#Hiss Majesty deserves the world but we know how shit can go down

[elvishdemigod]

I'm calling it right here:

Jason's gonna come back to life, at the cost of Hiss-Majesty sacrificing himself.

I don't know, I have a feeling he's gonna die, it's something itching in my bones and not in a good way. With the fact that it never gets cleared up what happened with Jason's spirit, this is the conclusion I've some to.

[penguinwithitsarseonfire]

I Was too Scared to Jump In

Part 3 | See the Full Series Here

Pairing: 13th Doctor x Reader

Word Count: 4,953

Warnings: None

Summary: After Jack notices some stolen glances from across the console room, he decides to ask the Doctor about her feelings for you. It results in a bump in the head and some hot chocolate in the dead of night.  (This is technically a sequel to Mosaic Broken Hearts but can be read as a standalone)

A/N: I was in a bit of a slump for this series because I did not plan this far ahead, and then that trailer came out and I was like huh. right then. and then this happened. Enjoy??? I scrapped using pronouns for this one because they’re still weird to write, so let me know if any dialogue is clunky!! Much love everyone ❤️✨

The Doctor hadn’t planned for a quiet day in the TARDIS, it had just sort of… happened.

She was doing some basic maintenance in the console room; a service on the brakes and acceleration, and was lost in her own world of wires, motor grease, and the buzz of her sonic.

She was somewhat aware of you, Yaz, and Ryan sitting by the steps, playing a game of Jenga. There were periodic moments when something would topple, the three of you would cry out, and the Doctor would know a round had finished. Jack was sitting on the steps above them, casually talking with Graham – well, that’s what the Doctor assumed, she wasn’t paying attention, and she wasn’t one to eavesdrop. That would be rude.

The secondary connecting wire to the clutch sparked, and the Doctor gazed it down with narrowed eyes. No matter what she did, it just didn’t seem to want to do what she wanted. 

She poked her head out from the console and pulled her mask off so she could see her friends better.

She had been right, there you were, with Ryan and Yaz, playing Jenga. She eyed Jack and Graham, who, as she had suspected, were idly watching the game and chatting among themselves. The Doctor zeroed in on Jack. He knew the TARDIS operating system, in the past, he’d helped her out on more than one occasion.

Jack was watching the three of you as he spoke to Graham. He cocked his head to the side as he watched Ryan, as if trying to discern the tactics Ryan was using.

In the game, it was your turn, and you eyed the tower with immense concentration, shaking Ryan off when he tried to psyche you out. The Doctor watched you for a moment, your fingers danced over a middle piece high up in the tower, and your prodded at it experimentally. The piece budged, and you gently dislodged it. You took it out and placed it on top of the tower, before poking your tongue out at Ryan.

The Doctor wanted to join in, she wanted to run over and ask how you were all going, how you were going. She wanted to soak up as much of your time as she could, try to shatter some of those absurd boundaries she had finally worked out she had.

But she was doing maintenance work, and if she left it, she’d forget what she had been doing

Jacks eyes locked on to the Doctor’s, and he gave her a small, cocky, smirk. He nodded down to the three of you, then back to the Doctor, who could only roll her eyes. She knew what he was insinuating, what he had kept suggesting ever since he had sauntered onto her ship.

It wasn’t even that she didn’t want to admit it, she had long made her peace that she loved you, at this point, it was as innate to the Doctor as breathing. But Jack made teasing suggestions, as if the Doctor’s feelings were common knowledge, and she wasn’t ready for it to be common knowledge yet-

She wasn’t ready for you to know it yet.

“Jack, could you come down here a mo’?” She asked, pointedly ignoring his expression as he not-so-subtly wagged his eyebrows whilst nodding over to you. “You’ve got experience with this.”

Jack raised a surprised eyebrow but didn’t complain. He patted Graham on the knee and stood up, sidestepping the three of you on the floor.

You looked up away from the game for a moment, shooting the Doctor a small smile. The Doctor tried – and, admittedly, probably failed, to hide her blush. It was one of those smiles that the Doctor saw you give to monuments, to the birthing of civilisations, to the majesty of the stars, and, to be given that smile too? It was amazing.

She smiled back – probably an awkward amalgamation which more likely resembled a sneer than a smile, but you seemed to brighten to it. The Doctor wasn’t good at emotions, or expressing them when she really meant them.

Jack cleared his throat, which was how the Doctor realised he was crouched down beside her. “What’s up Doc?”

The Doctor hummed, tearing her eyes away from you, over to him. He was giving her a knowing smirk and the Doctor almost rolled her eyes again. She gestured to the wire, which was still letting of haywire sparks. “It’s for the gears,” she explained. “It’s not wanting to stitch itself back together-“

“Have you tried sonic compulsion?” Jack asked.

The Doctor hummed. “That was the first thing I did,” she waved her sonic in the air. “But there’s no give. So I-”

“What about engineers tape?” Jack suggested, and he poked the wire experimentally. It sparked and he hissed, sticking his finger in his mouth. “We could then go to the Medusa Cascade and get some proper supplies.”

The Doctor sighed. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to land whilst she’s like this,” the Doctor said. “Which was why I was thinking-”

“Have you tried asking the wire on a date?”

“-If you hold it down then,” the Doctor did a double take. “What – no. Why would I..?” Her eyes flickered to you, who was talking animatedly with Graham whilst Yaz took her turn in Jenga.

“No reason,” Jack gave her a shit eating grin and he sat down cross legged beside her. “What did you want to try?”

The Doctor huffed, and pulled down her goggles. “I need you to hold the wire and the artron accelerator, you know where that is.”

Jack hummed, and shimmied himself so he was lying on his stomach, arms outstretched so he could hold the two respective items.

“Hopefully with the artron accelerator stabilised, the secondary connecting wire to the clutch should finally give,” she gritted out the final words as she stuck her sonic at it, putting in all her energy into repairing the wire.

It began mending, tendrils from the base of the wire reached out to its counterpart, and the Doctor watched as the wire began to stitch itself together.

There was a beat, a moment where the only thing the Doctor could hear was the whir of her sonic, and the repair of the wire.

Then Jack said, very softly. “So, Y/N.”

The Doctor screwed up her face slightly, but remained concentrated on what she was doing. “What about Y/N?”

Jack was silent for a long moment, long enough for the Doctor to believe that he had dropped it. The wire continued to stich itself together, and the Doctor watched as the little sparks turned into energy that spurred it along.

Jack then spoke. “When’re you going to tap that?”

The Doctor tapped her sonic against the wire, purposely misunderstanding him. She hummed speculatively. “I don’t think that did much help.”

Jack scoffed. “Alright then, play that game. You knew exactly what I meant.”

The Doctor eyed him disapprovingly, which probably didn’t come across because of – well, because of the massive goggles hiding her eyes. “It’s derogatory.”

“Ah, this is the sort of banter I missed,” Jack gave her a cheeky grin. “Like the good old days, talking about a plucky young human you’re in love with and everything.”

The Doctor chewed her lip at that, turning away from him and pooling all her attention on the wire. In the background she heard you cry out triumphantly. A small, pleased smile ghosted across her face at the sound. She was glad you were happy.

Jack sighed. “Okay, so I see that approach isn’t working. I’ll do what Graham suggested then.”

The Doctor turned to Jack suddenly. “What Graham suggested? What do you mean – does he know?”

Jack’s defeated look grew into a grin as triumphant as the one the Doctor assumed you were currently wearing. The Doctor deflated, instantly realising what he had done. He said one, single word. “Gotcha.”

The Doctor ground her teeth and turned back to the wire, furious that her old friend knew her so well, that he had so easily managed to trick her into revealing – however subtly, her feelings for you. She wasn’t ready for her fam to know, which, by extension of Jack being here, automatically included him.

So what if the Doctors eyes lingered on you a little bit longer than the others, or that she looked for your approval more often, or that her hands ghosted over your person whenever she was allowed the opportunity. It wasn’t of any consequence to any of you, not yet.

The Doctor wanted to hold her love for you close to her, let herself work it out, work out what she needed from this, from you. She couldn’t do anything until she worked that out, it wouldn’t be fair to her, and it would be completely cruel to you. You deserved better than that.

No, the Doctor wanted to go in completely prepped, completely ready.

So Jack? Saying these things? Doing these things?

It was throwing the Doctor out into a loop.

“Aw Doc, I didn’t mean it like that,” Jack said, and he nudged her shoulder. “I’m sorry okay, I’m just teasing.”

The Doctor gave him an unconvinced look, but the drama was probably lost. Again – the goggles.

Jack sighed. “All I’m saying,” he said, his tone measured, like he was talking down a scared wild animal. “Is that it’s clear Y/N loves you back, is all.”

The Doctor’s mind went haywire. That you loved her back. Out of all her fretting, all her worrying, she hadn’t even gotten to the part where you could return her feelings. She had predicted, once she realised all the kinks and details so she could actually do right by you, that she would… woo you.

But you loved her back?

The Doctor stumbled backwards, knocking her head against the console. She winced, throwing her hand to her head as her screwdriver clattered to the floor. She could hear a ringing in her ears, and her vision went spotty. The rest of the world swayed around her, and she tried to concentrate on it, find something she could pinpoint to ground her.

Her body was doing… a thing. She couldn’t articulate it. It was a shock thing, wasn’t it?

“Woah Doctor,” Jack cried, and there were suddenly hands on her shoulders, and then another on her jaw. The hand there felt safe, like a grounding presence. The Doctor felt herself latching onto it.

Jack spoke, but the words were lost to her. Something about being okay.. and her goggles? Surely that wasn’t right.

“Oh Doctor,” there was a second voice in the distance, but the Doctor’s mind was rattled. She couldn’t place it straight away, her mind still working through what Jack had said.

Then, like clockwork, her brain puzzled it together.

“Are you okay, here – wait, can I take off the goggles?”

The Doctor pulled her goggles off above her head, and blinked against the sudden light. Jack was hovering above her, his face pulled into concern. His voice swam in her ears.

