visibly bristled.

“I have nothing to do with this war.” He insisted, hands clenched against his side. “Two countries fighting each other is different from two people born to the same motherland, who speaks the same language killing each other for peace and freedom.”

Saitou nodded, finally understanding. “I see. You’ve become selfish.” Himura made sputtering noises, but he ignored him, waving his hands to silence any forthcoming protest. “The government will get those documents one way or another.”

Himura straightened his back and even though he was indeed a small man, this completely changed his stature. He could hide as an unsuspicious, clueless wanderer but if he wished it, Himura can be intimidating with just the smallest gesture. If you knew where and how to look. “Is that a threat, Saitou?”

“It is what it is, Himura. You are only angry because, you’re right: this has nothing to do with you.” Saitou crossed his arms, tapping his lit cigarette in the process. Ashes silently floated down the floor and without looking down, he moved his shoes, deflt avoiding it.

Battousai’s face hardened. “And yet you would drag Kaoru-dono into this. I am getting tired of reminding people that she is neither bait nor pawn. If I have to repeat that one more time, it will be the last.”

"Is that a threat?”

“As I have told Enishi, I will not allow it.”

Tired of this conversation, Saitou walked towards the other end of the room to pick up his sword, turning his back against Himura. He slowly pivoted to find Kenshin still standing in his place, hands by his side. “Ahou!” Saitou roared, grabbing his katana and pointing it to his arch nemesis. “It isn’t up to you. That is why you’re angry. Because it isn’t your choice to make. You do not have a say in this at all. Only Kamiya-san can decide if she’ll go with to Shanghai or not.” He let that sink in even though he already knew that Himura had grasped the truth of this. “And you are wrong, it isn’t about being pawn or bait, it’s about insurance. That is what Kamiya-san is.”

There were no more snarling or glaring. Only the cold voice of a former hitokiri, announcing imminent death. “You can say it however way you want to, Saitou. We both know that you are lying. But you’re also right. It isn’t up to me. I understand that now. Thank you.”

That was completely unexpected, Saitou had to admit and he had to take a second to compose himself. He took a deep breath, bringing his sword to his side and securing it within his belt. “That’s it?” He asked just as coldly.

Himura nodded, deeply bowing. “Yes, that is it. Try not lose sleep over it, Fujita-san.” And with that he exited the room which had gotten darker and colder.

Kami-sama, Saitou thought, tossing the now useless cigarette that Battousai’s ki had extinguished. Bastard. He’s going to need that jug of sake, because he was already certain that things are about to become much, much more complicated.

----------------------------------------------------------

And that is the end of this story. Well, part of this story. If I will continue it, I'll be posting it separately. Give me your suggestions! I will love to know what you guys think.

Also, do they feel OOC? I think they do. I think I want a more assertive Kenshin and that’s why he’s like that? I don’t know. The dialogues wrote themselves. HAHAHA. But yes, no more parts for An Unexpected Invitation . Sorry and thank you in advance for reading and leaving a review. I appreciate it like you wouldn’t believe how much.

Notes and Terms:

Izakaya - a type of informal Japanese bar that serves alcoholic drinks and snacks Izakaya are casual places for after-work drinking

Giri no ani – older brother-in-law

Kishikan – déjà vu

Kentaro - "sharp; big boy"

Junsa – police officers

Junsa-chō - Senior Police Officer

Also, Saitou is supposed to be a special agent for the Meiji Government's Department of Internal Affairs, but I don’t think he’d make that official title known, so I went with captain. If that is incorrect, please let me know. I really can’t remember how he introduced himself as – I mean to the civilians in the manga/anime/movie. The Kenshin-gumi, of course would know that he wasn’t just some regular police man and Saitou probably had told them as much. But what does Tae know of him, you know? Like she probably calls him just officer or sir. But yes, if you have any inputs here, I would really like to know.

#an unexpected invitation #4 of 4 #epilogue / prologue #?????#rurouni kenshin #rurouni kenshin fanfiction #kenshin himura #saitou hajime #saitou is pure evil #post The Final

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thefirstjade · 5 years ago

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There Are Consequences To Actions.

Against his better judgement he had allowed Lan Mingyu to travel to speak with the Sect Leader of the Jin Sect in regards to some trouble that had been had during a night hunt. She had been present as had Rulan and Sizhui and when he spoke to them all separately and than together, the story did not change. He could not take into account Jingyi because while he dearly loved all his juniors sometimes Jingyi changed his report mid report to write about something else which meant it wasn't admissible.

He had spoken to his wife before he would grant permission, because Yanli was not just a wife. She was no show piece, she was his cultivation partner, his beloved, mother of his children and she was clear headed and saw things no one else would think to look for. He valued her greatly, in Sect issues as well as family one's. She had reminded him Mingyu was his heir, that one day she would be in his shoes, and that while he could teach her all the things he knew, experience was going to have to be had in the actual situations, she needed to see first hand, she needed to make mistakes and have triumph's all on her on.

He had to let her grow up, she wasn't always going to be his baby girl forever and that was a surprisingly hard choice to make. Lan Xichen would never have taken himself for one of those father's. He loved each and every child dearly, looked forward to their birth and watching them grow up. It was always going to be hard to realize they would become adults. Between Rulan in a state of courting Sizhui, and Mingyu starting to handle some Sect duties. His youngest was in training so it was alot to take in.

He had been with Yanli in the market when one of the Sect junior, came running to them fast enough if he hit someone he was going to hurt them and himself. "Running." he pointed out and the boy immediately halted in a flurry of robes. "It's an emergency." the boy had said. Lan Ri he knew the boy he was one of the inner disciples and often served as a messenger for his Uncle. The missive told him enough that his eyes widened just reading it.

They had gall.

They had dared to do something like this to a emissary from another Sect.

To HIS daughter.

He had to close his eyes and draw in a breath and recite sect rules to himself to calm down. Though he pressed the letter into Yanli's hands. He needed to be in control when she read because someone needed to make sure his wife didn't go kill someone she had good relations with Lady Jin right up until her death. He was already dealing with other things, but they were going to have to take the backseat to dealing with this.

"I have to go. " he said once she had finished the letter he never looked as solemn as he did in that moment. "Jin Xilu seems to think that it is alright what he's done." he slowly shook his head. "I will go get A-Yu, I need you to revoke any and ALL Jin tokens , tell Uncle to have all trade cut off and no passage through the area. I will not warrant them free reign when they have proven that they can not conduct themselves in a proper, gentle fashion." his arms went around her he wasn't sure who needed the hug more.

He knew she would follow what needed to be done, because he had shown her how to permit and revoke token's. She also knew how to activate the barriers around the reaches and she would do so if he wasn't back before nightfall.

***

His appearance at Carp Tower was not announced and neither had he planned it to be. He stepped into the doors and caught one of the servants who knew who Xichen was. "My daughter ?" he said softly. "Where have they got her ?" he was not mean to the man but there was no doubt the sensation of barely contained anger around him. He remembered his restraint, and that this man had nothing to do with it.

"The medical wing." the help answered quickly and bowed to the Sect Leader. Not many of the people here knew what to make of the new Jin Sect Leader, it seemed that it was in the process of spiraling out of control even among the people here. He shook his head and continued on his way. He knew the medical wing, he had been here numerous time when A-Yao was in change. It hurt to think of a lost brother no matter how devious and cruel.

The place had not changed much it had gotten richer in decorations which was the kind way to say it was gaudy. He didn't bother to announce himself to the new Sect leader, he was good with people, the nurse he spoke to directed him to his daughter, since people always over looked those who could help because they were 'just servants' he overlooked no one.

"A-Ming ?" he called peeking into the rooms as he went until he found his child. He was trying to hold his fury in. It was due to note that Xichen held Shyoyue rather then his commonly carried Liebing.

The second he saw her was just there his speed useful for something other than combat. So he could sit on the bed and hold her hand. He didn’t dare hug her because he wouldn’t risk hurting her. “I came as soon as I got the letter.” he wasn’t going to press her for too many questions he’d let her tell him in her own time. @memorystxrs

#⚊☁⚊ 𝐕. (Canon AU )- defiance in the face of the storm #(( He pretty much said screw decorum ))#(( he's not even following etiquette at the moment ))

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tegary-blog · 7 years ago

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32 and 97 please :)

You must know me well ;) oh, also, any fans of the Bottled Star series should probably gather some tissues.