“That was a bit of a nasty bump, Doc. You okay?”

There was another face above Jack’s, floating against the warm glow of the crystals. The Doctor forced her eyes to focus. It was you.

“Oh,” she said. “Hi Y/N. Fancy seeing you here.”

You snorted, but your face was pulled into worry. “Yeah, you too,” you were crouched down beside Jack, and the Doctor realised that the hand on her jaw was yours. She had been leaning into it, and the Doctor tried not to freeze up as she realised. It would most definitely set off the wrong idea.

She slowly detangled herself from you and Jack, and eyed the wire. She groaned, scrunching her face in protest. It had fallen apart during the Doctors… incident, and she would need to start all over again.

“Doctor,” by your tone, it sounded like you were repeating yourself. “Are you okay? That was really sudden.”

The Doctor stared back at you. You reminded her of a European renaissance painting, all glowey and ethereal, like you had wandered straight out of a Caravaggio painting. She waited another moment for her brain to reboot, focusing on the way your eyes shone in the low light.

She rubbed against the spot on her head that she had bumped, it was low, near to where her head met her neck, and she cursed that that was the part of her brain she had been using to focus on her conversation with Jack.

“I bumped against the part of my brain that was focusing on something difficult,” she said. “And the shock knocked all my systems out for a moment. That’s all, I’m fine now,” and then, as an aside. “I should reshuffle which part of my brain focuses on what. I’ve got three brain stems, might as well use ‘em.”

She ducked down to retrieve her screwdriver, and felt the hot white feeling of awkwardness creep up on her. How embarrassing! She’d temporarily passed out because she had been talking about you with Jack and had accidently knocked herself on the head.

“Hang on,” she heard a third voice, Ryan – and had everyone come over? “What do you mean three brain stems? You’ve got three brain stems?”

The Doctor popped back up, grateful for the distraction. “I can separate the hemispheres in my brain,” she said, and Graham pulled a face that could only be described as his ‘what’ face. “Means I can multitask.”

“That’s mad,” Ryan breathed out. “That’s like, proper alien.”

“Well the Doctor is an alien,” Yaz said, absorbing the information just as easily and quickly as she always did. “Makes sense that she’s got different biology beyond the two hearts thing.”

“Are you okay though?” You asked again. “That was a bit scary.”

“Came out of nowhere,” Ryan agreed.

The Doctor scratched behind her ear, and scrunched up her face. She was embarrassed. You were sitting right there, you face full of concern, and she’d done the Time Lord equivalent of tripping up the stairs. “Yeah, peachy. It happens more often than you’d think. Normally there isn’t an audience though.”

Jack’s face grew in understanding. “Oh,” he breathed. “Is this like Thornian-”

“Exactly,” The Doctor said loudly, because she did not need her fam to hear that particular story. She didn’t need you to hear that particular story. “Like I said,” she turned back to the rest of her friends. “I’m just a clutz.”

You screwed up your face, unconvinced. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

The Doctor nodded dumbly, her hearts skipping a beat or two. The Doctor wanted to reach out and touch you, to memorise the lines your face made as you pulled it into various shapes. “Yes. I promise.”

Later, when the rest of the fam had gone to bed, Jack sat opposite her in the TARDIS kitchen, laughing at her.

The Doctor glared at her microwave, which had short circuited and exploded because she had forgotten that, of all things, you couldn’t put metal in them. It was basic, fundamental science, physics 101, the stuff they teach school children, and all the other anecdotes Jack was currently rattling off.

“I’m happy to boil some milk on the stove,” Jack said once he had finished laughing. “It’ll take a bit longer, but we’ll still get our hot chocolate.”

The Doctor waved towards the stove, inviting Jack to go ahead.

“How is everything in here?” Jack asked, as he started rummaging through cupboards to find a pot. “Same as when I last saw it? Minus the fresh paint, that is.”

“Dunno,” the Doctor said. “I don’t really use the kitchen. Take out’s easier.”

Jack made a little ‘aha’ moment when he found a pot. “Normally is,” he replied, and he placed the pot rather delicately onto the stove. He turned it on and poured the milk into the pot. “Do you have chocolate, or just the powdered stuff?”

“Pretty sure I’ve only got the powdered stuff,” she replied, but she stood and began rummaging through the pantry. In the back of one of the shelves, behind mounds of dry pasta and biscuits from the town called Christmas, sat an old chocolate powder container. There was a fine sheen of dust on it, and the Doctor wiped it off. She eyed the use by date, and her heart clenched. 2008.

Donna must have been the one who put it here.

She gripped her free hand against the shelf. There it was again, that awful, reeling sense of heartbreak, coming back full force when she thought of anyone she had once loved. It settled quicker than it once did, becoming the dull throb that normally only sat in the back of her mind.

“It’s a couple centuries old,” she said, returning to Jack and sticking the powder to his side. “But it should still be alright,” she grinned at him, but he only frowned at her.

“You do that a lot,” he commented, and he stirred the milk so it wouldn’t stick to the pot.

The Doctor chewed on her lip for a moment. She was scared to ask, scared that Jack would reveal something too intimate, see too far into her soul, something he was so good at doing. It wasn’t fair, really.

Still though, she asked. “Do what?”

“You smile,” he said. “But it doesn’t really seem like you want to.”

The Doctor slumped into her seat. He hit the nail there.

“You did it earlier today,” he continued, and the Doctor winced. “Back when you hit your head – which, pretty dramatic, even by your standards.”

The Doctor screwed up her nose. “It wasn’t like I was acting.”

“Oh no,” Jack said. “I know that. Of all people, you know I know that. I’m just saying, we were talking about, or well, rather, not talking about a certain someone, and then you bumped your head by the exact part of your brain having those thoughts? Causing the spasms?” Jack gave her another shit eating grin. “I don’t know Doctor, perhaps it’s telling you something.”

The Doctor puffed out a strand of her that had fallen into her face. “I think it’s telling you to stop talking.”

“Is every face of yours like this? Or is it just because of me?” Jack asked, but he was still grinning.

Her past face, the face that had met Jack, would probably have had a witty answer. In hindsight, the Doctor could have seen that face, with its big ears and smart mouth, saying ‘It’s all just for you’, but this face, her current one, with her blonde hair and affinity for rainbows, didn’t have a clue.

“I don’t know Jack,” she groaned, and rubbed a hand down her face. “Maybe? I’m not good at talking in this face.”

Jack snorted. “Yeah, you made that obvious when you decided to hit your head rather than talk about your feelings.”

“I didn’t choose to do that,” The Doctor protested. “It just happened.”

“Hey, hey, I know,” Jack defended. “I’m just saying, lucky coincidence.” He stirred the milk again, and the Doctor watched it froth and bubble. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

The Doctor considered it for a moment. She knew that she was the only one who could work out what she needed, if she would actually be good for you – if you actually loved her back.

But talking… talking was important, she needed to get better at it, she knew she did.

So she sighed, and went to the cupboard that she was pretty sure stored some mugs. She stood on her tip toes, cursing the height of everything around her, and managed to grasp two mugs. They were plain, and the Doctor was grateful for that, she didn’t want to find anything else that held memories.

“Yeah,” she said, and she placed the mugs on the bench next to the hot chocolate powder. “I think I probably should.”

Jack gave her a delighted, if surprised, smile. “Yeah? Oh I love that. Doctor, I think that’s character growth.”

She gave him a small, wry, smile. “Well, I did tell you I upgraded.”

The milk bubbled and Jack took the pot off of the heat. He carefully poured it into the two mugs, and the Doctor distributed a generous helping of powder into each one, stirring vigorously.

“So,” Jack said. “Y/N.”

“Y/N.”

“How long’s that been going on for?”

The Doctor hummed, contemplating the question. “Are you asking when I realised it was love? Because that wasn’t too long ago, but honestly, I think I’ve always loved Y/N.”

“You’re not scared of the word ‘love’,” Jack noticed, and he took a sip of his hot chocolate. “That’s new.”

The Doctor snorted. “No, I am. It’s just… well, it feels right. Nothing else does, but loving Y/N? Yeah, that feels right.”

Jack nodded and began walking out of the kitchen, the Doctor followed. They meandered through the hallways of the TARDIS, with her softly thrumming beside them. Jack brushed his hand against the wall, a small smile on his face. “I’ve missed this,” he said, and his voice sounded full of wonder. “It’s been so long.”

“It has,” the Doctor agreed, and she took a small sip of her hot chocolate. It was warm, and there was a slight hint of peppermint in it. It was nice.

The TARDIS was feeling kind tonight, because she easily lead them to the console room. The Doctor had parked over Kasterbos V, a star that was just being born. According to the Doctor’s calculations, it would end up becoming this star systems sun, but she had never travelled here before, so she didn’t quite know for sure.

They sat on the threshold of the TARDIS, dangling their legs into deep space, and watched the burning, bright fires of the tiny star dance and throw themselves into the air, slowly forming a giant which would warm billions for the millennia to come.

“So, Y/N,” Jack said, and the Doctor sighed. She had almost forgotten what they had been talking about.

Almost. You took up too much of her thoughts to forget it completely.

The Doctor hummed, offering Jack a moment to continue.

“If ‘love’ is the right word,” he drummed his fingers against the mug, as if trying to work out how to say what he was thinking, or, rather, knowing him, if he should say what he was thinking. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

“You don’t know I haven’t said anything.”

“I’ve seen how Y/N looks at you,” Jack countered. “Doesn’t know anything.”

The Doctor let out a breath. Jack was right, of course. You didn’t know how the Doctor felt, she’d been doing her hardest to make sure you wouldn’t know.

“It’s complicated,” the Doctor said, after a moment. “There’s a lot to consider.”

“Ah,” Jack said, and he took another sip of his hot chocolate, a small smile of satisfaction forming. “So you’re stalling.”

The Doctor spluttered. “What? I am not.”

“You are,” Jack repeated. “I’ve seen you do this before, and we all know how that ended.”

The Doctor huffed, ignoring the pang in her hearts at the mention of her, that wonderful girl from another life, another century. “This is different.”

“Of course it’s different,” Jack agreed. “Rose and Y/N aren’t the same person,”

The Doctor tried to protest, it was so jarring hearing a name from so many lifetimes ago. Sometimes she forgot just how long ago she had met Jack, and how old the two of them were now.

“You’re going to love them in different ways,” Jack continued. “Hell, I bet you still love Rose,” the Doctor gawked, but Jack ignored her. “Just like you still love Martha, and Donna, and me, as well as how you love Graham, Yaz, and Ryan today,” he said it in the most matter-of-fact way, as if this was a fundamental truth. “That doesn’t make your love for any of us any less, or your love for Y/N any less.”

The Doctor worried her bottom lip slightly, and she stared out at the star. She refused to make eye contact with Jack, no one had ever said something like that before, she hadn’t even said it to herself.

It was true though.

“Sometimes,” Jack spoke again, and his voice was softer. “I think you just get so immersed in that great big head of yours that you lose yourself in all the what-ifs, and you don’t see what’s right in front of you.”

“I know what’s right in front of me Jack-”

“Then why won’t you say anything?” Jack questioned. “Why don’t you march right up to Y/N and say exactly how you feel?”

The Doctor flailed. “Because Jack! I-”

What could she say? That she was terrified that she wasn’t right for you, that she would only hurt her, and then, eventually, when you were gone, it would only crush her? That she couldn’t be what you needed, that she couldn’t fashion herself into someone that you could be in a relationship with?

The Doctor waved a hand in the air, and saw Jacks pained face staring back at her. She slowly sat her hand back down, ghosting it over her mug.

“I just said my inner monologue out loud,” she said slowly. “Didn’t I.”

“Jeez Doc,” Jack ran a hand over his face, and it was all the confirmation the Doctor needed that she had said everything out loud. “When was the last time you were in a relationship?”

The Doctor puffed out indigently. “I’ll have you know I was married for several centuries.”

Jack let out an amused sound. “I know,” he said, and he rubbed over a spot on his wrist. “She bought my vortex manipulator.”

The Doctor gasped, and her fascination over learning this new information, for a moment, let her forget the heartbreak that came with thinking about River. “That’s where she got it.”

“Uh huh,” Jack took a sip of his hot chocolate. “But that doesn’t count, it not like that relationship was exactly linear.”

The pang came in, that dull throb that reminded her of why she had River’s picture on that old desk of hers, why the Doctor still kept that diary near her in her bedroom. “That’s true.”

The pain subsided, as she knew it would. The Doctor had been mourning River since she had met her. By now that loss was like an old friend.

“Let me give you some advice then,” Jack said. “Something that’ll shatter your worldview.”

The Doctor raised a sceptical eyebrow. “There’s not a lot that can do that.”

“Listen to me Doc, no one knows what they’re doing. No one goes into a relationship knowing exactly what they need, knowing exactly what they can do for their partner, or knowing the end result – and, y’know what? No one should know.

“Relationships are hard work, they’re about compromise, they’re about a give and take, and, through it all, you need to understand that your partner isn’t perfect, and they’re going to make mistakes. Just like you will too. You balance each-others best qualities, and your worst qualities.

“The point of relationships is that you care about one another to do what’s right. Sometimes what’s right is to make it work, to help one another and support one another. Sometimes what’s right is to let the other go.

“But I don’t think you should let Y/N go before you’ve even tried. That’s not like you Doc, I didn’t even know it was in your vocabulary.”

“What,” The Doctor said, focusing on the last thing Jack said so she could try to process the rest of it. “Try is definitely in my vocabulary. It’s my M.O, my middle name, if you will. The Try Doctor – no, wait,” she scrunched up her face. “That makes it sound like my first name, oh-”

“Then try, Doctor,” Jack said. “C’mon man, what’s holding you back?”

The Doctor froze mid-speech.

What’s holding you back?

The Doctor thought about your smile, soft and warm in the orange glow of the TARDIS’ crystals, a smile that seemed to be reserved just for her.

“I’m scared,” she spoke in a small voice. “I’m scared of how much I need Y/N. I’m scared of what I’ll do when I lose-”

There was a hand on her knee, and the Doctor realised she had curled in on herself – when had that happened? She forced her body to relax, and went back to dangling her legs out of the TARDIS.

Jack looked at her, truly looked at her, like he did when he had first decided to split apart from her, so many years ago, when they first fought daleks together. “We all are, Doctor,” he gave her a small smile. “What is it you always say, about fear? It’s a superpower isn’t it? Keeps you alive.”

“I’m not worried about being alive right now.”

“No,” Jack agreed. “But that doesn’t make you fear bad. It tells you that you care, that you want it to work out with Y/N. That’s a good thing.”

The Doctor looked at Jack, almost desperately.  “What do I do then?”

Jack smiled at her, as if the answer were clear as day. “You do what you always do Doc, you take a leap of faith.”

A leap of faith?

Could she do that?. For you, she reckoned she could do just about anything. Which was the terrifying thing.

But maybe Jack was right. A give and take, a compromise, a balancing act.

A leap of faith?

The Doctor hardened her resolve. For you?

She could do that.

Tag List: @fictionalhoomanofnowhere​ @dreamer7black​  @fabulouspotatosister​

[words-writ-in-starlight]

how about you do a fic about how kravitz became a reaper? or about how different it is for him, having a team (particularly a team comprised of a gleeful pyromaniac and a man who thought the best way to win someone's trust was to hiss out, "Are you afraid? Are you afraid of the dark? You do not know how to be afraid.")

This is…not exactly what was requested, but it’s still sort of hitting the mark, I think.

The world didn’t end.

Kravitz is still a little in shock about it, if he’s goingto be frank, and it’s been a week.

Kravitz is very old, is the thing.  His grasp of time is questionable at best—acommon side effect of spending long stretches of his existence in the astralplane—but he knows well and truly that he’s certainly the oldest thing on themoon base.  Something of an achievement,really, given some of the people around him. Taako and Lup, factoring in their lost century of time, are easilypushing the latter half of their third century, but even so.

Being imprisoned in the astral plane, locked away as theHunger rained down destruction, was probably the most terrifying experience ofhis existence.  Certainly far and awaythe most terrifying thing he’s endured since his own death.

But now, now the sky is clear and full of stars, and themoon base is quiet—not really the Bureau anymore, but with the world in chaosthere’s no reason to turn everyone out of their dormitories when they stillneed a place to sleep.  Kravitz istheoretically keeping an eye on Lup and Barry and the rest of the chronicallynot-dead IPRE, as their unique cases are under consideration with the RavenQueen, particularly the liches.  Inpractice, though, Lup and Barry are stargazing outside, and Kravitz isstretched out in Taako’s bed with Taako half-sprawled across him, and Lup andBarry could get up to almost anything without Kravitz even noticing, right now.

The world didn’t end. Even death deserves a break, after the world fails to end.

Taako is tracing his fingers across the plane beneathKravitz’s collarbone, and even pressed so close, skin to skin, Taako is warmerthan Kravitz will ever be.  Each curl ofhis invisible design leaves a trace of heat, like he’s writing in fire.  The point of Taako’s chin is tucked aside,his cheek pressed just to the right of where Kravitz’s heart doesn’t beat, andfor once in his life, he’s mostly acquiesced to lying still so that Kravitz canhold him.  Kravitz tries to soak up thefeeling, because it might take another apocalypse for it to happen again.

“Hey,” Taako says, and a fringe advantage to being Kravitzis that he doesn’t need to breathe except to speak, so he can feel with perfectclarity the vibration of Taako’s voice.

“Yes?”  Kravitzbrushes a wayward lock of hair from Taako’s face, cocks his head to look downat him when he doesn’t seem inclined to continue.

“What’s this?” Taako asks, and taps his finger on Kravitz’schest.

Kravitz doesn’t need to look down to see what Taako’spointing to.  “It’s a scar.”

“I got that much, bubbeleh.” The eyeroll is clear enough in Taako’s tone that Kravitz grins a little,at the ceiling.  “But this fine slice ofass is a magical projection, right? Like, a copy of what you used to look like?  Then what the fuck is strong enough to scarthat?  You have this before you died?”

The ceiling blurs for a moment, shadows leaping like Taako’ssteady magical lamp has been replaced with torchlight, and then Kravitz blinksand all is well again.

“It’s the killing blow,” Kravitz says.

He doesn’t really think about how that must sound untilTaako sits up, propped up above Kravitz on one hand with a frown on his beautifulface and his other hand still covering the scar.  It’s a starburst a little smaller thanTaako’s palm, messy and tangled, but it looks old, as if he had lived a longlife after taking the injury, and the matching one on his back, just inside hisshoulder blade, looks the same.

“I’m gonna need you to run that by me again, killer,” Taakosays.  Kravitz is usually immune to thesensation of being cold, but he’s noticing it now, with the sudden loss ofTaako’s heat.

Kravitz rests a hand over Taako’s, over his dead heart.  “This,” he says, “is the wound that killedme.  I can’t seem to form a body withoutit.”  Taako’s lips thin and Kravitz adds,“It doesn’t hurt.”

“Someone stabbed you in the chest?”

“I don’t—I don’t really know,” Kravitz says.  It’s sort of a hedge, to buy himself a littletime to decide what to say.  “Not all ofmy death is clear to me.”

“This must have been one hell of a knife.”

“It was a spike,” Kravitz corrects without thinking.  “An iron spike.”  They used a hammer to drive it through hischest, through bone and muscle and heart with one strike.  He remembers that very clearly.

A black wave of anger sweeps over Taako’s face.  Kravitz realizes at once that he’s made a bitof a misstep here, because Taako, of course, is not the same strangecombination of foolish and brilliant that he was when they met.  Now, Taako is all that he ever was, the mostskilled transfiguration specialist in the multiverse, and more than that, thebrother of a lich.

Kravitz doesn’t have to ask to know that Taako knows exactly what an iron spike is used for.