32 + 97: Pregnancy fic & time travel

“We found her trying to sneak into the East wing.”

The girl that stands in chains before him looks oddly familiar to Loki, but he can’t quite place where he seems to know her from. She’s a tall thing, lithe, with rivulets of midnight-black curls that cascade down her back and the brightest green eyes Loki thinks he’s ever seen. When a guard jostles her by the shoulder, the girl bares her teeth in a furious snarl.

“Enough of that,” Loki says, slowly rising from his seat on the throne. He prefers to sit more than stand, now, as he’s passing into his fifth month of pregnancy and his stomach has become quite the cumbersome weight.

“But your majesty–”

“We are not brutes,” Loki reminds the guard, comfortably settling one hand atop the curve of his belly. “The days of Odin’s Asgard are long gone, Aevar. Need I remind you which king you now serve?”

“No, Majesty,” Aevar mutters, and Loki waves a hand in dismissal.

“Leave us,” He says, and both of the kingsguard look up in alarm.

“You can’t be serious. Leave our Queen alone with a prisoner? The King would have our heads,” Tori, the youngest and most junior of Thor’s personal guard, balks.

“She could have been sent here to assassinate you or his Majesty!” Aevar adds, and Loki casts an unimpressed eye over the pair.

“Thor, were he here today and not off negotiating peace with the leaders of the Nine Realms, would trust and respect my judgment.” Drumming his fingers over his swollen stomach irritably, Loki again waves a hand in dismissal, this time accentuating his point with a flick of the wrist. “Now, shoo.”

Aevar and Tori look to each other, have a momentary conversation consisting of the raising of eyebrows and shrugging of shoulders, before they deem this argument a lost cause and turn to exit the throne room. Clasping his hands behind his back, Loki calls one of his favorite daggers to his fist, studying the young girl before him.

Since she’s entered the room, her eyes have not left Loki’s face. Their brilliant green is now obscured by a mist of tears, and her lips are slightly parted, lower lip quavering with an emotion that looks strangely akin to grief.

“What is your name, young one?”

Surprised at being addressed, the girl seems to snap out of her reverie, lifting her eyes to meet Loki’s. A singular tear slides down her pale cheek. “My name is Brynhild, mo–your majesty.”

Brynhild. Loki’s always been particularly fond of that name. “And why have you come here today, Brynhild?” The girl’s fists clench and unclench in their bindings, and Loki frowns. “Did someone put you up to this? If you tell us of their plan, you will not be–”

“Brynhild Lokidottir.”

Blinking harshly, Loki’s hands tighten on the hilt of the dagger behind his back. “I’m sorry?”

“You asked for my name,” Brynhild says quietly, face full of such sorrow that Loki’s heart gives an odd lurch in his chest. “My name is Brynhild Lokidottir.”

The cogs in Loki’s brain, usually swift and efficient, seem to have been doused in a vat of grease. His thoughts grind to a halt for a moment, and all Loki can do is blink dumbly at the young woman who stands before him. Now that he thinks of it, she does look strikingly similar to himself. The hair, the eyes, the moonlit-pale skin…but there’s no way he’d have a child without his knowledge. The babe that gestates within him now, made of his and Thor’s finally-recognized love, is without a doubt Loki’s first-born.

“I don’t know if this is some kind of jest–” Loki begins, but the girl interrupts him again. Brave little thing, having the gall to interrupt the All-Mother not once, but twice.

“It’s not a joke. I know this is probably hard to believe, but…” And Brynhild shifts from foot-to-foot uncomfortably. “Unchain me and I can prove it.”

Loki’s self-preservation instincts and curiosity have a short-lived battle before his need to know more comes out the victor, and he speaks a spell that unlocks the manacles around Brynhild’s wrists. She rubs them appreciatively before slowly approaching, palms out and open in a show of benign intentions.

“I’m going to reach into my back pocket, now,” She says, and Loki’s eyes track her hands as she slowly does so, retrieving what looks like a small square of paper.

Taking a careful step forward, Loki accepts the shape from Brynhild’s outstretched hands. It takes a moment for his mind to register what he’s seeing, but, as soon as it does, Loki’s heart stops for a moment.

He’s holding a picture in his hands, one that seems a little dulled by age and torn at the edges by loving fingers. Depicted on the surface is a family, seemingly at some sort of celebration. But it’s not just any family–Loki’s own visage smiles back at him from the snapshot. Thor sits next to him, one arm around Loki’s shoulders, beaming his signature sunny grin. Cradled in Loki’s arms is a bundled babe with dark hair, fast asleep against his chest, and three other children seem to be climbing over Thor’s shoulders and arms: two boys, one dark-headed and one light-headed, and a blonde little girl perched in Thor’s lap.

“What’s this?” Loki chokes out after he regains some semblance of voice.

“This is my family,” Brynhild responds softly.

When Loki looks back up, Brynhild is in tears, face buried in her hands and shoulders shaking something fierce. Moving as quickly as he can, Loki descends the stairs from the throne and gathers her close, letting her bury her face in his neck and cry.

“Why the tears, little one?” He asks when Brynhild looks up again, eyes rimmed red.

“I-I…I come from the future,” Brynhild explains, hands still fisted in Loki’s robes like if she lets go, he’ll disappear. “But not exactly your future, as it seems. In my reality, this place was destroyed long ago. I’d only ever heard of it in tales you or Papa told me. Noma must have executed the spell wrong…”

“Asgard was destroyed?” Loki asks incredulously, and Brynhild sniffles, nods.

“It’s a long story. It involves your sister, Hela.”

Stiffening at the mention of the Queen of Hel, Loki’s hand goes protectively to his bump. Hela had nearly killed them all, not so long ago. She claimed it her right, after apparently defeating some being called “Thanos” that no-one had ever heard of. It had taken all of Asgard’s combined power, but Thor and Loki had managed to seal her back in the realm from whence she came.

“In my reality…” And Brynhild’s hands tighten in Loki’s robes. “In my reality, you die two years after my birth.”

Loki freezes, chest constricting painfully. His alternate-world daughter looks up at him with wide, sad eyes, carefully bringing a palm up to touch Loki’s cheek.

“I couldn’t remember,” She says weakly. “Noma and Audun and Jari could remember, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. They told me stories of you, and Papa told me stories of you, but it wasn’t enough. I–I didn’t mean to get caught. I just wanted to see you in person, if even from afar. I wanted to know…” And her lower lip trembles again. Loki gathers her up against his chest, rests his chin on her forehead.

“Sh, little one,” He murmurs. “All will be okay.”

Interested in the universe Brynhild comes from? ;)

https://archiveofourown.org/series/908835

#tegary speaks #ficlet #thorki #trope mash up #hey nonny nonny #TTOTBO #HMTOD #a bottled star #not NECESSARILY canon for a bottled star #but hey #y'all can believe whatever you want

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creative-type · 7 years ago

Text

The Murder of Arthur Wright III

First

Last

AO3

AN: Some of the dialogue may have been inspired by @bludragongal‘s art. Fun fact, I don’t know or care about anything even remotely related to clothes and looking nice, and thus all my characters are fashion disasters by default.

Chapter Three: A Conversation in a Hospital

Margot didn’t know what to think of Dashiell Cain, but there was no doubting his sincerity. He shook Margot’s hand, thanked her again for hearing him out and turned to leave.

He nearly made it to the door when Margot let out a breath that was nearly a sigh. “Wait.”

Cain stopped.

“What are you going to do now?” Margot asked.

“Well…I hear that Wright junior’s still at the hospital convalescing,” Cain said slowly. “I thought I’d pay him a visit.”

“Not in those clothes you aren’t,” Margot said. Some small voice in the back of her mind was asking why she was doing this. It was a question Margot wasn’t sure she could answer. The story Cain presented was odd, but hardly compelling evidence that Master Wright had been murdered. Poking around where he wasn’t wanted would only upset a grieving family.

At the same time, Margot had doubts. Master Wright had gone out of his way to put every conceivable protection on his Teleportation device only for it to detonate minutes before it was to be displayed to the public. It would be foolish to rule out sabotage.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Cain asked.

“The Wright family are city elves, born and bred,” Margot said. “Do you want them to take you seriously or not?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“Do you have a suit?” Margot said. “Something with a waistcoat or jacket?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at her sidelong. “You really think I outta change?”

“Yes,” Margot said emphatically. “And leave behind the trench coat.”

Cain had the gall to look wounded. “But…pockets…”

“Master Wright might not have cared, but his son is a dandy if I ever saw one. If you want him to listen to what you have to say, you’ll ditch the coat.”

Cain stuffed a hand into his pockets, pulled out another piece of jerky, and began chewing furiously. An intent look of concentration came across his features. Then he nodded once, sharply, as if coming to a decision.

“All right, we’ll do it your way. But only if you come with me.”

“Oh, no,” Margot said. “You’re not dragging me into this. I’ve already told you, I’m not a detective.”

“Just hear me out. Me showing up dressed to the nines isn’t going to make me seem any more legitimate, trust me. But Wright knows you.”

“That’s a gross exaggeration, but even assuming it wasn’t, the fact remains I don’t know you,” Margot said. “I’m not going to vouch for your credibility as a detective when I haven’t even known you an hour.”

Cain jabbed what was left of his jerky in her direction. “Let me finish before going off making assumptions. You don’t have to do anything except be there. We don’t even have to come in together if you don’t want. The way I figure it, we could both show up saying we want to see how Mr. Wright is doing and let the conversation play out as it may. All you have to do is confirm I was there when the rig blew to smithereens and helped carry his sorry butt away from the blast site. A little goodwill can go a long way, but he’s gotta believe in that goodwill before I can do anything.”

“And what is it you’re trying to get out of visiting Mr. Wright in the hospital?” Margot asked.

Cain grinned a big, dopey grin. “That’s easy. All I’m asking is permission to investigate.”

Margot raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“As it turns out, people don’t like it when you go snooping around for no good reason,” Cain said. He scratched the back of his head ruefully. “So whaddya say, Professor? This case has been an itch I can’t scratch. Without Wright’s permission there’s nothing else I can do. You help me out here, and I’ll get out of your hair for good.”

Margot traced the edge of her coffee mug with her pointer finger, mulling over his proposition. She wasn’t sure how much stock she put in his story about the elven woman, but she did think that the authorities had been too quick to call Master Wright’s death an accident. What was the worst Mr. Wright could do, tell Cain no? What did Margot have to lose by agreeing?

Her gaze flickered to a pile of unfinished lesson plans before settling back on Cain. “How soon can you get ready?”

Cain was waiting for Margot when she arrived at the hospital, looking smart in a green waistcoat that complemented the tone of his skin and brown pants made of worsted wool. The hideous trench coat was nowhere to be found, and Margot noted approvingly that he had even taken the time to get his shoes shined. At the sight of her he gulped down the rest of a sandwich and dusted the crumbs off of his hands.

“How do I look?”

“Your tie’s crooked,” Margot said, reaching up to adjust the knot.

“You really think it’ll make that much of a difference?” Cain asked.

“I don’t know about difference, but it’ll at least give you a chance.” She gave the tie one, final tug. “Remember, I’m not vouching for you. We happened to meet in the lobby, that’s all.”

“That’s enough. Thanks for giving me a chance, Professor.”

They went to the reception desk and asked for directions. The woman looked from Margot’s burn to Cain’s hulking frame, unsure of what to make of them.

“We’re colleagues of Mr. Wright,” Cain said smoothly. “The professor and I were at the conference when it happened. We’ve come to see how he’s doing and offer our condolences.”

The receptionist’s demeanor shifted at the word ‘professor’, and Margot smiled politely. That was enough. While the receptionist scanned through the list of patient names Cain winked impishly at Margot, barely getting his expression under control before she looked up again.

“Just down the hall and to the left, past the general ward. You can’t miss it.”

Cain tipped his hat and strode in the direction she indicated, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Margot raised an eyebrow at him.

“Did you want me along so you could talk to Mr. Wright, or so you could get through the door?” she said under her breath.

The grin widened. “Yep.”

“You could have just asked,” Margot said.

“I did, and you said yes.”

They reached the door that the receptionist indicated. There was no name listed, and it was well away from the general ward, reserved for those who could afford the luxury of privacy. Cain knocked quietly and settled back to wait.

A moment later the door opened to the confused face of an elvish woman dressed from head to foot in mourning. She was young for an elf, not much older than thirty, with fine, delicate features that gave her the fragile appearance of a porcelain doll. Auburn hair was tied into an elaborate twist and pinned under a black veil that had been pushed away from dark brown eyes. Her black dress was made of paramatta silk and trimmed with black crepe, while a black-gloved hand nervously fingered the jet button at her throat.

Cain quickly removed his hat from his head. “I’m sorry to intrude. My name is Dashiell Cain, and this is Professor Margot…” He looked down at Margot with a small frown, realizing for the first time that he didn’t know her last name.

“Mr. Cain and I happened to meet in the lobby and thought we should come up together,” Margot interjected smoothly. “We were both at the mage’s conference and heard Mr. Wright hadn’t been released from the hospital yet. Is he doing well?”

The woman relaxed. “Oh yes, of course. Felix spoke of highly of your work. Come in, come in. The healers say that he should be able to discharge today.”

“Who is it, Isabella?” Felix Wright’s voice called from within the room.

“A lady and a gentleman from the mage’s conference. They’ve come to see how you’re doing.”

It wasn’t often Margot was called a lady by a member of the upper class and half-wondered if this was the woman was the one Cain had been trailing. She shot him a questioning look that he didn’t notice.

“Professor Margot, what a pleasant surprise,” Felix said. He wore dark spectacles over his eyes, and his face looked like it had been badly sunburned, but was otherwise no worse for wear. “And I see you’ve already met my wife, Isabella.”

Isabella smiled demurely while introductions were made. Cain had gone unusually quiet, so Margot took it upon herself to tell of his heroics after the explosion and their ‘coincidental’ meeting in the lobby. At the end of it Felix got up and shook Cain’s hand.

“My good man, I can’t thank you enough. While it’s true the professor’s quick thinking staved off further disaster, you had no way of knowing that and risked your life for my sake anyway. I am in your debt.”

“I did what anyone else would have done,” Cain said softly.

“Untrue,” Felix said. “I’m told you and Professor Margot here were the first to respond to the crisis. Tell me, are you a mage by trade? I don’t believe I’ve heard your name before.”

“I know some magic, but I wouldn’t call myself a mage,” Cain admitted. “I’m a private investigator out of the Pinkerton Agency, formally Westmacott Investigations.”

“Westmacott…wasn’t that the fellow who foiled the counterfeiting ring?” Felix asked.

“The very same,” Cain said. “And if I’m not mistaken, your father knew him as well. Wonderful man, Mr. Westmacott was. Never stumbled across a case he couldn’t crack.”

Felix’s face went very still. He turned to his wife. “Isabella, darling, why don’t you see how the children are doing. The boys have been particularly rambunctious of late, and I didn’t like the look of that nanny’s face.”

“Of course.”

Isabella hurried from the room, her hand drifting to a small swell of her belly not quite masked by the layers of clothing. Felix waited to speak even after the door latched closed. It was difficult to see where he was looking behind his glasses, but Margot got the impression that he was studying Cain intently, and wasn’t quite sure to make of what he found.

“Am I understanding you correctly if I say that my father was in need of Mr. Westmacott’s services?” he asked finally.

“Not recently, but yes,” Cain said. “I remember him coming in three years ago.”

“Three years? But that…? Never mind,” Felix said.

“You were under the impression Master Wright had made use of Mr. Westmacott’s services more recently?” Cain asked.

“That’s just it, I don’t know,” Felix said irritably. He gestured to some spare chairs before flopping onto his hospital bed. “You might as well sit down and forget I said anything. I was staring right at the thing when it blew, and the flash nearly burned my eyes out. Nearly going blind gives a fellow quite a bit of time to think. I don’t care what they say in schools these days, too much thinking isn’t good for you.”