“I was very sick, when I was alive,” Kravitz says, hesitant,and for once Taako sits there in silence and stares at him attentively ratherthan interrupting with a sharp quip.  “Dying,in fact.  My siblings—I didn’t know theywere necromancers, at the time, but they couldn’t face the idea of losing mefor good.”

“So—fuck,” Taako says with feeling.  

“They waited until I was too sick to stop them,” Kravitzgoes on, curling his hand to lace his fingers with Taako’s, and Taako grips hishand so hard that it’s almost like having a pulse again, feeling the arteryunder the skin of Taako’s palm beat against Kravitz’s own.  “I was—I think I told you that I was a bard?  I was too weak to hold an instrument, and myvoice was ruined.  They decided I wasputting up too much of a fight, regardless, and they slipped a sedative into myfood.  That’s about where it gets hazy.”

Not hazy enough, if Kravitz is being honest.  He remembers the feeling of waking up tiedhand and foot, as if he was strong enough to escape without coughing up blood,with unbearable clarity.  He remembershis sister’s voice—not her features, those are mostly lost to time and thetransition from life to death to whatever he is now, but her voice, and thetouch of her hand on his cheek as she promised him that they would liveforever, together, a family.

He remembers that his last act, while he was alive, was tocurse their entire circle with the last scrap of magic he could find, and watchas the spell shattered uselessly against their shields.

A bard who couldn’t speak for drowning in his own chest,after all, was hardly a force to be reckoned with.

“They tried to force you to stay,” Taako says quietly, hishair sliding over one shoulder to tumble around Kravitz’s face.  “That’s some bad shit, homie.”

“They miscalculated the spell,” Kravitz says.  “It was meant to force me to become alich.  But I was in pretty rough shape bythen, and I died before they could finish the binding.  I should have gone to the Eternal Stockade,but Her Majesty decided that, since it wasn’t my doing, I would become heremissary, instead.”

“That’s an improvement, I guess.”

“My first assignment was my family’s circle,” Kravitz says.

“Harsh, dude.”

Kravitz cracks a smile at that.  “We weren’t on the best terms while I wasalive, and I was very angry after Iwas dead.  Herself believed that it wouldbe a good cathartic moment.”  He reachesup with his free hand, the one not being held fast over his scar, to touchTaako’s face, fitting his palm against his cheek.  

“Was it?”

“Yes,” Kravitz says, with a possibly unwarranted level ofsatisfaction, but Taako grins rather than looking perturbed.  “You’re very lucky, Taako.”

“In all things,” Taako says automatically.  “But what in particular?”

“Lup,” Kravitz says.  “Andthe others.  Everything they did, everythingall of you did, was to spare eachother pain.  Not always successfully, butit was a good desire.”  This is, perhaps,getting toward dangerous territory. Lucretia’s executive decision to end the IPRE and the cost of theintervening years weigh on the base like a fog—she carries out Madame Director’snecessary functions, but the rest of the time she haunts the fringes ofwhatever room the others are in like a lonely ghost.  But Kravitz can’t help but make thestatement.  “My siblings—it wasselfishness, to try to keep me with them. Looking for power, and a way to control me.  Everything your crew tried to do, it wasalways a good thing.”

“Good intentions pave the road to hell,” Taako says, alittle whimsical, and Kravitz cocks his head curiously.  It’s a far tamer response than Taako’s givento even the suggestion of Lucretia, over the last week, if a little cynical.  “It was a saying on our first world.  I don’t think it’s a thing, here.  Pretty self-explanatory, though, so, y’know,bringing it back.”

“Fair enough.”

Taako nods, thoughtful, and Kravitz lets his hand slide fromTaako’s neck into his hair.  He lovesbeing able to touch Taako like this, with impunity, with ease, like it’s part of the world order that Kravitz is welcome tofeel Taako’s warmth whenever he wants.

“I hope your siblings fucking burn,” Taako says, as cheerfulas ever.

“Not my department.”

“Lup could do it.”

Kravitz laughs a little, using his grip on Taako’s neck topull him close again.  “Lup and Barry arestill under debate.”

“Hmf,” Taako says, burying his face in the curve of Kravitz’sthroat and keeping their linked hands over the scar, as if it might be erasedby simply not looking at it.  “We allknow the Raven Queen ain’t about to chuck the pair of them in the Stockade,” hesays.  “I don’t know if you heard, but we’re legends, babe.”

“I heard,” Kravitz says, kissing Taako’s head.  “I think they’ll probably end up working withme.”

Taako muffles a laugh against Kravitz’s skin, and the puffof warm air sends a shiver down Kravitz’s spine.  “Good fucking luck, my dude.  You and Lup and Mister Are You Afraid?  Tres HornyBoys got nothing on you.”

[freyalor]

Trevilieu-Smut-Prompt :D T+R are having fun in a dark, hidden room of the Louvres. A courtier comes in and T or R with Ts gun shoots him stone dead. They later find out that this courtier was planning to kill the King or R (imagine the irony of R shooting his own assassin :D) but they still have to explain the death to the king in front of the whole court and Louis wont accept Ts explanation that "we were arguing and yes I shoot people when I'm angry" (R is too relieved/giddy to be of any help)

This prompt is ages-old, but I told you, I never forget. 

Here’s a lighter, funnier fic, definitely more settled in the BBC Musketeers univers than true history of France, because the mood of that prompt couldn’t lead any other way. 

There you go, Schmetterling. 

Foutu Jurançon. Rated E, 3k words, also on AO3

As I findmyself gaping, staring at the brains of a dead man splattered upon thehard-tiled floor, his blood-soaked face frozen in a grotesque mask of surprise,all my blurred mind can come up with is “foutuJurançon”.

It is true.It’s all the Jurançon’s fault.

In themorning, a King realizes it’s the anniversary of his father’s death. In thelate hours of the evening a man dies, his head blown into bits. Right inbetween those facts, lies the bloody Jurançon.

The VertGalant, Lord bless his soul, was many things including a loving father, and hisson Louis’ adoration for him never receded with time. Every year, on the daythe fateful blade of a red-haired lunatic called Ravaillac had stolen hisfather from him, Louis orders the whole Louvres to remember. Henry the Fourth’swhite banner is to be hanged on every wall, his portraits covered in roses andcarnations, and at every meal, his favorite wine must be served.

Richelieumanaged to refuse the dammed white poison at noon without too much of a fuss,elegantly mentioning his health and the Council scheduled for the afternoon.

He refusedit all the same, three more times, during the council itself.  

But forsupper, considering the magnificentenergy the Cardinal had shown all afternoon in speeches and theatric moves,hints and allegations, threats and high praises, to persuade the King to cutthe Louvres’ costs in half and raise an army for the Southern border, Louislaughed away all excuses about his health.

-“Don’t youthink my father’s day deserves one drink, Cardinal?” The King muttered, andRichelieu never had been stupid enough to ignore the danger in Louis’ voice.

-“Of courseit does, Your Majesty” He breathed, bowing his head slightly as the Court’scupbearer poured the strong white wine in his glass.

Even fromafar, at the Officer’s table, I found it hard to hide a smile. I had sympathyfor Armand, I swear, because he barely drinks, and when he does, it is never strongerthan the regular red wine of the Court, which is basically water and spices.But something dark in me remembered how eagerhe can be when he’s drunk, and I was already, I must confess, preparing myambush.

I watchedbetween mirth and concern Louis keeping a heavy stare upon Armand all supperlong, ordering with a nod his glass to be refilled at a merciless pace.Richelieu accepted his fate, aware, no doubt, that most of it was Louis’revenge for the Hell he unleashed at the Council.

I myselfhad a taste of that deceitful liquid King Henry was so fond of, and I winced atthe fire it spread into my guts. God, how could one dagger kill a man who drankfive bottles of this a day?

Henry theFourth deserves every word of his legend.

It wasalready late in the evening when Louis grew tired of waiting for the Cardinalto do something embarrassing. Even through the King’s constant nagging andscrutiny, Armand bravely stood his ground, speaking clear and bright, movingsharp and quick. I wondered if anyone other than me noticed the deepening frownof his brow, a warning sign of his efforts.

Disappointed,Louis left the table, and Armand’s fingertips weakly rubbed his temple inrelief.

He excusedhimself no more than ten seconds later, and I followed unnoticed, because noone cares about the Officers table anyways.

I joinedhim in the gardens, under the wide arcades that led from the Great Hall to thePalais Cardinal. He walked straight, his chin held high, his stance flawless,but God, he walked slow. I gently touched his hand and he turned to me alreadysmiling, because he wasn’t drunk enough to be deaf to the sound of myfootsteps. I don’t think he ever will be.

We talked,this I am sure of, though I don’t remember what we spoke about. We talked inhushed voices, and at some point, I noticed the moonlight glow upon his hairagain, and I couldn’t refrain from touching it. He looked around, his eyesnarrowed, but still leaned into the touch with a low whimper, and soon enough hebreathed my name like only he can do, sealing my fate for that night.

I pushedhim backwards to the small door of an unused chapel under the clock tower ofthe Louvres. The place was cold and forlorn, stripped of its decorum since thebuilding of the magnificent Chapelle Royale and used from that moment as nomore than cubby for the gardeners. But I swear it was made holy by hispresence, even flustered and panting, his back hitting the ancient altar withbruising force. The door slammed shut and I kissed him hard, open-mouthed andmessy, tasting the infamous Jurançon on his fevered lips.

Oh, Lord, eager he was.

He grippedmy doublet to pull me against him, leaning back upon the cold stone wall. Thesight he was, framed by what was left of the ancient altar, like a moonlit iconpainted by the most skilled of all blasphemers. I would have been content witha few kisses I swear, but his eyes were blurred, and his hands fearless. Hegrabbed my crotch, giving it an expert squeeze, whispering the most sinfulpraise I ever heard. I cried out, catching fire, and started to open his robeswith a hunger I could hardly believe.