Cain and Margot settled into the chairs and waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, Cain ventured, “I’m sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man.”

“So I’ve been told,” Felix said. He laced his hands across his stomach and stared at the ceiling. “I still can’t believe it. After all the work we put in, and it was all for nothing. No investor is going to want to touch his research now.”

“Investors?” Margot said.

“My dear Professor, more than anything else my father wanted to see mass Teleportation become a reality in his lifetime. Everything he did was to further his research, and that includes hiring me to help sell it to the public. He would scold me for being sentimental if I let something as trivial as his death stand in the way of that.”

He said the words evenly, the same way one would state a simple fact: Grass is green, the sky blue, and Felix Wright considered potential investors more important than mourning his father’s death. It took all of Margot’s will not to let the disgust show on her face.

“You saw him before it happened,” Felix continued. “It wasn’t like him to be that distracted.”

Cain leaned forward. “How long had he been distracted?”

“Who’s asking,” Felix said, “the detective, or the heroic bystander who happened to be in the right place at the right time?”

“I don’t know what you…”

“Let’s not be coy with one another, Mr. Cain,” Felix said coolly. “You saved my life at that conference. I respect you for that, truly I do, but I don’t believe for one moment that simple altruism brought you came here today. If it’s money you want, you can get out right now, but if you’ve come as a detective—a student of Conan Westmacott, no less—then we can talk.”

Cain leaned back in his chair, resting his hat on his knee. “Most detectives end up getting paid, Mr. Wright. Who’s to say I’m not here for both?”

The answer stunned Felix Wright, and for a moment Margot thought that he was going to throw them both out. Then a slow, oily smile spread across his face and he laughed a sharp, barking laugh.

“You got me there, sir. Yes, I suppose it’s true, most detectives do get paid for their work. I’ll grant you that much. So don’t think my father’s death was an accident?”

“I don’t think anything yet, but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t worth investigating.”

“Fair enough.” Felix turned to Margot. “And what about you, Professor? Did you truly meet this man by accident today, or do you share his sentiments?”

Margot crossed her arms. “To be honest, I’m not sure what to think.”

Felix nodded. “I agree it sounds preposterous, but that makes it no less true. Mr. Cain, it is my belief that my father was murdered, and it was my sister who killed him. If you can prove this to be true I’ll make sure you’re handsomely rewarded for your efforts.”

“And if my investigation leads to a different conclusion?” Cain said, tilting his head thoughtfully.

“It won’t,” Felix said, “and I can prove it.”

#The Murder of Arthur Wright #daughter of the lilies fanfiction #daughter of the lilies #Margot #fanfiction #dotl fanfiction #creative-type writes

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xadoheandterra · 7 years ago

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Title: Won’t Say You’re Sorry Chapter: I (II / III) Fandom: Red vs Blue Character: Lavernius Tucker, Vice Admiral Christina Odan | Tucker’s Mom, Captain Arlene Volt Summary: This had to be the present day version of dropping your kid off on the steps of high school, calling them 'buga-boo-boo,' and giving kissey faces in front of their peers much to their eternal embarrassment--expect the stricter, navy version, a giant space ship, a planet, and none of your kids' actual peers.

God if Tucker didn't miss his mom, though, embarrassment aside.

Don’t Write Me A Postscript (I / II / III / IV / V / VI / VII / VIII / IX / X / XI / XII / XII)

Do You Even Feel Compassion? (I / II)

It started not with a whimper, but a bang. Tucker stared up at the sky, pale and ashen and sick to his stomach, and watched the pelican explode with his son on it. He’d only just gotten used to the fact that shit he was a father—and sure his kid was born out of a strange mix of alien impregnation and rape—but he was a father. No matter who much he’d joked with his sisters and his dad back home about the number of bastards he’d probably sired, he never actually had a kid before. He’d never been responsible for one before.

Now—now Church’s fucking girlfriend took his kid—took his kid and then—then Sarge placed Andy—fucking Andy—on that same ship and just—Tucker felt sick to his stomach. He felt weak in the knees. He didn’t know what to do or what he needed to do. A part of him wanted to just burst the sword into being and stab it straight through Sarge’s fucking face.

(his lower back throbbed)

(he refused to think on that)

With a snarl Tucker pushed past Caboose, pushed away from the moved grip—almost shoved Sister—and stormed back into the base without a word. He could hear Church whisper, “Tex?” and all Tucker wanted to do was scream.

It wasn’t just your damn girlfriend, Church!

What about my kid?!

Tucker’s footsteps grew faster until he practically ran through the base, ripped his helmet off, and bent over double in front of the toilet. He heaved; he collapsed to his knees and, alone, let the tears fall as he heaved. After years in this godforsaken army not once had Tucker felt like this. He felt carved out and desperate and his chest hurt. Tucker heaved and threw up and cried messily in the bathroom for what felt like hours.

When he cleaned himself up, and for the days after, everyone moved as if they were on auto-pilot. Tucker didn’t speak to Church, and Church didn’t speak to Tucker. That, in the end, was just the way Tucker wanted things to go. It was all Church’s fault, anyway. Church’s fucking weird mess with Freelancer and his girlfriend and all the crazy, insane bullshit they were forced to go through. All for goddamn Church.

Tucker hated that fucking asshole. The bastard didn’t even have the gall to say sorry.

When the pelican ship arrived to pick him up and take him off to his new assignment, Tucker left in silence. Normally he would’ve had his usual banter with Church, a while means of communication they’d come to create between themselves and their time at Blood Gulch, but now? With how infuriated Tucker was, with how dismissive Church was—with Sister and the bullshit and their goddamn relationship like Tex hadn’t even been a thing to Church; like the mess hadn’t even happened—Tucker kept quiet. Even though Church stood and watched him off, Tucker kept quiet.

The asshole didn’t deserve his words. Not anymore.

The doors to the pelican finally slid shut, and Tucker could feel the engines rumble beneath him as they took to the air; finally he relaxed. One hand slipped down to the hilt of his Sangheili blade—

(mine)

—and then he breathed out explosively when yet again he realized that it was gone.

Tucker’s lower back twinged and he closed his eyes and slapped his head back against the wall of the pelican. One of the soldiers manning the pelican glanced over to him and Tucker noted that she wasn’t in power armor. He thought for a minute to crack a joke, throw a pickup line, but ever since Junior had been kidnapped and killed he just didn’t have the heart in it.

“Sir?” Tucker tilted his head toward the soldier to let her know he was listening, even as he mouthed ‘sir’ in surprise. “I have been instructed to inform you that the Captain orders for helmets at the very least to be off outside of live fire situations.”

From behind his helmet Tucker frowned. “That sounds like I’ll be ship bound,” he said slowly.

The soldier nodded her head. “Yes sir.” She had pretty eyes, Tucker noted. His back twinged again and he sighed explosively.

“Fine.”

The helmet released with a hiss and the subtle lick against his neck from the neural implants faded back into obscurity. Tucker shook his head to rid his ears of the ringing and then pulled off the armor over his hands to properly dig his fingers into the back of his neck just above where the implants ended.

“Does your Captain want me to completely undress too?” Tucker drawled. His lips quirked up as he spoke, especially when he caught the way her cheeks reddened slightly. Damn he had to be looking good for that, not that Tucker doubted for a moment.

“No sir,” the soldier said, evenly.

Guess I’ll just have to try harder to ruffle her feathers then, Tucker mused. He tugged off his other glove and massaged around his neck, careful to brush at the edge of circuitry and skin. While it hadn’t been too long since he’d been out of armor—just a mere hour or so, in fact—Tucker wasn’t above playing up how pleasurable the action felt. He let out soft, faint groans because why the fuck not? He might not have the heart for flirting, maybe even hooking up, but damn that blush didn’t signal some primal part of his mind.

Bow chicka bow wow, Tucker thought. His lower back burned and he had to pull his hands away with a faint grimace. He shook his head, tried to get rid of the thoughts that bounced around in it, and instead tugged his gloves back on. The helmet Tucker settled into the seat next to himself and glanced over at the beautiful, pale-eyed creature who, dare Tucker say it—nay, think it?—looked disappointed. He shuffled, let his legs slip open as he settled his arms across the seat and watched her with ‘bedroom’ eyes. He watched how her eyes dipped down toward his codpiece and smirked.