I pushedthe fabric down his shoulders, and he wore them like a stole once more, hiswhite skin offered to the chilly night air without the slightest shiver. He wasalready hard, flushed pink and twitching, which is rare enough to drive meinsane. Famished, I moved to kneel, licking my lips in raw want, but he refusedas always, making a quick work of my belt and pants instead. His fingers closedaround my shaft with confident accuracy, knowing how, and knowing when. ‘Take me’, he ordered, licking my ear,feasting on my shudder. ‘Fill me’, hebreathed, and I could come just to that sound.

Delirious,I think I just spat in my hand, stroked myself twice, then grabbed his thighsand lifted him up against the altar, thrusting in without a thought. Hescreamed, not entirely in pleasure, and I wished I could apologize, but he wasso tight I couldn’t focus. I was lost, I was damned, I was nothing more thanmoth to a flame. Drunk with wine and mad with lust, he forgot to bite on hiscries, and all I could do was to kiss them mute.

He’s neverbeen heavy, and I felt powerful. So, I took the time, played him a little, slowing down when I felt him tense, stoppingdead if I had to. He growled and hissed and cursed, one of his hands flying tograb the altar’s frame, his unfocused eyes rising to the faded Holy Crosspainted on the ceiling two hundred years ago, God, had this place even beendeconsecrated?

He didn’tlook like he cared much. He let me pound him against the ancient wall, hiscries echoing on the naked walls of the small, forgotten place.

At somepoint, mostly because I had reached my own limits, I grabbed his cock andthrusted harder, earning a high-pitched yell as the sweetest of rewards. Imight have lost track of the world at that time, I don’t remember much. Nothingmattered more than the fire in my guts, the violent pleasure he was giving me.I had no idea where my skin ended, when his began, lost to madness in the curveof his neck.

All I knowis that he started shuddering, spasming around me, soiling my doublet in hotsemen, and while I too came hard, moaning against his shoulder, I felt himdrawing my own pistol out of my belt in five quick moves, and the gunshot,right next to my ear, shattered my breath in pieces.

 I blinked,once, twice, dizzy and panting against him, before I dared to look aside andtry to understand. I hadn’t dreamed. He was still there, pinned against thewall by my whole body, his legs encircling my hips. Pale as a sheet, one handon the altar frame, this other arm stretched out, using my shoulder as support,he was pointing my own pistol right behind my back.

I gasped,panicked, and looked over my shoulder.

Armand hadjust killed a man.

 And here Iam, still deep inside him, staring at the way the dead man’s blood drawsarabesques upon the chapel’s floor, unable to do anything else than blaming theJurançon.

-“Holy shit, Armand!” I rasp, pulling outas gently as I could, easing his descent to the floor with my arms around hiswaist.

He looks calmenough, but he certainly still needs the wall to stand up. I quickly tuckmyself back in, and loosen his rigid fingers away from my gun one by one. Isheathe it neatly, asking him what the hell happened while I fold the lapels ofhis robes tight against his trembling frame.

-“I don’tknow.” He mutters. “He pushed the door and slipped in while we were… I didn’tthink it through.”

-“Oh,really?” I sneer, pointing at the corpse. “That’s what happens when you don’t thinkthings through?”

I walk tothe dead man, kneeling next to him with a flinch. God, bull’s eye. The bullet went right between the eyebrows, range closeenough to pop the back of the man’s skull right open. Even I wouldn’t have beenthat good of a shot during orgasm. Ihave a quick stare for Armand, between amazement and suspicion. Holding hisunbuttoned robes tight against himself, he just shrugs.

I sigh. That man is impossible.

I startsearching the corpse’s clothes. He is certainly no gardener. His clothes are avalet’s attire, but one of upper-hand quality. He must be a sommelier, or ahigh-graded cook, and since he doesn’t show any sign of recent traveling, hemust be working here at the Louvres, though I don’t think I’ve ever seen hisface.

-“Do youknow him?” I ask Armand, my hands deep into the man’s pockets.

Richelieusteps forward, gingerly, glancing down at the man’s broken face, and though Ididn’t think he could, he grows paler. He gulps, and shakes his head.

-“He hasn’tbeen around the King’s table this week.” He breathes. “I know, because as Itold you yesterday, we fear some revenge plot from Montmorency’s friends inParis, and I had all courtiers, servants and guests checked twice every day.”

I nod. Hetold me about Gaston’s latest comedy act. D’orléans paid the Duke ofMontmorency a fortune to secretly raise an army against the King. I had tobattle in two different cities to crush their troops, and Armand had to gatherall of father Joseph’s network of monk spies to intercept sufficient evidence.When Richelieu showed the letters to the King, Montmorency was still at courtbabbling praise to Louis’ every word.

Thedecapitation is scheduled next week.

I findnothing on the dead man. Armand keeps staring at the corpse’s glistening teeth,buttoning up his robes in anguished silence. After what the man had seen,Armand would have been likely to get him killed anyways, but shooting aninnocent man to the ground is quite harder to swallow than signing hisexecution order.

Thus,though I know I am speaking to a man who starved a whole city to death, I stillthink out loud, mostly to reassure him.

-“Listen,there are only two possibilities. Either this man meant no harm, and just heardus through the door, though that ancient gate is thick enough to hide aquartering,  or he didn’t hear us, andcame here looking for something, or to meet someone.”

Armand frowns,thinking quick, and slides to the door. He pulls it ajar, glances outside, butsoon enough he shakes his head. No one in sight.

-“Hadanyone been near, “ he lets out in resignation, “the gunshot might have beensufficient clue as to the adjournment of the meeting.”

I nodagain.

-“Let’sassume he came looking for something.” I add, sweeping a tired gaze around thechapel.

This isnothing more than a wide closet, barely large enough for ten men to stand in.The walls have been bared to the cold stone, only a carved frieze and a fewancient roman paintings surviving. Only the stone structure of the altar isstill standing, with the remnants of the wooden altarpiece.

The rest,all around, are gardening tools, firewood and old buckets.

-“Where doyou hide something in a place like this?” I ask Armand, before he startsworrying again.

He has anoncommittal wave of his hand while he ponders, then walks to the right side ofthe altar, pointing at a few dozen worm-eaten planks resting there against thewall.

-“Thereshould be a credence there.” He states. “Something like a cabinet, carvedinside the wall. Every chapel has one, for the chalice and Mass wine.”

I sigh,gently push him aside, and kick the thick rotten planks until they crumble tomush at our feet. Behind them, just as he assumed, a small hole in the wallwhere there used to be a cabinet, the iron hinges of the door still visible.

In that holein the wall, neatly stacked upon each other, twenty vials of what Armandrecognizes as pure monkshood oil.

On top ofthem, a sealed envelope from the Duke of Montmorency’s son, Philippe. Inside,very detailed instructions about how and when to mix each of these vials intothe meals of twenty members of the Court, including the King, Richelieu, and tomy utter shock, myself.

Armandshudders, and I am sure what he just hissed under his breath was quite nasty.He has a furious glance for the dead man behind us, murmuring:

-“Now Iwish I could resurrect him, torture him until he talks, and shoot him deadagain.”

I let out abitter laugh, still dumbfounded by the size of the catastrophe Richelieu justsaved France from. By shooting a man becausehe had seen us having sex.

Truly, whatwere the odds.

BloodyJurançon.

 I watch hisfingers fiddle with the instructions letter for a while, his eyes lost in thecrumbling wall paintings, his thinking no doubt already ten steps ahead of myown, and when I gently remind him we don’t have all night, he only declares:

-“We mustinform the King.”

-“Oh,absolutely!” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Tell Louis you just shot a man deadwithout a warning or a question. Go ahead, you’re not hated and feared enoughanyways.”

He clencheshis jaw, lifting his chin up, the storm of outrage brewing in his eyes, and Isense the speech coming, but I swear I don’t have time for this. I raise bothmy hands, a gesture of peace, and I whisper, resolute:

-“I’ll takefull responsibility of the shot. My gun, my hand. A blunt soldier can beexpected to act that recklessly, not the head of the King’s Council. Not abloody Roman Catholic Cardinal.”

The stormis washed away in a heartbeat, replaced by clear skies of surprise and thankfulness.He doesn’t speak, he just takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. His darkstare above my fingers is burning so bright I have to look away, because the limitlessintensity of that man often makes myhead spin. I can’t believe how tempted I am to lick a path down his neck again,while right behind my back, a fresh corpse is getting cold.

How insanehave I become?

-“Now,” hesoftly muses, “there’s only a small detail left : how exactly are we going to explainLouis what we were doing here in the first place?”

I wince,swearing loudly.

He tuts,and signs my forehead.

 ***

 -“Cardinal,Treville, your alacrity has saved us from unmeasurable grief.”

Armandpulls out his most elegant half-bow, a well-mastered lie forged specially tomake people believe he’s more humbled than proud.

I just nod.

Louis,still pale and shaken from having been roused in the early morning with news ofanother plot unveiled, sighs in relief, ordering five of his Guards to arrestMontmorency’s son today. As the men salute and leave, he bites his lips, staringat the letter Richelieu slid into his hands with a wooden box containing thetwenty vials.

-“This wasa slaughter in the making. That cook Montmorency recruited was among the mosttrusted of my staff. Is everyone around me so drenched into sin?”

I cough,avert my eyes.

Armandstands perfectly still.

Louisfrowns, looking up at us from his very bed, rubbing the last remnants of sleep offthe corner of his eyes.

-“How haveyou come to discover these?” he asks, alright,here we go.

Richelieustraightens his back a little, exhales, opens his mouth, and both Louis and I knowwe’re in for half an hour.  Since theKing looks tired, Armand looks worn-out, and I could use a fucking nap, I cuthim short and speak:

-“I waswalking the Cardinal back to his palace for safety reasons. The Cardinal and I starteddiscussing the strategy used during the two last battles against Montmorency’stroops. We had … slightly divergent point of views.”

Louis huffsa knowing laugh, and his worried stare softens with fondness.

-“You werearguing again, weren’t you?” He throws at us, and Armand takes half a stepback, suddenly captivated by the feet of the King’s bed.

-“Yes.” Inod

Louischuckles.