Ah, there we go.

“Sir,” she said, slowly. “I feel I must warn you.”

“What about?” Tucker drawled casually.

“Well…” the soldier started slowly, and she drew out the word enough that Tucker felt his grin grow from ear to ear and a thrill of something for a moment forgotten raced through his veins.

“Well…” Tucker drawled back out, and then opened his mouth to shoot of something more when the sudden rock of turbulence caught him completely off balance. He let out a yelp as he practically flew from his seat onto the metal of the deck with a shrieked, “Fuck!” to the laughter of the lone soldier.

“Well we’re about to hit atmo,” she twittered, and Tucker groaned.

“So. Not. Cool,” he said, face still pressed down into the metal of the ship. He pushed himself up and pinched at his nose. “Is it broken?” he whined, and she shook her head.

“Buckle up, buttercup,” the soldier laughed. “It won’t be long before we’re docked aboard the Viper’s Nest.”

Tucker flopped back into his seat and frowned; he winced when his nose throbbed and glanced at his gloved fingers distastefully in search of any bleeding, before he looked back over at the soldier. “The UNSC Viper’s Nest?” Tucker asked. He let his hands fall into his lap. “Flagship for the tenth fleet?” The resulting grin from the soldier placed lead in his stomach. “Sonnovabitch.”

(he knew this had been too good to be true)

Ship Captain Arlene Volt looked over the readouts aboard the bridge stiff backed and lips pressed together. She waited for the word to come through that their package had safely made it aboard, gaze focused steadily on the rotating planet they settled into orbit around. She tried rather hard not to think about the person at her back, the intimidating presence and sole reason why the Viper’s Nest even was at this backwater outpost of a planet.

“Captain, dropship is finishing up docking procedures,” one of the technicians chimed up, and Arlene relaxed minutely. She glanced over at the Vice Admiral.

“And our package?” Arlene questioned.

“Safely onboard,” the technician said.

The Vice Admiral let out a huff, the only sign she’d even heard the technician, as she turned sharply on heel.

“Ma’am?” Arlene quickly fell into step with the older woman.

“Send word to route Lavernius to my office,” the Vice Admiral said stiffly. “Then, once docking procedures are finished, continue with our headway.”

“Ma’am,” Arlene nodded and branched away. She shared a quick glance with the ships AI who watched the Vice Admiral leave the bridge, before Arlene made a quick gesture for him to relay the Vice Admiral’s commands.

“Frightening woman,” Deckard said carefully as he manipulated the ships systems.

“At least you rarely talk to her,” Arlene said tiredly. “I don’t even want to fathom what a Project Freelancer Private did to get on her list.”

“I’d imagine being born would suffice plenty,” Deckard mused, and then vanished just in time for Arlene’s hand to swipe through his hologram. “Really, Captain Volt? I am nothing more than a hologram projection, you know.”

Arlene grumbled. “Makes me fucking feel better.” Arlene settled in front of the large map that took up a good portion of the bridge. “This is our last unexpected stop, right?”

“Correct,” Deckard reappeared in front of the map. “After this we should have a fairly straightforward trip back into Earth’s space.”

“We won’t need to anticipate some sort of reaction from Project Freelancer for poaching one of their military fodder?” Arlene questioned. Deckard shrugged his shoulders.

“It seemed rather like Project Freelancer was all too happy to hand over Private Tucker,” Deckard said. “No projected issues on that front.”

“That…is not a ringing endorsement,” Arlene sighed. “Suddenly I’m far more worried about this Private then I was five minutes ago.”

Deckard flickered out of view and reappeared in view a second later. “I ran through the records. Private Tucker is a flirt, but relatively harmless. Surprisingly bright. With these tests scores he could’ve easily received an officer rank within the UNSC Navy, maybe even fast-tracked to FLEETCOM. Hm, wonder why he got relegated to Freelancer military?”

“Who knows?” Arlene shrugged. “Maybe he has a cognitive defect.”

“That would be in his medical file,” Deckard pointed out.

“Whatever the reason,” Arlene turned around and stared back out into space with a frown, “this Private is nothing but trouble. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Deckard flickered away. “So you say, Captain.” A soft alarm rang throughout the entire ship for all of a hot second, followed by the announcement that the ship would be entering slip space within five minutes.

Arlene pressed her lips together. “Definitely trouble,” she grumbled. Arlene did not look forward to Private Lavernius Tucker being aboard the Viper’s Nest—not one bit.

#rvb #red vs blue #lavernius tucker #tucker rvb #fanfic #fic: don't write me a postscript #fic: won't say you're sorry #tucker family drama #this idea wouldn't leave me alone #sorry but not sorry

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qodforsakens · 7 years ago

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QUESTIONNAIRE 4 SUFFERING

Q: WHAT IS YOUR MIDDLE NAME ? A: Ashley. Relatively unoriginal, but my mom wanted my middle name to be Blue ( in which case i would have DIED ) Q: HOW OLD ARE YOU ? A: Feel like I’m 12 but I’m almost 20 Q: WHEN IS YOUR BIRTHDAY ? A: March 21st, i’mmA SPRING BABY

Q: WHAT IS YOUR ZODIAC SIGN ? A: Technically an Aries but ig i’m on the “ Pisces Cusp ” ? dk what that means but my mom told me the other day but i feel as if i’ve cheated astrology stuff lols ?

Q: WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR ? A: I don’t really have one, but I like the color pink a lot so maybe pink

Q: WHAT’S YOUR LUCKY NUMBER ? A: Lucky who ?

Q: DO YOU HAVE ANY PETS ? A: Three ! Bailey, Dana and Melvin.

Q: WHERE ARE YOU FROM ? A: Everywhere ? Born in Missoula, Montana / raised in Wisconsin until I was around 12 / went to school in Montana until I was a sophomore / went for a semester of school during sophomore year in Wild Rose, Wisconsin / moved back to a quaint Deer Lodge, Montana until the end of my junior year / moved to Hudson, Wisconsin my senior year of HS and lived there until July 31st / living in the Shithole that is Mondovi, Wisconsin.

Q: HOW TALL ARE YOU ? A: 5′5 3/4″. The 3/4″ is important to note because I’m NEARLY 5′6″ and most everyone in my family is around 6′. I’m dead inside

Q: WHAT SHOE SIZE ARE YOU ? A: Technically a 9.5 but the size varies by brand.

Q: HOW MANY PAIRS OF SHOES DO YOU OWN ? A: Probably nine, but I hardly wear any of them because I work at the fucking time

Q: WHAT WAS YOUR LAST DREAM ABOUT ? A: I remember that I had ANOTHER dream with u in it but I didn’t remember enough about it that it was worth sharing ? But I did wake up feeling like all of my problems were gone so it was a positive dream

Q: WHAT TALENTS DO YOU HAVE ? A: I can learn songs from musicals in no time.

Q: ARE YOU PSYCHIC IN ANY WAY ? A: No, next question

Q: FAVORITE SONG ? A: My favorite song is either You and I ( Lady Gaga, Born This Way ) or The Cure ( also Gaga, current single )

Q: FAVORITE MOVIE ? A: RENT. Hands down my favorite movie of all time. I could watch it on a loop tbh

Q: WHO WOULD BE YOUR IDEAL PARTNER ? A: Someone who understood that I’m really fucking depressive all the time, like, grossly depressive ? I can joke abt wanting to kill myself 500 times and not mean it, but other times I do and I wish ! ppl could read minds bc having to tell someone that I’m depressed makes me hurt worse bc I feel like a Disappointment

Q: DO YOU WANT CHILDREN ? A: I’m not sure if I do. I mean, at nineteen ? No fucking way. In ten years ? Maybe, I’m thinking yes, but to be decided obviously

Q: DO YOU WANT A CHURCH WEDDING ? A: Probably, but not because I’m religious

Q: ARE YOU RELIGIOUS ? A: I don’t follow any religion, but when I’m scared I repeat, “ i believe in God. ” until my freight vanishes

Q: HAVE YOU EVER BEEN TO THE HOSPITAL ? A: A few times. Three were the most serious. Broke my wrist, caught Lymes Disease via nasty-ass deer ticks and had a concussion from cheer.