-“As it isagainst both our discipline to discuss military strategies in public,” I add, “wedecided to move our debate into a quieter place, such as the former East Wingchapel.”

-“Youwanted no witnesses in case you needed to punch him.” Louis deadpans.

Richelieugasps, joining his hands upon his chest in a perfect sign of flouted innocence,but as the King truly laughs this time, he is wise enough not to interrupt.

-“Yes, YourMajesty.” I claim. “The cook arrived in the middle of our… discussion. Myjudgement was clouded by my irritation. I shot the intruder.”

Armand sighs,squeezes his eyes shut, one slender hand coming to rub the brink of his nose inutmost lassitude. I have no idea, between my forgery and hangover, what bringshim that headache, but it isn’t going to be a soft one.

Silencefalls. Five, ten seconds.

-“You shot aman who happened to pass by, “ Louis gently states, “because you were angry.”

-“Yes, YourMajesty.”

The Kingstares at me with disbelief, amazement, and the slightest bit of fear. I standat attention, face as blank as I could, unable to tell if it’s worry orlaughter I’m fighting.

But after awhile, Louis slowly shakes his head, blinking a few times, and dismisses bothof us with a tired sentence about how wild voracious temperaments that might bevery useful to the Crown upon a battlefield should be tamed and controlled atCourt.

Armandpraises the king’s wisdom in carefully chosen words, and grants me five secondsof a heavy, reproachful bloodshot glare as I hold the door open for him.

But as wewalk in silence towards his apartments, I know he adjusts his pace to stayclose to mine, I sense his eyes softening, and if he thinks I don’t notice hishand twitching towards mine as he opens the doors to his study, well, he’s damnwrong.

I step in,close the door behind us, and watch him collapse on a chair with the funniestgroan I have never heard from him. He’s right, though, he’s right indeed.

What anight.

Foutu Jurançon.

[ourwingsofwarriors]

AOTWeek Day 4 - Revenge -

Piece by Piece 

Characters: Historia Reiss, Reiner Braun, Hanji Zoe, Levi Ackerman, Jean, Armin, Ymir etc Pairing: Historia / Kristia x Ymir Rating: Teen (swearing) 

It had been weeks since I had received the letter from Ymir, delivered by Reiner, who had been the reason, the one sole reason I had lost the one person I had really connected to, the one person who I thought I could ever love. She had told me to live for myself, but now I struggled to even think about that thought, I was the Queen, and I longed for her once more to be in my arms, to be in her warm loving embrace. Kissing her… squeezing her.

Making love with her.

But they had taken that all away from me, Reiner… Bertholdt both of them were the reasons why Ymir was gone. They had taken the one person I loved. Because she was a titan shifter, because she had taken it from them… they were taking her back. We had got our revenge on Bertholt, he was eaten by Armin, who now, the poor soul had to bare the price of that gift, he had 13 years left to live… with a price on his head.

There was so much I didn’t know about her, there was so much she didn’t know about me… afterall we didn’t have that much time.. Considering our circumstance. I longed to hear her voice… just once more. Just one word, would of put my heart at peace, I would be able to rule better than I am now.. But I miss her, I miss her so much my heart could burst into a million pieces and shatter over the kingdom, searching for her… I didn’t even know where she died, how she died… I just, I just wanted Ymir back with me… here.

“My Queen..” Hanji burst through the door “Reiner, he is here!” I stood up like a lightning bolt hitting the dry rough ground in a storm “We got him! We found him sneaking in, using his 3DMG! Alongside a few others” She was panting, she must of come running as soon as they had locked the murdering cruel man who I had seen as a friend up. “Where is he?!”  I commanded, “I have to see him” Hanji nodded and turned, I followed her out, taking a carriage towards the Survey Corps headquarters.

My heart was pounding, I didn’t know what to think, what was I going to do?! Surely according to Hanjis calculations Reiner, didn’t have a lot of time left on his 13 years. Meaning was this Reiner, giving himself in? Was he giving us the Armoured titan? I couldn’t even think of any reasons why he shouldn’t of, he had taken the lives of thousands of innocent people… and most importantly taken the love of my life.

Hanji was rambling on about how they found Reiner, but I didn’t care, although I saluted her, she was an excellent commander, and a complete psychopath when it came to the treatment of prisoners, which I was hoping to see, alongside Levi who also probably wanted a slice of Reiner.

Infact thinking about it… Everyone wanted him dead.

Reiner sat there, on his knees looking miserable, Levi was leaning against the bars, talking to him, asking him god knows what. Eren, Armin and Mikasa were all there too.. In fact I could see everyone from the squad, because Reiner, had broken all of their hearts, he was the reason so many of our friends were dead. Jean arrived a little late, he bowed to me, even though I had asked all of them, never to treat me any differently “Hello Jean” “Your majesty” “Please… call me Historia” I sighed “I’m glad you came too” “Well.. he already told me how Marco died” he said, clenching his fists “It was him, he was the reason Marco is dead” “I’m so sorry… we all loved him” “I miss him, but I wonder what he would be thinking right now, after all this, Reiner was the armoured titan, Bertholt the colossal, and you are the Queen” He laughed awkwardly “He deserves to die” He looked to me “For what he did to the lives behind this wall, for Marco… Ymir” I nodded, I had to agree with him, he didn’t deserve to live at all. I watched as Hanji pulled everyone out, giving me time to go in “Levi” I greeted him, he smirked, out of them all, he was the only one who didn’t play up around me, to which I was grateful “Anything new from him?” “He wants to see you” Levi sighed “Tch.. bastard” “Not in front of the Queen!” Hanji gently shoved Levi “Levi!” I laughed it off, the two of them were made for each other, although neither of them would ever admit that. It’s a shame, so many of us, find love in this strange world, but never had the chance to act on our feelings, leaving our loved ones behind.

You told me to live for myself, but how could you of been so selfish leaving me behind.

I walked into the corridor, looking at the dirty floor, the rusting metal bars, which held back the bastard who had caused so much pain, and to think I looked up to him, saw him as a close friend, a brother. He risked his life for me so many times, and for what? He was just going to have me killed in the end anyway! “Kris… Historia..” He moaned out, his face was bloody, his shirt covered in his own blood, I guess Levi had already had a little fun, smashing his head against the brick walls “You… You came” “Don’t speak unless you are spoken to!” I snapped, sitting down at the chair they had put down, facing his cell “Reiner Braun” “I… I came to say” “I don’t give a shit what you have to say Reiner! Who are you to think we wanted you to come back? I don’t care if you gave yourself in or not!” “I came back… to apologize” “For what! For WHAT!” I screamed my lungs out “You took away Ymir!” I felt the tears swelling in the corner of my eyes “What did she ever do to deserve such a fate!” “She… killed my friend too…” “You killed thousands of people…” “They deserved it” “Did the children deserve it too? The innocent children who hadn’t even lived a full life?” “Historia…” “You destroyed part of my life Reiner Braun! You took away the one person I ever cared about in this world and the only person who ever loved me!” “Thats…. Not true” he looked up “Historia… how did you not know?” “What…” “I….always” “Don’t even say a single word” I hissed “I don’t want to hear your disgusting confession from you, you are a monster! A complete and utter monster, and you know what! You can rot away in this cell for the rest of your life, because what you did, to so many people… even people who loved you too much for their own hearts to bare.. They hate you now. You ruined everything! You and your stupid friends” “Where…. Where is Bertholt?” He asked

“He got eaten” Hanji called out, laughing slightly “Armin ate the crying sod, he begged for us to save him, to stop him from dying! Funny isn’t it Reiner… at the end of it all, he was a coward, he begged to be saved just like any of our other comrades did.. Now when will you beg? Because I am looking forward to that!” I heard her voice going deeper, as she laughed to herself, Levi next to her, putting on black gloves, ready for anything which they had planned. “No… Bertholt… he couldn’t be..” “And annie is still locked up, no hope for her to get out anytime soon!” Hanji laughed “now you’re here, we could have a reunion!” “Bertholt…” Reiner cried out, a tear dropping from his eyes “Why did no one…” “YOU DON’T DESERVE IT!” I screamed in his face, he looked up at me, shocked, he had never seen me like this, but I didn’t care anymore, he was a monster and I hated him.

I looked over, Hanji gave me an awkward smile, I knew she had a lot of pented up anger towards him, she had nearly got him the last time before he got away, after she nearly killed him herself with a flew slices from her blades.

“Reiner Braun, I sentence you to death” “Kill me… I don’t care, feed me to your friends, I don’t care, because death is the easy way out for me” “Fine. Rot in here, rot in here forever, with no light, no one to speak to because you do not deserve an easy death, so be it we will lose the power of the armoured titan but I don’t care because your precious little home town will be burnt to the ground” “We also have your friends, shall we give them the same punishments?” Hanji cackled from the corner “Do what you want Historia, nothing you do will ever bring Ymir back” I pulled a dagger from my boot, throwing it directly into Reiner’s neck. He let out a yelp, watching him bleed out, steam slowly rising from the wound. “I know I will never bring Ymir back, but I know for one thing. I will live for myself, I will destroy you piece by piece Reiner because you are a monster, and you will suffer the pain of all the men, women of children who died because of your stupid beliefs.”

I stood up, brushing myself down “As Queen, I will use all of my power, to destroy you Reiner. One piece at a time… You will regret the day you took the woman I love away from me.” I walked away. 

Knowing Ymir would of been proud of me…

[5hfanfiction]

Can You Still Love Me? - Chapter 1: Teardrops on Ink

Plot:

“You can’t love, Lauren. Not now. Not when you can’t even love yourself." 

Everything seems perfect between the two Cuban Latina girls. Until the death of Lauren’s two younger siblings…

As her family struggles with the pain, Lauren is pushed over the edge as everything begins to collapse around the 22-year-old.

As Lauren struggles to cope, Camila learns that love doesn’t always fix everything, as true pain and the limitations of one’s spirit are discovered in this painful journey of disillusionment and redemption. The dark recesses of a tortured mind are a dangerous place to live. The pain, the anguish… the blame. And as her heart slowly fills with hate towards the world and herself, Lauren spirals out of control taking the one she loves with her. 