Q: HAVE YOU EVER GOT IN TROUBLE WITH THE LAW ? A: Once, and it actually wasn’t my fault. I was, hello, gay-baited and naive, and the gal that gay-baited me told me that it was LEGAL to spray paint. Because it was Montana, I didn’t get into much trouble but was supposed to go to a local courthouse to clear up w/e had happened which never occurred bc not even a month later were we moving to Wisconsin

Q: HAVE YOU EVER MET ANY CELEBRITIES ? A: One but he’s gross so : /

Q: BATHS OR SHOWERS ? A: Showers but only if I don’t have bath bombs to use

Q: WHAT COLOR SOCKS ARE YOU WEARING ? A: Currently none bc I’m in bed and it’s 4:13 a.m.

Q: HAVE YOU EVER BEEN FAMOUS ? A: Thankfully not

Q: WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE A BIG CELEBRITY ? A: Maybe a Broadway star or jazz singer but other than that ? Pass

Q: WHAT TYPE OF MUSIC DO YOU LIKE ? A: MOSTLY SHOW TUNES, BUT GAGA / QUEEN / DAVID BOWIE

Q: HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SKINNY DIPPING ? A: Don’t have the gall to tbh

Q: HOW MANY PILLOWS DO YOU SLEEP WITH ? A: I think six ? Too lazy to count rn

Q: WHAT POSITION DO YOU SLEEP IN ? A: I fall asleep laying on my side, facing the wall, with my legs folded like ? behind me but i always wake up laying on my back so

Q: HOW BIG IS YOUR HOUSE ? A: uh average ?

Q: WHAT DO YOU TYPICALLY HAVE FOR BREAKFAST ? A: I rarely eat which doesn’T show but I sleep and work too much to fit breakfast into an every day schedule

Q: HAVE I EVER FIRED A GUN ? A: My dad is a white male AND a conservative from Montana, u tell me

Q: HAVE YOU TRIED ARCHERY ? A: In high school bc I needed to do it to pass P.E. but it was not my thing

Q: FAVORITE CLEAN WORD ? A: idk if i have one ? i say Mood all the time but that’s not a favorite

Q: FAVORITE SWEAR WORD ? A: Bitchin’

Q: WHAT’S THE LONGEST YOU’VE GONE WITHOUT SLEEP ? A: Around 25-ish hours ? I can’t handle that anymore tho

Q: DO YOU HAVE ANY SCARS ? A: I have a handful of scars on my forehead bc of an Incident in kindergarten, a scar on my left earlobe bc a dog almost ripped my fucking earlobe off and one on my right big toe due to my brother not telling me abt the glass he broke and didn’t clean up : ) that one cut to the bone : ) and a few on my left arm lols

Q: Have you ever had a secret admirer ? A: Not attractive enough tbh

Q: ARE YOU A GOOD LIAR ? A: I don’t lie on per the norm so no. I smile too much tbh

Q: ARE YOU A GOOD JUDGE OF CHARACTER ? A: Usually not.

Q: CAN YOU DO ANY OTHER ACCENTS OTHER THAN YOUR OWN ? A: I can slip into accents for .00006 seconds but no one ever hears them

Q: DO YOU HAVE A STRONG ACCENT ? A: God I wish

Q: WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ACCENT ? A: Boston / Mass accents.

Q: WHAT IS YOUR PERSONALITY TYPE ? A: This requires me to take a long-ass test n i’m not gna do that rn

Q: WHAT IS YOUR MOST EXPENSIVE PIECE OF CLOTHING ? A: Probably my $70-$80 jeans that are now Ruined

Q: CAN YOU CURL YOUR TONGUE ? A: Mhm

Q: ARE YOU AN INNIE OR AN OUTIE ? A: Innie

Q: LEFT OR RIGHT HANDED ? A: Right

Q: ARE YOU AFRAID OF SPIDERS ? A: Naturally

Q: FAVORITE FOOD ? A: Highkey Gyros

Q: FAVORITE FOREIGN FOOD ? A: GYROS

Q: ARE YOU A CLEAN OR MESSY PERSON ? A: Both : (

Q: MOST USED PHRASE ? A: haHahahA whatta mood !

Q: MOST USED WORD ? A: Mood

Q: HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE FOR YOU TO GET READY ? A: Two hours

Q: DO YOU HAVE MUCH OF AN EGO ? A: Probably best known for forgetting things

Q: DO YOU SUCK OR BITE LOLLIPOPS ? A: suck eM

Q: DO YOU TALK TO YOURSELF ? A: Probably

Q: DO YOU SING TO YOURSELF ? A: All the time

Q: ARE YOU A GOOD SINGER ? A: I’ve been told that I am by a handful of ppl but who knows

Q: BIGGEST FEAR ? A: Drowning, burning to death or being stabbed in either lung bc yiKEs

Q: ARE YOU A GOSSIP ? A: Not necessarily tbh

Q: BEST DRAMATIC MOVIE YOU’VE SEEN ? A: Baby driver but it wasn’t rlly dramatic ?

Q: DO YOU LIKE LONG OR SHORT HAIR ? A: On me, it’s a tie tbh. I love long hair until I have it n then I want it shoRT SO

Q: CAN YOU NAME ALL 50 STATES OF AMERICA ? A: If I have a while to think abt them then yes. If not, no

Q: FAVORITE SCHOOL SUBJECT ? A: English / Language

Q: EXTROVERT OR INTROVERT ? A: Intro x100

Q: HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SCUBA DIVING ? A: No and I don’t want to

Q: WHAT MAKES YOU NERVOUS ? A: Being honest abt how I feel regardless of context

Q: ARE YOU SCARED OF THE DARK ? A: I’m the Biggest baby so yes

Q: DO YOU CORRECT PEOPLE WHEN THEY MAKE MISTAKES ? A: Not verbally bc I wasn’t raised in the jungle

Q: ARE YOU TICKLISH ? A: EvERYWHERE

Q: HAVE YOU EVER STARTED A RUMOR ? A: Gross, no

Q: HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN A POSITION OF AUTHORITY ? A: Once for a hs class assignment but I’m the only one who worked on the project in the long-run

Q: HAVE YOU EVER DRANK UNDERAGE ? A: mhm

Q: HAVE YOU EVER DONE DRUGS ? A: Only smoked weed tbh

Q: WHO WAS YOUR FIRST REAL CRUSH ? A: My kindergarten boyfriend, how the turntables

Q: HOW MANY PIERCINGS DO YOU HAVE ? A: Eleven

Q: CAN YOU ROLL YOUR Rs ? A: Barely !

Q: HOW FAST CAN YOU TYPE ? A: Pretty fast, idk the wpm tho

Q: HOW FAST CAN YOU RUN ? A: What is this, middle school ?

Q: WHAT COLOR IS YOUR HAIR ? A: Bleached bitch

Q: WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR EYES ? A: Brown

Q: WHAT ARE YOU ALLERGIC TO ? A: Cats, unfortunately

Q: DO YOU KEEP A JOURNAL ? A: I don’t but should

Q: WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS DO ? A: My dad is a licensed Electrician and my mom works at a grocery store

Q: DO YOU LIKE YOUR AGE ? A: I feel 12 yall

Q: WHAT MAKES YOU ANGRY ? A: Being mocked or people bickering with me over something that I’m obviously right about

Q: DO YOU LIKE YOUR OWN NAME ? A: Skye is a shit name tbh, would change it to Liz if my parents wouldn’t freak out about it.

Q: HAVE YOU ALREADY THOUGHT OF BABY NAMES, AND IF SO WHAT ARE THEY ? A: I love feminine / strong / unisex names.

Q: DO YOU WANT A BOY OR GIRL FOR A CHILD ? A: Idk probably either

Q: WHAT ARE YOUR STRENGTHS ? A: Doubting everyone

Q: WHAT ARE YOUR WEAKNESSES ? A: Assuming the worst of ppl

Q: HOW DID YOU GET YOUR NAME ? A: Well, my mom wrote a list of names on a sheet of paper and my dad liked Skye so here we are. I was almost a Chloe / Mercedes / Samantha.