———————————————————————————————————-

2020 - Present Year

Have you ever noticed the swirls and patterns that manifest from a single droplet of water upon an inked up page? You sit transfixed as you watch the way in which the sphere of liquid molecules absorb the painstakingly, raw emotions held within the writing it has just tarnished. The confidence with which it simply dribbles the inky excrement in its wake, like the creeping tendrils of some dark nightmare, unabated in its malicious endeavours. Before long that poetic page becomes some piece of grossly mottled artwork, its true art tarnished by the streaks of sorrow that score it’s imperfect honesty, as if destroying the evidence.

As Camila Jauregui-Cabello perches unsteadily on the edge of the uncomfortable hotel room chair, these observations suddenly hold more bittersweet emotion than the stranger she calls her wife. Is she even considered her wife any longer? Camila is unsure. In fact, Camila is often unsure about many things nowadays. Somehow, her life had taken a wrong turn and ended up on some narrow, dingy route with retreat almost immediately struck off as an option, leaving the go-ahead as the only viable one remaining. Sometimes she ponders upon how she got to this point, how they managed to get so screwed up that even a professional cleaner would reject the anarchic mess that remains of their relationship.

The sound of the pen hitting the ground registers inside of Camila’s mind, yet she cannot recall ever loosening her grip on it in the first place. Glassy eyes drag over towards the fallen pen. Her brain numbly suggests that she should pick it up, but she just simply stares, hoping for it to return back where it belongs, hoping for it to have never fallen in the first place. She was sapped of her energy enough without having to save the pen from it’s pitiful state, and yet she still slowly reached down to wrap her bony fingers around it’s plastic container. If only the pen had never fallen…

She dully observes the slim, blue cylinder of plastic, rotating its body between her fingers. Remnants of a forgotten song whisper through her thoughts, vibrating through her body and humming through her lips. She can’t recall the exact memory that elicits the song, but she can feel the raw emotion that is attached, something that is both exquisite and foreign to her; love. It thrums through her body, a distant echo like a reminder of another dimension that exists but cannot be fathomed. The tune now is a baseless and hollow imitation, a tragic lament that twists beauty into despair and that longs pitifully for the majesty of what once was.

A rhythmic banging on the door awakens Camila from her conscious slumber, encouraging her eyes to move away from the dancing pen that her fingers continue to play with. Mentally, she groans at the thought of removing herself from the chair and dragging her feet several metres towards the door. Unfortunately the knocking persists, this time resulting in an audible groan from the woman that believed that moving her fridge next to her bed would an amazing idea.

"Fuck, I’m coming,” she growls out, stumbling to her feet and trying to remember how exactly she is supposed to walk. On her short, stilted journey to the front door she realises that her eyes are still damp with unshed tears and that she likely appears to have just been practicing the makeup for the Joker costume.

“Don’t need to hear about your sex life, Chanch!” the voice returns.

“What sex life?!” she shouts back, successfully reaching the door without her numb legs crumbling beneath her. She pulls the chain across and flicks the latch, turning the knob to give her best friend access to her apartment.

“Sorry,” Dinah sheepishly apologises, her hand rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. It is a familiar movement that fills Camila with a bittersweet feeling that leaves her feeling conflicted and frustrated to no end. Dinah has clearly developed that old habit from Camila’s wife, and it is almost painful to watch. Camila wonders when the day would arrive, that she won’t associate every single thing around her with her wife. “I didn’t mean to come off as insensitive.”

“It’s fine, Dee,” Camila sighs heavily, herding her in and shutting the door behind her.

“How…how are you? I mean, I know it’s a really dumb thing to ask, but…?” Dinah’s eyes are attentive and filled to the brim with concern over her oldest friend’s well-being.

“I…” Camila lets out a loaded huff in exasperation. “Everything feels like complete shit, Dee.”

Dinah merely nods in acknowledgement, silently motivating Camila to continue speaking; to allow her to vent.

“I mean how did we get here? How did it get to this? How did I  let it get to this?” There is the internal berating that Dinah knew was eventually going to leave Camila’s lips, the one that she has heard before and that she is sure she will have to listen to again.

“For fuck’s sake, Milz! Don’t be like that, don’t do that to yourself. You deserve so much more, do you understand me? This is notyour fault, not in any way and you did every single thing that you possibly could,” Dinah reasons, using her hands to emphasise the gravity held within those words.The woman, although beautiful, has been the epitome of a walking disaster longer than Dinah cares to think about — on the rare occasions that she leaves the house she becomes paranoid and anxious to the point where she will have a mental breakdown —and is barely surviving living heartbroken and alone.

The petite brunette merely shakes her head in disagreement, oily tresses limply swinging to and fro while her expression remains stoic. “You’re wrong, Dinah. So wrong.”

“Camila.” A warning that is not heeded by the younger woman.

“You just don’t know how completely wrong you are.”

* * *

Narrow islands surrounded by water, that is how Camila’s palms appears in the light; each groove collecting perspiration as the supply endlessly trickles from her hyperactive pores. Her finger twiddling is interrupted once again by the motion of her hands rubbing against the dress pants — that she had carefully donned earlier this morning — in an yet another attempt to dry her clammy fists. She’s vaguely aware that she is supposed to be giving her undivided attention to every word uttered by the admittedly attractive woman, and yet she can barely stand to sit still, impulsively fidgeting around in the stiff feminine pantsuit that she loathed to wear. Nowadays, she honestly loathes to wear anything that isn’t 3 sizes to big and doesn’t smell like stale pizza and Doritos.

“Mila, stop squirming!” Normani hisses under her breath. Unlike Camila, Normani is patiently watching the procession her hands clasped and folded calmly on her lap, while her expression remains stoic; the only part of her that conveys the enormous flood of nerves that were in fact overwhelming her system, are her eyes which seem to perceptively snap between the varying sources of interest.

“Can’t help it,” she whispers back, squirming once again on the hard, wooden chair.

“Look, I know this is difficult and all, and I can’t even try to imagine how you must be feeling, but just chill a little, okay? You look as if you’re going on trial for murder, which—may I say— is ironic as fuck.”

“It’s not that. I just…I can’t get comfortable.”

“Camila,” Normani says assuredly, her eager eyes finally settling on Camila’s own timid one’s for several moments, “it is because of your emotions. You may not consciously know it, but it is probably the only way your brain is coping.”

“I just…I can’t lose her too, Mani,” Camila explains, her voice crackling worse than a badly tuned radio station. Desperate tears sting all too familiarly in those deep dark-ochre eyes, as she tries to voice the words of love in a tragic tale of despair. “And…and I know I shouldn’t—not after everything— but she is all I have left. And I know it is fucked up, believe me, but even now a part of me screams that she doesn’t deserve this, even if she…if she does.”

“You love her,” Normani simply says.

“Even though I shouldn’t.”

“No, you really shouldn’t.”

Camila suddenly sighs but it isn’t simply a light sigh of dismay or frustration, it is so much more than that quick release of extra breath; rather it is a sigh of defeat and of resignation that tells a story of hopeless despair, and holds the woes of a person that had lost all that they had once held dear— it is the soul’s attempt to unburden itself for merely a fraction of a second. “My soul keeps trying to call out to her, but hers is so lost that it doesn’t seem to hear, and I feel mine just wither away the further she strays towards eternal limbo. I find myself squeezing my eyes shut in the hope that this is all some horrific nightmare, but no matter how many times I try, I can’t seem to wake up,” she sighs one of those soul shifting sighs once again before whispering in her pitchy, broken voice,“I really miss her, Mani��the real  her.”

“So do I, Mila…so do I.”

A thoughtful silence envelopes the two women as they reminisce on what they have lost and what has brought them to this moment; a personal funeral of sorts that is bittersweet in nature. It is only when the defendant stands, appearing far more lucid than she had been for over two years, that they each awake from their wishful fantasies to confront the grim reality before them. Camila’s heart stutters to a complete stop when the woman turns around and immediately embalms her coffee beans within her own passionate emeralds. It is automatic, as if she knows exactly where Camila is sitting, even though Camila is aware that it is impossible.

Then she does the unthinkable, her hand perceptibly clasps in front of her heart before quickly splaying out in a throwing motion towards Camila’s direction. It is an archaic gesture that was once used in their relationship to convey their complete love and devotion for one another, a gesture that Camila believed that she would never again see the sight of. Yet, here is her divorced wife telling her in a room full of judgemental assholes, that despite everything she actually loves her back. Camila can’t help the tears that instinctively dribble from the corners of her eyes as she shoots a small smile to the one woman she had moments ago believed had lost all of her humanity. That familiar sheepish grin that triggers countless bittersweet memories, graced her ex-wife’s face for the first time in two years and suddenly Camila doesn’t feel so alone. Suddenly Camila wants nothing more than for Lauren to plead not guilty. Suddenly Camila wants to believe with every fibre of her being that Lauren isn’t capable of murder. That she isn’t a monster.

Even though Camila knows that she is.

And with that grin, she is reminded of how everything started, of how they fell but forgot to catch one another when the ground rose up to meet them.

———————————————————————————————————————————-

A/N:

Hey!!!

This is now the new first chapter and it will jump between the past and the present to give an idea of how the story has unfolded and to contrast the happiness from the despair.

As lame as this sounds, this is going to be epic! I can’t wait!

Mel <3

Wattpad: @MelT_Me

[mike-talliferro]

Tales of the Rona - 2020

The bar was a riotous mixture of conversations, laughter, song, loud voices raised in celebration, the clunk of heavy tankards on the rough wooden tables; a cornucopia of sounds that only drunken celebrating sailors can make. The crew was celebrating and why not; their maiden voyage had produced no less than three merchantmen to be relieved of their cargo, a victory over one of the largest man-o-war they had ever encountered and a new First whom the crew loved and respected. So, pouches bulging with coin the men drank, sang, recounted their exploits and bargained for the attentions of ladies so inclined; truly a night of celebration.