Q: WERE YOUR ANCESTORS ROYALTY ? A: Obviously not

Q: COLOR OF YOUR BEDSPREAD ? A: Black ONLY because my main sheets had been washed recently and I haven’t changed back

Q: COLOR OF YOUR ROOM ? A: Yellow but not by choice

And the meme is from HERE. Tagging @heartcraves but u genuinely don’t have to do this bc it took me almost two hours so please spare yourself

#personal tbt.#i wanted to stop @ question 19 but here we are #this Goes to my mom who says i haVE NO FOLLOW THRU

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chibicrow · 8 years ago

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In reference to this post:

I just got a chat message from one of my mutuals, saying they didn’t realize Crow-sama was hated to the degree I described, and that just reminded me of something that happened to me last week on Twitter that made me upset, but I couldn’t really outright say it.

Another mutual (different from the one I described) told me, “Isn’t it about time you got over Arc V 120?”

And she didn’t come from a place of malice when she asked, but it bothered me a lot.

You know, Arc V 120. AKA the only YGO episode I’ve ever had a literal panic attack over AKA where Crow-sama got carded.

This episode was horrendous enough. My all-time fave fictional character, a veteran YGO character, was carded, for fuck’s sake. And, to add to that, in retrospect, his being carded proved to add absolutely nothing to the plot.

Yes, he was going to come back eventually. Yes, he’s a fictional character and I should have my priorities in order bla bla bla. But, y’all know how much the flyboy means to me. His being carded for just mere . . . mere shock value wasn’t something I would take lightly.

But, to add to that, I remember one time I saw a post on the YGO Confessions blog (which I hope has been discontinued b/c it was honestly a pile of garbage) where someone actually had the guts to say “I’m glad he was carded because he’s an absolutely useless character with no development like his 5D’s counterpart was.”

I knew the obnoxious anti-Crow-sama people were still out there, ever since it was announced Crow-sama and Jack would be in Arc V and people were all “ew. why them? BRING BACK YUSEI.” But, honestly, Crow-sama did absolutely nothing to deserve being carded? And he’s not useless? HE SAVED YUYA’S LIFE MULTIPLE TIMES?????

There I was, a junior in college who’s starting to feel the weight of “going into the real world,” seeing this comment. And it pissed me off. So much so, I remember commenting on it and then promptly blocking the post when someone else had the gall to say “They’re just voicing their opinion! You all are just being stupid.” after reblogging my addition to the post.

There’s a difference between “having an opinion” and “having an opinion that is grossly malinformed and insulting.” I’d like to think that “I’m glad Crow-sama’s gone b/c he’s useless” is the latter.

The YGO fandom is absolutely vicious when it comes to the female characters and blaming them when it comes to their precious yaoi ships, I won’t discredit that.

And heaven forbid you’re an irredeemable villain in YGO. Fuck you especially.

Also, a lot of people in the fandom seem to be out for Yuma’s blood? Like what the hell is with that.

But, if you exclude the females and the villains (and Yuma lmao), by far the most hated individual in the YGO fandom who I have seen is, without a doubt, Crow-sama.

All because he just happens to have an ultra-popular deck archetype that may or may not have been the primary factor in executive decision making in 5D’s and Arc V. Even tho Crow-sama wasn’t particularly treated any better than anyone else, but no one in the obnoxious anti-Crow-sama faction wants to admit that.

It’s just. It’s too exhausting. All of this bullshit.

I’m not saying everyone has to love Crow-sama to the extent that I do b/c that’s literally impossible and Crow-sama isn’t everyone’s character type. I’m not even saying everyone has to like him for that reason b/c believe me, I understand precisely how someone could not like him.

But again, there’s a difference between “I don’t like this character” and “I don’t like this character and everyone else who likes him are a bunch of idiots who can’t watch the show properly.”

So yeah. That’s why I won’t be ever over Arc V 120 for a while. So don’t ask me to do it.

#natsumi talks arc-v #natsumi talks 5d's #sorry for the emotionally powered rants y'all but #i feel like people really need to understand where i'm coming from when i get all bent of shape over an anti-crow-sama comment

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sedimentarydearwatson · 8 years ago

Text

[Finisterre] Another Round

He’d remember some time when some kid came to him: he’d know what he said could save some kid’s life and he’d take the time.

(Rider at the Gate, pp. 467)

You’ve knocked back at least one more drink than is wise before you find the courage to make your way to the table. Nerves bolstered, or perhaps just numbed. At least your legs don’t wobble.

The two men seated there don’t look up until you’re nearly standing over them, but there’s little reason they would – you’re no familiar face. Just one more greenhorn junior lurking nervously in the shadows, pretending like you belong. The town riders know you, of course, but you chose these men because you’ve not seen them around camp before. You chose them for their sun-creased jackets and the way there was no map spread on the table as they argued in low voices, tracing invisible pathways on the table with their fingers, memory alone shaping the terrain.

Men who’ve gone the long distances, seen the unmarked trails. Borderers.

Their argument’s long since passed into a comfortable lounging, light talk between themselves and some with other riders, and your judicious eavesdropping has earned you a name - Fisher - that you think belongs to the one on the left, the shorter and lankier of the two. He’s the first to pay you any mind, pausing over the last of his bottle to lift an eyebrow, and his companion follows the silent signal like it’s a whisper in the Wild. You hold steady under their gazes, fold your arms across your chest, and try to will the sweating stay under your collar.

“Buy you a drink?” you say.

No real ambient here, as far as the tavern is from the dens; boss doesn’t think drink and horses mix, and she’s probably right. Means there’s nothing to carry your apprehension to them, but also nothing to tell you what they’re thinking in turn, and their faces aren’t saying a whole lot as they look you up and down.

“What’s the occasion?” Fisher says.

“No occasion,” you say. “Just looking to have a talk.”

The other man – lighter in hair, broader around the shoulders – sits back in his seat a little, dismissive in a way that sends panic jolting through you. “We’re not taking on hires right now.”

“Not after being hired. Only-”

“Talk.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah.”

They exchange a look. It’s easy to see their long association; spend enough time on the road, enough time with the horses tangling your thoughts together, and a man’s mind stops being such a mystery even in the private moments. Partners, maybe.

“Alright,” Fisher says. There’s a shrewdness in his eyes that makes you think you’re not masking your nervousness half as well as you’d like, but no tease in his voice when he says, “I’ll take a beer since you’re offering. Carlo?”

“None for me,” the other says, without rancour. “I’ve had my share for the night.” The glass at his elbow doesn’t look tall enough to be any kind of concern, but you know better than to question a rider’s judgement of their own limits. Besides, your wallet’s not so deep that it’s in your interests to go insisting.

The giddiness of success chases you all the way back to the bar and through laying out your bills for two drinks. A subtle glance back over your shoulder shows Fisher shrugging at something his companion – Carlo – has said. Hopefully not fending off protests about having some new kid butting into their evening. The bartender meets you with a knowing look as you turn back around, so you grab the drinks she slides you and hurry away before anyone else can cast judgement down for having the gall to go cosying up to seniors.

Fisher takes his with a nod and a thanks, and doesn’t ask you what the devil you’re thinking when you tentatively set yours down in front of a spare seat. Just siphons some of the froth off the top of the glass, makes an appreciative sound, and says, “What’s your name?”

“Lou. Lou Bresil, on-” Instinctively you try to say her name as you know it, as <wind washing across wide grassy plains, rippling colour as the stalks bend in waves>, but without a horse around you have to settle for the lame verbalisation of, “Ripple.” You’re sure it sends most minds to water.

“Dan Fisher. And my partner, Carlo Goss.”

“Goss?” you say, surprised, hand on the back of your chair. “Huh. You have aught to do with Tarmin?”

Turns out you don’t need the ambient to sense a change in the atmosphere. Fisher presses lips together, flicks his eyes sideways at his partner. Goss…Goss is a large man, you realise suddenly. Looks it next to Fisher a little, but looks it all the more when he goes still like that and fixes you with a hard stare, his wide, callused hands folded on the tabletop.