Speaking of her First, Talia looked down the bar where he stood in conversation with Cast, his first tankard of the night still half full; she knew he drank and toasted enough to be cordial with the men but otherwise he sipped the ale sparingly, yet another curious piece of the puzzle that was her new First. It was a puzzle she intended to solve but later, right now her tankard was quite empty and that was an unacceptable condition; raising her cup she motioned the barmaid for a refill.

“Bartholomew Hayes! In the name of the King you are bound by law!” The voice was loud and authoritative, cutting through the din and silencing the room as if death himself had walked in the door. Turning Talia found herself facing a dozen redcoats their muskets raised and aimed at the back of her second in command, damn.

For his part Bully had not moved a muscle, he still stood facing the bar, tankard in his hand and from her vantage point it appeared an amused expression on his face.

“Step away from the bar and present your hands to be manacled.”

“Who are you?”

“I am leftenuant Patrick Moore of his majesty’s royal marines, currently on special duty from my post at the garrison of Galveston. Now step away from the bar and present your hands.

“Name my crime.”

“You are to be remanded to the stockade of the garrison until such time as the royal executioner arrives when you will be hung by the neck until you are dead.”

A quiet gasp filled the room, a hangman’s rope was not a way any sailor wanted to end; drowning was bad but at least it was a way for a seaman to go. Jerking at the end of a rope like a fish on the line while you pissed and shit yourself was no death for a man, or woman, in their collective opinion.

“I did not ask my fate” he still had not moved, “I said name my crime”.

“The charges against you are not germane to this situation, you are wanted and now you are caught.”

Now Bully turned, slow and deliberate, knuckles of the hand holding his cup white, the muscles

Talia could see through the thin shirt he wore, bulged with tension and barely restrained fury; even in the heat of battle he had been calm and collected, thinking strategy and ways to win with as little risk to the crew, his crew, as he could manage. This was the Bully she had seen when those men accosted Beaumont, rage unbound and ready to kill. The dozen men were across the room, armed and with muskets pointed at him but Talia could tell more than one was shrinking from the sight before them.

“I SAID”, now his voice was loud and authoritative, putting the lieutenant’s previous shout to shame, “Name my crime!”

The lieutenant was flustered, he was unused to people who were not intimidated by his rank, bearing and uniform; his authority came from the King and as such was beyond contestation. He was about to snap orders and have his men take him by force but looking around the room, seeing all eyes upon him he decided there was no harm in ascending to the request, reaching into his pouch he removed a piece of parchment and unfolded the warrant; holding it in front of him with a regal air he pulled himself to full height and began to read, “Bartholomew Hayes you are hereby charged by his majesty with the crime of attacking and assaulting a good citizen of the crown causing grievous bodily injury.”

The snort of derision, and the distain behind it, was clear to all in the room, “Good citizen of the crown indeed. But surely lieutenant you and your brave men have not come all this way over a scullery maid or blacksmithy so tell us oh all reaching arm of the crown, who was this ‘good citizen’?” Sarcasm dripped like honey from his words, his attitude one of utter contempt.

The lieutenant was growing weary of this exchange and that made him careless, as a result he read the name off the warrant without thought, and immediately regretted it. “The good citizen you assaulted was Master Henry Percivil.”

“AH HA!” Bully acted as if a great shroud had been lifted, his eyes going wide and his expression one of amazed discovery, “So the ‘good citizen’ whose assailant you have come fifteen hundred miles to apprehend is none other than the son of Sir Harry Percivil, the Governor of Galveston!”

“Yes”

“Master Henry Percivil, the first born son and male heir of the Governor?”

“Yes”

“Ah yes, a twenty year old spoiled, self-important, drunken oaf with a penchant for the company of young girls”

Reed, enjoying the attentions of the young woman sitting on his lap laughed and joked, “Likes me the company of a young woman meself, I do.” As he tickled her causing her to squirm and giggle.

Bully’s face had lost all semblance of mirth, it was as hard as the side of the Rona as he hissed, “I said ‘girl’ as in ten year old girls”.

“Christ!” Reed exclaimed and spit as if the ale had turned putrid in his mouth.

“I know of no such slanderous accusation” the repudiation was automatic and without conviction.

“Well I do left-tenant, your ‘good citizen’ tried to have his way with the daughter of his father’s housekeeper and beat the woman near to death when she intervened. Afterwards he had her dismissed and thrown into the street, a woman that had helped raise him. That is who I am accused of assaulting.”

This was going terribly wrong, every one of the solders knew it but they were helpless to do anything about it, except the lieutenant and he found his voice to have abandoned him.

“Well left-tenant, I stand here before all those in this room and confess, I did beat that miserable excuse for humanity until he pissed himself and begged for mercy and you may rest assured he will never strike another woman with that useless bag of bones that hangs at the end of his right arm. But that is not why the Governor had you traipsing all over hell and gone looking for me is it?”

Bully waited for the redcoat to respond but when he saw true confusion and befuddlement on the soldier’s face, understanding blossomed and his face lit up with unbridled mirth. “You really don’t know do you? They didn’t tell you the real reason the Governor has sent you across the ocean with orders to return me, not dead, but alive to face the hangman.”

Growing more confused by the moment, if only he had time to think about what Hayes was saying, the lieutenant could only shake his head faintly.

“Well you have traveled hard and long to find me so the least you and your men deserve it to know the truth. The reason the Governor wants me alive and well has nothing to do with me facing a hangman and justice, no it is about revenge pure and simple. You see after I beat and maimed the good right hand of the Governor’s beloved only son and heir“, he paused and smiled with satisfaction, “I turned him into a eunuch!”

The admission caused several of the men in the room to groan and clamp their legs together, hands covering their privates.

“That is why you are on this tiny little island, so far from hearth and home lieutenant and if you have nothing else to say then you and your men had best go ahead and shoot as I have no desire or intention of attending the Governor’s little te-ta-te.” He stood tall and resolute and Talia felt her heart skip.

“If you don’t mind, I have something to say”. Bully did not recognize the voice that spoke but he did recognize what came next.

Click………click……..click, click

Click, click, click

Click…………….Click

Lieutenant Allister Brown was a proud second generation member of the King’s marines; his father had even once guarded the inn where the King spent the night and retired after twenty years loyal service. That had always been his goal, retirement after a long and spotless career and his own son following in his footsteps; but right now he would settle for surviving the next two minutes as he scanned the room with ever growing terror.

The hand of every man, woman and even the crippled boy in the corner held pistols, ever pistol was cocked, and the sound filling the room like a never ending metronome, and every muzzle was pointed at him, not his marines, only him; with the exception of Hayes who simply stood there expectantly. Even as he contemplated exactly what three dozen pistol balls would do to him he saw motion out of the corner of his eye; a handsome woman, fair of skin with crimson hair curling down her back was sauntering forward, her own pistol aimed square at his left eye.

Talia approached the redcoat as if she had not a care in the world, although being that close to the target of all those pistols made her skin crawl, she walked up until the muzzle of her own rested under the lieutenant’s chin, “I am sure you are used to people quaking in their boots at the sound of the King’s authority and the sight of you and your splendid men” she paused and looked them over appraisingly, “but this is Guadeloupe ‘Mr. Authority of the King” and we do not recognize your king or your authority.”

As she spoke the barrel of her flintlock had been slowly working its way down the front of his splendid uniform until it rested firmly against his cod piece, pressing it hard against him for emphasis Talia continued, “Now I do not know how things are done in Galveston but even if you had paper of worth or the local constable with you, that man is part of my crew and you do not walk into a bar in any port in the Caribbean and lay hands on a member of The Rona’s crew without so much as a parlay or ‘by your leave’ to me!” She jammed the barrel harder into his codpiece, pressing painfully against his left testicle.

Alister Brown was brave and dedicated, most others would never have dared this far into unclaimed territory for his prey, but he was not stupid and so tried to negotiate, “My apologies Captain I was not aware he was your man but by his own admission he is guilty and must face justice.”

“He’s right Captain”, Cast had walked from his place at the bar by Bully, his hand held no pistol but instead his trusty throwing blade and he twirled it absently as he approached the pair as if unconsciously considering where it would look best buried in this redcoat. “Now I do have a question left-tenant” his French accent was impeccable, “Was Mr. Hayes present to defend himself at his trial?”

“He had not been tried, only charged; I am to remand him for trial.” Alister recognized the trap too late.

Cast smiled, “Well then if it is a trial that needs be, no reason to go all the way to Galveston for one; we can have it right here!” Turning to the room he continued, “You have all heard Mr. Hayes admission to the charges against him, how do you find?”

“Guilty” was the riotous response and Alister almost breathed a sigh of relief, the captain and crew were going to be logical and cooperate; but then Cast spoke again, “And how shall justice be served for such a heinous crime?”

Again in unison, “A keg of Rum!”

“Each” Reed added, goosing his female companion.

Looking at the crestfallen face of the solider Cast said, “There you have it lieutenant, tired, found guilty and sentenced; Mr. Hayes now owes each of us a keg of rum. So you can go back to Galveston and report to the Governor that justice has been served.” Leaning in he laid the point of his dagger against the opposite side of his codpiece from the barrel of his Captain, which had moved not one hair, and pressed the needle point against the petrified soldier’s right testicle. “If you ever come back, every try to take Mr. Hayes again, I will see to it personal that you every one of these fine lads joins the Governor’s son in singing soprano. Do we have an understanding?”

A nod was the best Alister could do, he hadn’t drawn breath since the barrel had come to rest against his unborn sons for fear that small motion might cause the gun to go off.

“Good” Talia spoke with considerable heat in her voice, keeping the pressure on the redcoat ensuring he stayed off balance and unsure, “Now lay down those muskets and trot your happy asses back to your ship. You have until I finish my Rum to be anchor up and on your way or I and my drunken crew will pause our celebration long enough to blow you out of the water. Sober they are bad news, making them stop drinking and touch off cannons half-drunk will make them mean; you do not want to see them mean.”