“Why do you ask?” he says, deep-voiced and quiet.

“I don’t mean anything by it,” you say hastily, fumbling, trying to work out how you’ve stepped so wrong. Tarmin’s a big settlement, respectable; maybe has more than its fair share of spook-tales attached with the Fall and all, but not the kind of place a rider could be expected to hackle about. “I just, I did an escort ride that way a month back – with others of course, I don’t ride by myself yet, not that you get a lot of solitary jobs heading up the mountains-” Lord save you, you’re babbling to borderers. “There was a town rider, a junior, went by Goss. Randy Goss and, uh, a mare, Ridge or summin’…”

“Rise,” Goss says. “Randy and Rise. My brother.”

He smiles a little as he says it, a small turn of the lips that blows all the gathering tension out of the room and nearly drops you where you stand out of sheer relief. Just like that, danger’s passed. You don’t waste time in staggering into your seat before you give them another reason to change their minds over your company.

“Rise,” you say, “yeah, that’s the one, Rise. Your brother?”

“Since birth,” Fisher quips. Goss ignores him with the ease of long practice.

“How’s he doing?” he says instead. “He looking well?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say, and curse yourself for the lost opportunity. The ride up the mountain had been a blur of keeping Ripple from sticking her nose where something might bite it off and keeping your own head quiet and clear of the seniors and their oft-thin patience; by the time the convoy reached Tarmin you’d been plumb exhausted and not inclined to seek company or long conversation. You remember Randy Goss – smooth-talking confident, on the cusp of making senior – but you doubt he’d say the same of you. “Looked good, I guess? Pretty busy. Camp boss seemed to keep him running.”

Fisher snorts into his drink and Goss twitches a smile again. There’s a story there, you realise, wistfully envious. Townsfolk talk like the borderer life is a lonesome thing, always being on the move; no roots, no community. Watching the easy familiarity here, the half dozen riders they seem to know in this bar alone, you don’t think lonely is a feeling that hangs on them overmuch.

“I’ll never be so glad as when he didn’t take up with that colt,” Goss muses.

“At least you’d know it had good lineage,” Fisher points out, and Goss shakes his head, like there aren’t enough saving graces on the planet.

“Colts are bad?” you say doubtfully.

“Older horse or mare?” Fisher asks of you, and when you nod to the latter he says, “Colts are wandersome. Not to say mares can’t be too, but male horses just tend to be a bit more…”

“Stupid about it,” Goss says blandly.

“Thanks, Carlo.”

“Your own words, Danny.”

“Mares can be stupid enough,” you mutter into your glass, memory full of Ripple’s free-spirited curiosity and all its wrought, and flush a little at their chuckles.

“Well,” Goss says. “Young is still young.”

It could be a jab, but it doesn’t feel like it, not when you look at the fondness playing about his face. More likely still thinking on his brother. Not uncommon to get family out among the riders, of course, though you wonder at what sets one on the roads and keeps another close to town. Goss the younger had seemed to know the place well, and it had been a strange town to navigate even in just the rider camp, newer architecture jostled up alongside structures from before the Fall-

For a second Tarmin seems to flicker in front of your eyes, and maybe something else too, something not your own, and you hunch in your seat, thinking <tall grass, long grass, straw-dry and whispering> in sheer nervous reflex – but the horse, if it is one, is passing at a distance and neither of the seniors show sign of hearing you. Doesn’t mean they didn’t, but they’re at least being polite about it.

Something prompts Goss to half-turn in any case, hooking an arm over the back of his chair as he glances towards where the clock is nailed to the tavern wall. “Might move on,” he says as he turns around again, more to Fisher than you. “I want to look in on spook before turning in,” and before you have a chance to parse that sentence he’s giving you a tip of the head. “Pleasure meeting you. And thanks for the news.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you too.” You drag your thoughts away from wondering why a rider is looking for a spook in time to say, “Hell, gives me something to say to Goss- uh, Randy, if I see him again.”

It gets you another small smile – easy button to press, that one – but then as he stands, Fisher reaches out, smacks the back of his hand lightly against Goss’ arm. “Carlo, if you’re heading to the dens, mind checking-”

“Yeah, Danny,” is the response, all exasperated affection like it’s an unnecessary asking and Fisher should know it, and finally it twigs that it’s not some wildling creature they’re talking about, or at least no wilder than the horses ever are. “You stay out too long and Cloud might come looking himself, though.”

“Hah,” Fisher says, hand still resting on Goss’ arm, and when Goss moves he drops a hand briefly against the back of Fisher’s neck; a close gesture, warmly meant. You bury your nose in your drink, not wanting to look like you’re gawking.

Then he’s swinging his fringed jacket off the chair and around his shoulders – bigger man still, standing – tilting his head in acknowledgement as the bartender hails him goodnight, and leaving you sitting one-on-one with a borderer.

“He named his horse Spook?” you say into the silence, the moment you’re sure he’s out of hearing, and then want to bite your tongue in half for how incredulous you sound. You’d been aiming for casually curious. “I, uh, I just mean-”

“I named him.” Fisher meets your startled look with a raised eyebrow, mercifully not wearing too cantankerous an expression along with it. “Spook’s a good horse, under Carlo. Always going to be a little shifty, but that’s just his nature.”

“Sure,” you say weakly. “Makes sense.” It doesn’t, truth be told, but it’s not like the man named the horse Goblin-cat and sure as hell not like it’s your business.

He holds your gaze a moment longer, then glances down at his glass and lets you blink again. “How long you been riding?”

“Uh, ‘bout eight months? Eight months, nearly.”

“And you’ve done a ride to Tarmin?”

He sounds almost interested, and you hate to sink that, but- “Got a cousin,” you mumble. “On the trucks. And it’s not like it’s so far from here.”

“Still,” Fisher says. “Some tricky trails around the mountains.”

He says it real knowing, with all the long experience of the senior. The kind of experience you ache for, though you know enough to know it’s hard-won. Fisher’s not so old, more creases on his coat than around his eyes, but you can see the crooked bent of one finger that’s not healed right, the way one ear runs flat along the top like it lost skin it never quite grew back.

“It was a pretty hard ride,” you acknowledge. Not supposed to contradict seniors, and even stupider to do it when he’s just about complimenting you. “And it was...well, anyway. Uh. So, Fisher-”

He waves a hand. “Dan’s fine.”

You’ve definitely had too much to drink, because you say, “Not Danny?”

He gives you an amused look – you hope. “Dan.”

“Okay. Dan.” You draw a deep breath, and find to your desperate frustration you’re not sure how to say it, how to ask the cussed questions that pulled you over here to begin with. How to tell someone: I want your life. I want to know the secrets you had to figure out for yourself, the shortcuts you created, the traps you fell into and how you climbed out of them again. “Aw, hell’s bells, I’m just…”

“Breathe, Bresil. We got time.” He tilts his head then as if acknowledging some unspoken point, adds wryly, “Cloud bidding.”

You laugh – giggle nearly, nervous and a little drunk – at the notion of a nighthorse come to fetch his rider from the tavern like a cross spouse resenting a cold bed. It’s not so unlikely, you know, but you feel the tight set of your shoulders loosening all the same for the release, and Fisher smiles, almost approving.

“Tarmin’s a good start, you know,” he says, all easy-like. “However you got into it. Good experience to have under your belt.”

He already knows, you realise then. He damn well already knows exactly what kind of talk you’re looking for, and has from the start. “Yeah?” you say, hope blooming in your chest, bright enough to finally put a smile on your face, feeble a showing as it is. Lean your elbows on the table, glass cupped between. “I mean, it was hard, but…but it was good. For both of us.”

“Horses know what they like,” Dan Fisher agrees, and settles back comfortably in his own seat. “So. What kind of gear do you have?”

A/N: Spat my last Finisterre fic out in maybe a week and then sat on this one for five months. Ain’t that just the way? It was a fun writing, though, even in the slow add-a-sentence-at-a-time manner it progressed at times. I wonder when I should just give in and admit that frontier sci-fi is my favourite seat to sit in.

#fiction post #the rider series #cj cherryh #finished a major assignment AND a fic #a good day

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